Chapter 28
TWENTY-EIGHT
The scents of fried foods and burning oil from the carnival rides melded with the grass and earthen scent of the fairgrounds, along with the tail ends of screams from people riding the flashing, whirring contraptions.
From up on the stage of the final round of the Mixology Contest—the only contest I’d entered this year so I could give winning the bigger, more profitable prize my full attention—I could make out my friends, standing in the secondish row. It was difficult to tell when there weren’t chairs. Or rows.
There was a dog, however, and he was all mine.
Catalina and Zac were crowded alongside his brother, Noah, and his husband, Jeremy, and then came Ethan, holder of the leash and tender of the dog. I’d enrolled Nova in obedience school in the hopes we could attend more events like this together, but so far, what happened in obedience class very much stayed there. While the instructors assured me every puppy learned at their own pace, I could see the frustration on their faces over their tried-and-true methods not working. It’d made me feel better about my failure until I compared their methods to Graham’s.
Notes of shame neatly jotted in Graham’s handwriting drifted to mind and attempted to steal my focus—okay, so maybe I’d had one major distraction while preparing for the contest, but I’d had a month of absolute attention that also involved a significant amount of Absolut Vodka.
At the ridding squeeze of air in my lungs, I shook my head to quickly dislodge the memories, refusing to let them dump me in a big ol’ pity puddle that lost me the contest.
Long story short, Nova would very likely never be the type of dog I could leave unattended, but since it was destined to just be me, myself, and my dog for the rest of our lives, that was for the best. And while I’d fought Zac and my nerves over crashing and burning again most every step of the way these past few months, making it to the Mixology finals had been a goal of mine for an entire year.
A few days off from the anniversary of being rejected in the most public of ways, here I stood onstage in the freaking finals, nothing between me and the grand prize besides myself and an impressively crafted cocktail.
Hell, I could do that in my sleep.
Sure, it would’ve been nice if my enthusiasm and sense of accomplishment wasn’t being eclipsed by my heartbreak at being left behind—yet a-fuckin-gin—but timing had always been a real female dog to me anyway.
“Contestants, are you ready?” Skylar, our androgenous emcee with an expertly coiffed silvery purple fauxhawk asks, a wide array of chunky studs and glittery gems twinkling in the shells and lobes of their ears. Their navy-blue sports jacket has the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, displaying forearms as tatted as Zac’s, a hammered chrome cuff bracelet, and black, bejeweled nails so long they bordered on talons. With their fine features done up in dramatic, glam makeup, I sort of felt like I was on the set of Ru Paul’s Drag Race .
And severely under-styled, at that.
I’d kept my makeup on the simple side, just a swipe of nude shadow, brown eyeliner and hemp mascara, although my white crochet tank top paired nicely with my sage, coral, and white floral-pattern Palazzo pants. Was I wearing flowy pants or a skirt, nobody but me knew, and the rayon fabric meant I was as cool as a ribbon of cucumber in a frosty gin and tonic. I’d done my hair in big, loose curls, slipped on a pair of gold hoops, and topped off the entire look with stacked gold necklaces in orange carnelian, tiger’s eye beads, and pale green aventurine.
Not malachite, never again.
My throat clamped in that annoying way it did whenever I thought of the Brit who shan’t be named, and dizziness set in. It’d been an entire month since our teary goodbye, when I’d spoken my paranoid thoughts aloud about him liking Nova better than me anyway. He’d made a joke about preferring most dogs to people, and I’d given a laugh that turned into a sob, not caring that my tears were definitely going to leave behind wet smears.
I’d loved him in a way I’d never loved any of my other partners, and still it hadn’t mattered.
This competition had both haunted me and kept me going ever since, but I felt the cracks forming. The weight of it all came down hard on my shoulders, threatening to buckle my back and my knees, especially with Ethan doing the same damn thing and leaving me in a matter of days.
Palms braced on the table, I blew out a long breath. Don’t think about that, don’t think about that.
For a boisterous competition where many of the audience members had been drinking for hours, it’d suddenly gone eerily silent. I swore I could feel each and every eyeball on me, noting that Skylar was looking at me with a pinch of concern, impeccably shaped eyebrows raised.
