Chapter 10 #3
“At both of you.”
“I know.”
“But mostly at the universe because the comedic timing is absurd.”
I look at her, and when she meets my eyes, her mouth twitches.
I can feel mine start.
“Don’t,” she says, seeing it.
I put my hands up in defense. “I didn’t.”
“You almost did, and that’s bad enough.”
Halston’s voice rises from across the bar. “Warren.”
My name cuts through the room, and I can feel my skin prickle with something that feels an awful lot like longing.
I lift my gaze. She stands behind a spread of plates, cups, napkins, and open bakery boxes. Her cheeks are flushed, her hair loose from the ribbon. There’s a streak of something dark on her wrist. Chocolate, probably. From what, I’m not sure.
But most importantly, she’s smiling at me.
“You’re the trained one. Come taste this.”
Marley shoots me a look. “Absolutely not.”
I ignore her.
The Vipers players shift to make room for me, and Halston holds out a small plate with half a cookie on it. Dark chocolate with pretzel pieces and coarse salt on top. I take a bite, chewing for a moment. Brown butter.
“Late-night bar cookie,” she says. “I want it salty enough for beer but sweet enough that people come next door for more.”
The texture is good, and the edges are crisp. The center is soft, and the pretzel adds a bit of structure.
“Well?” she asks, watching as I examine the crumb.
I swallow. “It works.”
Her eyes narrow. “That’s not enough feedback. You’re supposed to be my feedback guy.”
“You need a little more bitterness.”
“A bitter man would say that.”
I ignore her.
“I think you need just a little bit of espresso added.”
She stares.
“Damn it,” she whispers under her breath as she looks at the cookies.
“What?”
“That’s good feedback.”
“I know.”
She turns a cookie over in her fingers, thinking. “Espresso powder maybe, and even darker chocolate. Maybe less salt in the dough, but some more flakes on top? Maybe, I’m not sure. Maybe a stout pairing?”
The ideas come so fast that I have a hard time keeping up.
“No pairings,” Oliver whines.
Halston looks at him. “You have a stout.”
“I have a lot of things. But we don’t do pairings.”
The Vipers players start chanting, “Pair it. Pair it. Pair it!”
Oliver glares at them murderously.
Halston laughs, and the sound hits me in the chest like a bomb. I just want to hear more of it.
I’m a simple man. Desire, to me, is simple, and it always has been. Bodies want, adults choose, and consequences follow.
But this isn’t simple. I don’t think it ever was.
Halston looks up at me, still smiling. “What?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
Her smile shifts. “That wasn’t nothing.”
“No.”
“What was it then?”
I should lie to her. The cookie, or the bar menu. Maybe the idea of producing cookies for a late-night menu at her friend’s bar when everything else needs to come together first.
Instead, I say, “You’re good at this.”
Her face stills. “At what?”
“This,” I say, looking around. “People.”
She swallows, glancing away quickly. I watch her gaze move from Oliver to Marley, then to the players. Anywhere but me.
“I’m just making snacks.”
“No.” If I were a braver man, I’d cup her chin and make her look at me so she knew I was telling the truth.
But her eyes return to mine anyway.
I keep my voice low. “You make people feel like they’re part of something.”
Halston blinks, and for a moment, I think she may cry.
But then she smiles. It’s too bright. Too defensive. “Well, yes. People love how I’m a menace with frosting.”
“Accurate!” Oliver calls from the other end of the bar.
She turns away, grabbing another plate and placing it in my hand. “Try this one,” she says, her voice lighter. “And pretend you don’t hate joy.”
“I don’t hate joy.”
“Okay, pretend that you don’t schedule it into your calendar.”
And so it begins.
I taste what she gives me and I give her feedback. She argues with me about how I’m only this critical because I hate the concept of love and happiness. I argue back that she knows nothing about me. The players vote, and Oliver threatens to ban democracy.
By the time the tasting ends, the boxes are empty, the Vipers are full, and Marley has enough footage for both businesses to embarrass all of us for weeks on end.
Oliver leans on the bar, looking exhausted. “This is never happening again.”
Halston beams. “It’s happening every few weeks.”
“No.”
“The people have spoken.”
“The people are drunk.”
A player lifts his glass of beer. “To Victory Twists!”
The others cheer.
Oliver closes his eyes while Halston curtsies.
Later that night, after the Vipers leave and Halston has cleared the boxes, I stay to help clean.
No one asks me to, but Oliver doesn’t stop me either. Oliver tossing me a rag is the closest he’s come to gratitude.
Halston wipes down the far end of the bar, talking to my sister. “Late-night menu cards. Maybe Friday and Saturday only. Limited quantities so Oliver doesn’t panic.”
“I’m already panicking,” he says.
“Good. Then we’ve established your baseline.”
And it dawns on me that this is the closest I’ve felt to having a full family in a long time.