19. Chilled, with Training Wheels
CHAPTER NINETEEN
chilled, with training wheels
“Ijust don’t see how anything else on this trip can top that,” Forrest teases as we step out of our rideshare.
It’s been about six hours since the creek incident, and it’s still the topic of every conversation.
I don’t think I’ve ever moved as quickly as I did when I launched back out of the water. Thankfully, today is a relatively warm day, especially compared to the first part of our trip, because I was completely soaked from mid-chest down, and the water was frickin’ cold.
Once he confirmed there was no damage other than to my thoroughly soaked phone—it had been in a pocket in the shorts under my skirt—and to my pride, Forrest doubled over with laughter. Apparently my shocked-fell-in-a-creek expression is very funny.
The worst part? I didn’t even think to grab my ball while I was in the water.
“Yes yes, har har. I’m sure drowned rat is a great look on me,” I say, letting Forrest have his fun at my expense. A tumble like that deserves it.
Even I can admit the fall was hilarious. If the tables were turned, I’d be tormenting Forrest about it, much worse than he’s been poking fun at me. As long as my phone—currently sitting in a bowl of rice back in the room—survives, there’s no real harm done.
Actually, the disaster of the eleventh hole was enough to truly break whatever competitive, jealous funk I was in this morning.
After we abandoned the hole, Forrest gave me the resort sweatshirt he’d thankfully shoved in our golf cart, and we played on, completely disregarding our scorecards.
Waterlogged shoes or not, the rest of our game was a blast. We kept randomly looking at each other and bursting out laughing.
After, the sauna was the best I’ve ever felt, and lunch at the clubhouse was delicious.
Still, I decided I’ve earned tequila. A lot of tequila.
“Drowned rats would be lucky to look as good as you did after going for a swim,” Forrest says, sounding serious now.
There had been a moment, after we’d laughed so hard my sides hurt, when Forrest looked at me, dripping wet, my clothes plastered to my skin, my white skort in whatever state of see-through it had become.
It was an intentional, heated look. I felt it down to the tips of my toes, warming in spite of how cold the water still was as it slid down my body.
For just a second, I wanted to test us. I wanted to flirt and figure out if he was thinking what I thought he might be thinking. I wanted to know if that was the look Melina saw.
But I didn’t, and I don’t now. No good can come of it.
Instead, I roll my eyes and pretend I think he’s being ridiculous. Then, I look to the building behind us, throw out my arms, and present to Forrest the infamous El Lobo cantina.
The entire place is weathering steel and reclaimed wood, with calaveras decorating the walls, menus, and table tents advertising happy hour specials in black and vibrant green.
Little candles on each table flicker even in the mid-day sun, cleverly housed in the lower halves of sawed-off Mexican beer bottles.
Music—primarily Spanish-language—flows easily in and out of the restaurant from the front patio, through open doors and the open bar, around the restaurant, and to the back patio, where I know high-top tables surround a second bar and a firepit.
Falls into creeks don’t exist at El Lobo happy hour.
Nor do any other worries. And I’m ready for a reset on the day.
The outdoor half of the double-sided front bar is packed, so after checking in with the hostess—a college student who didn’t work here when I was around—I lead Forrest through the restaurant and out the open garage door in the dining room to the back patio.
Two seats at the back bar open just as we walk up.
I’m sliding onto my stool when a large hand slams onto the bar top in front of me, creating a sound loud enough to make me jump in spite of the cacophony of people around us. A few heads turn our way.
Forrest, still standing, shifts toward me, angling his body between mine and the bar as best he can in the cramped space despite the fact that the bartender who owns the hand is twice Forrest’s size.
“You’re not welcome here,” a deep voice growls at me while my eyes work their way from that dark brown hand up the arm to the body it belongs to.
I swear the whole patio freezes at the deathly calm this man exudes.
Tyler has always been one for dramatics. The second it feels like the tension is about to snap, he crumples forward onto the cool metal between us, catching his face in his hands, his elbows propping him up.