They lowered the mic to their side and asked if I was okay, which didn’t exactly inspire confidence in my poker face or ability to pull off the win. But I’d managed to prove to Zac and myself that I wouldn’t crash, the obsession helping me keep the broken, hurting pieces of me hidden.
I blinked at the stinging moisture, refusing to cry, although someone ought to tell that to my tear ducts. “I’m fine,” I said, and my brain screamed it was a lie, as if I didn’t already know. “It’s just some guy broke my heart.”
Wow, that popped right out, and I had to withhold my urge to spill the entire depressing story.
Skylar reached over the top of the ingredients I’d arranged between rounds to give my shoulder a consoling pat. “Sorry about that, honey—it’s why I’ve given up men twice since lunch.”
We shared a smile I had to work for, and the humor faded from their expression, letting kindness take the wheel. “I can request a five-minute recess if you need to run to the bathroom for a quick cry, or maybe do a shot?”
Completely genuine, I could tell, but I shook my head anyhow. If I let myself cry, it’d be at least a twenty-minute jag, and I’d already tried shots the other night at the Drunken Kraken, gifted by my regulars until I ended up puking. “I’m a bit of disaster at doing more than one thing.”
They laughed, and I managed half a chuckle that I barely stopped from ending in a sad, sappy sniff. I cleared my throat and lifted my fingers to my necklace, gliding the tips over the stones as I centered myself. I nodded to show I was composed and ready, and Skylar backpedaled a few paces to stand in the center of the stage, glancing from me to some hipster IPA brewer I refused to lose to.
“You’ll each have five minutes to create a cocktail using the gin from our wonderful sponsor for this event, High Tide Distillery. Let’s give them another round of applause.”
The audience roared to life, clapping and whistling and proving they could be lively when they wanted to be.
“And after checking with the judges…” Skyler gestured to a council of three seated behind a table on a raised platform, very serious clipboards in hand. “Contestants will be allowed to add garnishes at any point, to include during the presentation.”
They caught my gaze, and oh yeah, I’d been the one to ask that question.
Now I just had to decide how much of a masochist I was, because while it was my best chance at winning, it’d hurt like a bitch to use the cocktail inspired—nay steeped —in Graham.
“Go!” Skylar hollered before rushing off the stage in five-inch pleather heels, and I didn’t have time to wonder how they managed to walk in those things right now. I didn’t fight through heartbreak so I could lose to my ADHD.
I snagged the neck of the High Tide Distillery gin and popped the top, something we weren’t allowed to do before the contest. I whiffed notes of rhubarb, elderflower, and yuzu, a yellow fruit from East Asia that tasted like a lemon and a mandarin had a baby. Seriously, when it came to rare and exotic fruit, if you couldn’t find a botanist, ask a bartender—we loved infusing booze with obscure, unheard-of produce.
Not that I’d be able to pick the fruit out in a lineup, but I could probably figure it out in just one sip.
As I measured and poured, I muttered to myself about how I’d had to go and make my best showstopping cocktail the one inspired by my British neighbor.
Ex-neighbor, I mentally corrected, and that hurt the most. No more stealing glances through my blinds or racing Nova to Graham’s door. No talking shit about him for forgetting my name as he watched us on his doorbell camera or flirting with each other via doggie notes of shame.
While I’d mixed enough cocktails this past month to inebriate a maraud of pirates, I was as certain Graham’s cocktail would be my best chance of winning as I was that I’d be grieving the man for longer than he remembered I even existed.
If he missed me even half as much as I missed him, there’d be texts or calls at three a.m. declaring he’d found it utterly impossible to live without me. My pride and self-restraint had barely stopped me from contacting him, and the man had refused to even consider alternatives to dumping me.
Gritting my teeth, I did a little dumping of my own, adding the elderberry liqueur that’d provide such a pretty purple, plus a squeeze of uncomplicated, straightforwardly sour lemon.
It felt so unfair that I’d never be the same, and he’d left me behind so easily, the way everyone in my life eventually did. I was fun. Quirky. A good, temporary time. For some reason, my partners didn’t spend time with me and think wow, I’ve really got to make her mine. Perhaps the fault was with me and choosing people who weren’t serious about me and never would be.
Yeah, I brought a lot of laughter and levity, but that didn’t mean—I wrung out the earl gray tea bag and muddled the blueberries with the extra frustration welling within me—that I needed to grow up like Briana had accused. I was a grown-ass woman who rocked a lot of pink, glitter, and a wide array of crystals while handling my business. And yes, I had been sloppily kissed by a dog recently.
None of those things made me immature or unworthy of love.
Whether for a shift at work or a day at the beach, I made my life an adventure, and I didn't see anything wrong with that. I didn’t know how to love someone partway or even a cautionary, appropriate amount. I leaped and loved big, no putting a lid on my emotions or forcing them into a smaller box. Maybe that made me too sentimental and idealistic, but if being sensible meant ignoring the fact that my soul lit up around someone, I’d choose the fool’s route every time.
Just…after another month or so to heal.
Point being, everything I did, I did with my whole soul, and that was why I’d stuck with this particular, London-centric drink. It’d come from the part of me that worked magic, and while it certainly didn't feel like it, I had to believe that someday I’d find another person equally passionate about me.
Even if a wee voice whispered in a rogue British accent that a piece of my heart would always belong to Graham Edwards.
“Two-minute warning!”
Rather than let Skylar’s announcement send my nerves sprawling, I inhaled a centering breath and reminded myself what I was doing this for. Since I couldn’t have love, my runner-up in the hopes and dreams department was a storefront with lots of natural wood shelves, covered in a jumble of hand-poured candles, glimmering crystals, and palo santo wood bundles with dried flowers and a piece of selenite bound with brown crafting twine.
The visualization filled my mind, the shelves on one end, next to a candle station where customers could create their own unique combinations with dried petals, gemstones, and scented oils. Glass display tables for crystals and jewelry would sit on the other side, along with a pop-up table for Tarot Card readings.
Mulberry gray liquid poured through the Hawthorne strainer, cloudy as a London afternoon. Anyway, I assumed, as I’d never gotten to experience it myself, save my daydream where I met Graham’s sister and mum, who of course adored me, but that was before I’d posed the idea of long-distance to him.
I forced myself back into the mental image of the store, letting everything else fade away as muscle memory took care of the dry shake that’d create the cocktail’s foamy top.
At the chime of the door to the store in my mind, the hazy me in the visualization automatically glances in that direction. My pulse races when I see the long, confident strides of Graham Edwards eating up the space. He scoops me into his arms and tells me he was the bloody fool to leave me behind—how could he possibly have thought he could live without me?
Furies’ revenge, if I didn’t redirect this train—shit, now images of the train museum were flickering—I’d end this competition embarrassed and in tears, just like last year.
The camera guy zoomed in on my final touches, broadcasting my hands and the glass slowly filling with my cocktail on one of the pairs of widescreen TVs mounted up front. As tempted as I was to glance at the other screen, time was of the essence, and my competitor couldn’t possibly craft his drinks with as much care as I did.
At the splitting-air sound of the buzzer, I startled and sloshed a bit of my meringue cloud over the rim, but I’d managed to finish in the nick of time. Better yet, the mess was on the backside of the cocktail glass.
The trio of judges began with my opponent’s concoction, and honestly, I couldn't concentrate on a thing they said, too fixated on the clump of Earl Gray tea leaves cupped within my palm. When it came my turn, I bade everyone to watch me with the same enthusiasm as a little kid on the playground.
“And in my final tribute to London”— to my London boy —“time to make it rain.” I sprinkled the dried leaves and cornflower blue petals across the top, a thrill going through me when the crowd responded so well to my humor, and I totally had this.
Delight widened the eyes of the round-faced judge with an ashy blond bouffant and overly rouged cheeks; the female judge and co-owner from High Tide Distillery gasped, as did several audience members; and the male “cocktail historian” did his best to appear generally unimpressed, but I could tell he wanted me to spill my secrets when he raises the glass, cracking the tiniest of smiles when he examines the floating contents
Once he’d gently set it back down, I passed out the biodegradable sugarcane cocktail straws I’d suggested they use for the contest after seeing the amount of liter around the fairgrounds last year. A little win that would hopefully catapult me into a bigger one.