“You don’t call. You don’t write. And then you just waltz in here, looking like a breath of fresh air, with a hot professor man ready to defend your honor?” Tyler whines as life around us resumes, my laughter joining the typical bar noise.
Forrest looks back at me, probably searching for confirmation that Tyler is a friend, not foe.
I give him a little nod. Tyler is a very good friend.
Forrest takes his seat. In his button-up shirt (with the sleeves rolled up) and grey slacks, I guess I do see the whole professor thing. The glasses really bring it home. I have absolutely no opinion on the hot qualifier.
“Ty.” I soften, wrapping my hands around Tyler’s, effectively cupping his face with them. “You know our love was too powerful for me,. I had to go. We would have destroyed each other. The world wasn’t ready.”
Forrest’s brow furrows as he looks at me out of the corner of his eye. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was jealous.
I think Tyler was born a shameless flirt, always there to lighten things during a tough shift and keep us laughing.
He also always partied the hardest when we weren’t on the clock, lining up body shots and planning bar crawls for all of us to let off steam.
Then, he’d switch into bodyguard mode, staying late to make sure anybody who wanted an escort to their car had one.
“Our story could have been one for the ages,” Tyler insists as he straightens up. Then he turns his attention to Forrest, leaning back over the bar and holding a hand out to him.
“Professor, I’m Tyler,” he says.
“Just Forrest will do. It’s nice to meet you, Tyler.” Forrest takes Tyler’s offered hand and shakes it. “I guess it’s safe to assume you know Cam from her days here?”
“That I do, but we called her Mia here,” Tyler says, rotating Forrest’s wrist and placing a quick kiss to the back of his hand. “But she’s already turned me down, so I’d rather focus on you. You’re a forest I could get lost in…”
“Sorry, Tyler,” I cut in. “He’s spoken for.”
“By you?” Tyler asks, pinning me with an accusatory stare, eager for tea.
“No, no.” I shake my head quickly, realizing that’s exactly what it sounded like I was saying. “Forrest and I are just friends. Best friends.”
When I look back at Forrest, he’s frowning, but he smiles again when he catches me watching him.
“Sorry Tyler,” Forrest says with a soft smile to sugarcoat his rejection. “But I will say that’s one of the best pickup lines I’ve ever gotten.”
“You both break my heart.” Tyler sighs before he picks up a shaker, drops some ice into it, and follows that with a healthy pour of tequila. “Spicy is ok?” he checks with us.
When I worked here, Tyler was a barback and one of the younger employees, but we all knew he wanted to tend. He was always watching the bartenders, asking questions, and spending every spare moment he had memorizing drink recipes. With his personality, he was made for the job.
“They let you sling drinks now, Ty?” I ask, happy that he looks so happy.
“They let me manage bar, baby,” he says, beaming. “You’re looking at a champion mixologist over here.” He points to a plaque near the register awarding El Lobo best margarita in Arizona last year.
“Shit, Tyler, that’s amazing!” I say, brimming with pride. “I leave our drinks in your capable hands.”
“You both could have known how capable these hands really are if you didn’t turn me down,” Tyler mutters, a twinkle in his eye as he wedges a pint glass in the tin.
After aggressively shaking his mystery concoction, he pours out a vibrant yellow-orange liquid into two margarita glasses rimmed with salt.
“They’re mango, but there’s a kick of serrano pepper in there. Be careful,” he says as he sets two waters beside our drinks.
We thank Tyler, and Forrest slides his glass closer to him to smell it.
“Oh, I can tell that’s dangerous,” he says before quirking an eyebrow, the ice in his glass clinking as it shifts around. “Not blended though?”
“Never,” Tyler and I say at the same time, and I pull my best withering stare out. I hope it matches the gravity of the situation.
“I take it back,” Forrest hurries to say before raising his glass to me.
We cheers and sip, and it’s perfect. Sweet and smooth and just a bit spicy. Forrest coughs and tries to hide it.
“I found the spice,” he says, his voice raspy. “But that is delicious.”
Tyler takes a bow. “Any shots to start things off with a bang?”
I nod eagerly before putting on my best innocent expression.