“Mmm,” said judge number one with a smack of her pink lips, her wardrobe, hair, and trilling, breathy voice giving off total Dolly Parton vibes. “Ooh, I like that.”
“Rich, yet surprisingly refreshing. Surprising in every way, actually—color me impressed.” From the judge with the bowtie and pencil mustache that was as glowing a review as they came, and for a fraction of a moment, I thought I’d caught a glimpse of barely brown hair that appeared as though fingers had been repeatedly raked through it.
The spotlight swung to me, leaving me fidgeting in the blindingly bright light, and at least I was losing it near the end of the contest and not the beginning. A few minutes more, and I’ll seal the deal, then I can go home and indulge in any Graham mirages I might or might not have seen.
The woman who co-owned the distillery was the most boisterously enthusiastic, and I shifted my weight from foot to foot while attempting to prevent my blood pressure from spiking any higher.
Then they all look at me expectantly, and I rushed to fill the silence, even though it took me a couple of extra seconds to remember what with.
“I call it London Bridges,” I announced, leaning closer to the microphone Skylar pointed my way. I fluttered my fingertips, wavering between leaving it at that and adding the rest, like I’d done when I’d delivered the cocktail to Graham.
“Because they’re falling down, innit?” a voice called from the audience, the accent tickling my brain while causing a dissenting whorl of heat. Great, now the man who haunted my dreams was breaking the fourth wall.
Despite telling myself it’d be unwise to search for Graham’s face in the crowd, I flattened a hand to my brow to scan for familiar tresses and features, but I couldn’t see for shit now they’d turned the spotlight on me.
How many times had I thought I’d seen his face in the crowd? At the beach, in the bar, and at the bus stop nearest our house, where to my knowledge, Graham had never once visited.
Not him, not him, not him. I’d done so many doubletakes this past month, I had to roll my eyes at myself. After all, we were talking about the man who’d told me, “It’s not exactly a quick flight away.”
I glanced toward my friends and my dog to recalibrate, but all I could make out were vague outlines and, without my comforting lifeline, panic inundated my system instead.
It’s happening again.
I was about to fall on my face in front of all these people.
For a motherfucking second year in a row.
Foreboding prickled my scalp, zipping down my mane and into my spine, until there was a humming in my core. Clearly the universe was trying to tell me something, but I mentioned the blaring spotlight and being judged thing, right?
There in the center of the makeshift walkway, halfway down the crookedest aisle ever…
My heart thundered harder and faster in my chest, insisting it was truly him, even though that didn’t make any sense. He’d left me behind, and that was that, even if there was also that afternoon I’d slipped and hit the call button to quickly hang up. Not because I was chicken, but because Nova had decided to pick a fight with a plastic bag, and I couldn’t very well leave him to sort that dangerous situation out himself.
Begging was where I drew the line, but evidently, hallucinating was game on.
“Whoo! Let’s go, Zoie,” the Graham-esque figure hollered, and cotton filled my veins and my ears. It was like I’d leaped underwater without moving, and submerged like that, everything was slow and slightly contorted. “Show ‘em what you’re made of, love!”
The mustached judge harrumphed, as though this were a refined game of golf or croquet, but Skylar glanced from the audience member cheering the loudest to me, her eyes widening with understanding I still wasn’t sure I had.
“Hold up. This isn’t…?” They lifted the hand holding the microphone to cover their O-shaped mouth, the tap of it echoing through the din. “Oh-my- Gawd, is this the guy who broke your heart?”
Graham’s dark profile separated from the other patrons, and all the emotions that’d been whirring within me go still as I get visual confirmation it was really and truly him. Almost as if my nervous system was afraid to feel one way or the other before they heard what he had to say.
“I’m afraid so, but if it’s any consolation, I’ve come all the way from the UK to apologize. Which I’ll absolutely do just as soon as you’ve announced the winner—my money’s on Zoie and her London Bridges drink, lest that wasn’t clear.”