“Chilled, please. With training wheels,” I say sweetly, knowing it’ll earn me some mocking.
“Booooo,” Tyler scorns, furrowing his brow at me.
“Does the tequila need it? Absolutely not. But I like it.” I bat my eyelashes for good measure. “Please?”
“You’re lucky I like you,” Tyler says, salting the shot glasses before plunking them on the bar before us. He drops two lime wedges onto a cocktail napkin too.
“Training wheels?” Forrest asks, leaning close to whisper in my ear, his hand braced on the back of my stool. I expect he doesn’t want to get shamed again after his question about blended margaritas.
When I turn to explain, I find that penetrating gaze staring right into me. He’s close enough that I can smell the serrano peppers on his breath.
“Salt and lime,” I say, doing everything to hold his stare and finding it very difficult to do so.
It’s just that first rush of tequila hitting my system. Nothing more.
“Do you want me to just order some things for you?” Tyler asks, sliding the shots toward us and pulling our attention back to him. He’s poised at the POS.
I look to Forrest, but he holds out his hand palm up, deferring to me.
“Yes, please.” I know there will be no bad choices on Chef Miguel’s menu, even if it’s changed from when I was around.
When I give Tyler the go-ahead, he’s looking at us accusatorially. I widen my eyes to tell him to mind his own beeswax, and he shrugs before turning back to the computer and putting in some food for us.
After, he takes a lap around the bar, refilling drinks, clearing plates, and flirting some more. The other bartender and barback move around the small space with him with ease. It’s almost like a ballet.
“I didn’t realize Mia didn’t come from Susan,” Forrest says.
“I mean, the outfit, the hair, the makeup, the persona… Susan did that. But I picked Mia because everyone here called me that. It was a nice memory to come back to,” I say right as chips and house-made guacamole appear before us.
“Bottoms up, you two,” Tyler says, gesturing to our untouched shots.
“To nice memories,” Forrest says before licking salt from his shot glass and tapping it against mine.
“To new memories too,” I say before I tip my head back and take my shot.
Food seems to keep on coming, slow-roasted pork tacos with grilled pineapple, elote covered in cotija cheese crumbles, veggie tostadas with an unexpected kick, smoky steak skewers, and the most delicious cucumber and crab gazpacho. And our margaritas are never empty.
As we eat, a steady stream of familiar faces come by to say hi and steal chips.
Even some of back-of-house comes out to say hello, including Chef.
I’m reminded how it felt like I was adopted into a family when I was here.
A loud, usually inappropriate, high-strung, family. They were just what I needed.
I’m giggly from such a fun time, good food, and the margaritas Tyler has kept coming.
I love how comfortable Forrest has become here too, even in just the span of one extended happy hour, joking easily with Tyler—and telling him about my swim this morning—raving about every bite of food he tries and smiling the entire time.
How could he ever worry about being boring?
Forrest’s chair and mine have inched closer over the last couple hours, and Forrest is propped up by an arm braced against the seat of my stool behind me. We’re close and touching and warm.
It feels good, right.
Dangerous in the best way.
“What are we thinking. Another round? Any more food?” Tyler’s deep voice cuts through the fog in my brain.
When I look at Forrest, I remember living out here without him. I remember countless nights, wanting nothing more than to call him. I remember crying and missing him so much it felt like my entire body would split in half from the pain.
I can’t do that again.
“No, I think it’s time to go,” I say, forcing a smile, ready to blame my sudden lethargy on the alcohol and the sun if anybody asks.
“Come visit again before you leave?” Tyler asks, concern in his eyes.
“Don’t worry. We’ll be here before the game,” I say, smiling in earnest now. Everyone around here knows which game without asking.
Forrest and I split the heavily discounted bill and leave an obnoxious tip.
As I slip off my chair, my sandal catches on the crossbar I had my feet propped on. When I stumble, Forrest slips his hands around my elbows, steadying me. I didn’t even realize he’d stood up.
My steady rock.
“Do you need training wheels too?” he asks, his cheeks flushed, this time from a good time.
And I just might.
Or I’m going to fall again. Hard.