Whispers go through the crowd, several questions and conversations going on at once, a scarily accurate representation of what was going on in my head.
Skylar glanced at me, lips pursed, and it was all I could do to not explode in a thousand directions. Along with the barrage of questions I had for Mr. London Bridges himself, I want to hear this apology he mentioned. As Graham himself pointed out, I was still standing onstage at the Mixology contest, and I could only handle so much at the same time.
“Nothing like a last-minute plot twist,” Skylar said into the microphone, waiting for the din of the crowd to settle down, and then asking the judges whether they’d settled on a winner.
“We have,” the woman from High Tide distillery said, and finally my eyes adjusted enough I could make out the vaguest of details and features of the man now standing near the front, not far from my friends, hijacking my heart all over again. “Not only did all of us agree this was one of the most delicious, well-rounded cocktails we’ve ever tasted, the presentation blew us out of the water.”
I held my breath, moderately sure that meant I’d won, as hipster IPA guy had merely salted the rim of his cocktail with regular rock salt and called it a day.
“This year’s winner and recipient of the cash prize, as well as having their drink featured on our website is… Zoie Jones from the Drunken Kraken.”
For a handful of minutes, everything was a blur of clapping and waving and spotting my friends. Shaking hands with the runner up and thanking the judges, plus Skylar for improvising when some bloke from Britain showed up to apologize and cheer me on.
With a final few pictures, I was free to go find the guy and unearth more details myself, and I fucking sprinted to where I’d seen Graham last.
He’d made his way over to where my friends were congregated in a circle, craning his head in my direction as I approached.
Our gazes collide, and my attempt to swallow went nowhere, a lump of cautious anticipation permanently lodged in my throat. I’d deal with it, no complaints, as long as this didn’t turn out to be a soul-crushing dream—I didn’t think I could get over Graham Edwards ever again.
Not that I was over him. How could I be, when he looked like that and fired off a crooked smile all for me.
Nobody else seemed to notice, caught up in their lively conversation, and I tiptoed closer, debating my opening sentence. “You came all the way from London…for me?” I meant to start more subtle, or perhaps maybe even by saying hello.
“I heard you were making the best cocktail I’ve ever tasted and hopped on a plane straightaway.” He grinned, I grinned. I bit the inside of my cheek, jolted by the sting, so it didn’t seem to be part of some uber-realistic dream where I woke up with my heart clutched and my arms achingly empty. “Not only did I fly all the way from London to order another, I also have someone I’d like you to?—”
At the deep, low bark that definitely didn’t sound like Nova, Graham stepped aside, revealing a bullmastiff with a tan coat and droopy ears and black cheeks. Jaw set, she studied me with chocolate brown eyes surrounded by loose wrinkles, the picture of brawny refinement.
“Not yet, Ginny, we talked about this.” He bent at the waist to pet her head, but kept his eyes locked on me. “Fine, you can go first. Zoie, this is Virginia Woof. Ginny gal, this is Zoie.”
“Hello, pretty girl.” I made a high-pitched squeak, thinking this was as surreal as it got, still afraid something would happen to break the spell.
“See the thing is,” Graham continued, “I’ve been jabbering on and on about you nonstop. How incredible you are, and how I’ve never laughed so much or felt so comfortable while in the eye of a hurricane—that’s you, remember?”
With a cock of my head, I pressed my mouth into the flattest line I could, but there was an adorable dog in need of petting, and dirty looks had never been my strong suite anyway. While older and stockier, she and Nova shared enough characteristics I could see why for Graham, it was love at first bark.
Ever so slowly, I extend a hand toward her sooty snout, letting the dog that made Nova look like a miniature poodle sniff. I pitched my voice higher, automatically using my playful animal voice. “Oh, look at you and your big smooshy face that I want to smoosh. I’m so excited to finally meet you, Miss Virginia Wolf. I’ve been needing to vent about this guy”—I jabbed a thumb in Graham’s direction—“to someone who gets it. Stubborn Tauruses, am I right?”
She chuffed, and Graham and I both laughed, and paying no heed to our hunched-over postures, I launched myself at him, flinging my arms around his neck in a boa constrictor embrace, and sending us both tumbling to the cool, mashed grass. So much for playing it cool, my arms literally ached with the need to be around him, and now that I’d ensnared him, I’d be hesitant to ever let go.
“I’m a right idiot, aren’t I?” he asked, and blinked against the burn in my nose and eyes, attempting to dam my saltwater tears.
“Everything okay over there?” Ethan asked, obviously the designated friend checker upper. Since he had hold of Nova and he caught sight of me, my doggie ran over, enough slack on the leash to reach me and lick my face.
“Everything feels okay for the first time in a month.” It’d slipped out without permission, but it was the truth, so why should I take it back?
Graham lowered his forehead to mine, and I closed my eyes and soaked in the feel of him, along with the smell and light scrape of whiskers on my cheek. “My dog and I have had a proper chinwag about it, to be honest, and we agree that it took me way too long to get my head out of my arse. Just as soon as I realized it, we flew across the Atlantic in the hopes you’d consider giving me another chance.”
A dangerous amount of hope flooded my heart. “Another chance like…? How would that work?”
“Well, when I took a step back and saw how well the London office continued to run while I was over here in the states with you, I decided to stop forcing everything into a plan I’d made before I met you and start listening to the cards I’d been dealt—namely, the Lovers card, and the woman who advised me to consider my emotions and listen to my heart.”
Graham laced his fingers through mine as our dogs went in a circle, sniffing each other’s noses and butts, in case one end conveyed what the other could not. “I love you, Zoie. That’s what my emotions say with every single beat of my heart.”
My internal organs seemed to unzip themselves, an exhilarating lightness leaving me feeling like someone had flipped the earth’s gravity to off. All the tears I’d stuffed down came rushing right back, that ragged canyon that’d formed in my heart flooding with other tingly sensations I couldn’t get enough of—just like Graham.
“I love you, and it’s far from inconvenient, it’s the best bloody thing to ever happen to me.” Using his grip on my hand, he hauled me onto his lap, encircling me in his arms as he lowered his lips to mine. He followed up his soft brush of lips by plunging his tongue between the seam of my mouth, inspiring me to do some plundering of my own.
In my rush to ensure he didn’t get away, I forgot we had an audience until they went to whooping and hollering.
“We’ll give you your space, but we had to come congratulate you on your win before we take off,” Zac said, and I popped to my feet and gave out hugs and accepted compliments that failed to truly sink in.
Later I’d ponder how happy and grateful I was for a cash prize that could open a few different doors.
“So, what’s the plan?” Zac asked, clearly addressing Graham, and rather unphased when Catalina widened her eyes and suggested he be nice. “I am being nice. I almost screwed up with you, so I get that a guy can fuck up even though he doesn’t mean to, but I need to know how he’s going to keep it from happening again.”
“You don’t have to?—”
Graham cut me off with an assured squeeze to my hand that conveyed he had this, even though I was afraid he did not. “I’ve decided to remain in America for a bit. Zoie and I haven’t had a chance to discuss it, but I was hoping she’d be willing to split our time between here and London, but what I know most of all, is I’ll never leave her behind again.”
My heart grew wings and floated up in the sky near the spray of palm tree leaves.
“How’s that sound, love? We can hammer out the details later, but?—”
I slammed my mouth over his. “I’m in.”
We wished my friends farewell, dragging our feet over leaving since the temperature is so freaking perfect and our dogs have now made friends.
Graham curled me closer, the love and affection I had for this man washing over me in happy wave, after happy wave. He’d come back for me.
He loved me.
We gathered our dogs and walked to the parking lot so we could climb into our respective cars—his was a rental, naturally—and head home together.
Gah, I loved the sound of that as much as I loved Graham and his adorable dog.
After tucking me safely inside my car, Nova and I sat in the front seat, watching the two of them climb into his rental car. I patted the side of the bestest dog to ever play matchmaker and leaned over the console to kiss the concaved spot on his forehead. “We did it, Nova Maximus Jones. Together, we landed the British man of my dreams.