Chapter 23
Chapter
Twenty-Three
MAKENA
It’s Saturday night, the one night of the week when I can stay out as late as I want, and I’m spending it in a place that smells like every bad decision I’ve ever made, soaked in day-old beer.
But what can I say?
I love The Brass Monkey.
It’s like me—a little quirky, a little broken, definitely not winning any fashion awards, but a lot of fun.
I push through the door into a wall of noise.
The sound of pinball machines competes with drunk male laughter, the mechanical wheeze of the Borris the Bucking Bull, and someone butchering “Crocodile Rock” at the karaoke machine onstage.
The sticky floor grabs at my sneakers all the way to the bar, as if the building itself is trying to warn me that there are better places to be.
Perhaps, Building, perhaps.
But do those other places have Trash Pandas on special every Saturday?
I think not .
I claim a barstool with minimal duct tape damage and shout to be heard over the guy howling “Wah wah wah wah wah,” into the mic, “Trash Panda, Cobb, make it a double with extra stick.”
Cobb, the sweetest former motorcycle club member ever to transform his love for animals into a chaotic, animal-themed dive bar in the suburbs, flashes me a gold-toothed grin. “Coming right up, Mack. Good to see you, girl! Been too long.”
As he turns away to make my drink, the anxious-looking woman next to me in jeans and a sparkly tank top hisses, “Sorry, but could you tell us what’s in the Trash Panda?
” She motions to the menu, a simple list of the cocktails on one side with prices on the other.
Technically, Cobb is supposed to list all the ingredients, but following rules has never been his strong suit.
“There are no descriptions, and the bartender is so…busy.” She glances at Cobb’s broad back, covered only by a scarred leather motorcycle jacket.
Cobb is a massive beast with a craggy face, a scar across his forehead, and the kind of muscles that threaten a beating if a patron steps out of line.
He’s also a secret cuddle bear who goes flea market hunting with his husband every weekend and donates a third of his proceeds to youth homes—hence the dilapidated state of the bar.
But I’m not about to spoil a tourist’s “dive bar” experience with a glimpse behind the big, scary bartender curtain. Grinning, I say, “Sure! The Trash Panda is whiskey, coffee liqueur, a splash of root beer, and a touch of whatever well liquor Cobb is trying to get rid of, on the rocks.”
“Oh, okay. Thank you.” Her upper lip curls as she casts a glance at the woman behind her, also in sparkles, also looking like she read about The Brass Monkey in an “off the beaten track” guide and is now regretting her decision to leave Bourbon Street.
“And the extra stick part you asked for?” Sparkle Two asks. “What’s that?”
“Meat stick,” I say, suppressing a laugh as the two women exchange horrified glances. “Every Trash Panda comes with a Slim Jim of your very own. Use it to stir your drink or enjoy it as a bar snack. Or both! We don’t judge here.”
But Sparkle One and Sparkle Two do judge. They judge hard and are off their stools, mincing across the sticky floor in their heels a second later, fleeing to the parking lot to find a cab to take them back across the river.
“Scaring off my customers again, Mack?” Cobb asks, a twinkle in his gray eyes as he sets my drink down.
“I do what I can to help out,” I say. “I know you have a limited tolerance for tourists. Especially ones who turn up their noses at a Slim Jim.”
“Damn straight. Catch up with you later when I’m not slammed, kiddo, and good to see you.” He reaches over, ruffling my hair with an affection that’s nice.
“Good to see you, too, Cobb.” I gather my mason jar close, inhaling the weirdly comforting scent. It smells like the remnants of my grandma’s ancient liquor cabinet, summer camp, and smoky, salty secrets.
And Cobb gave me not one, not two, but three meat sticks of my very own.
My Trash Panda is glorious tonight. I’m still considered a “regular” even though I haven’t been here in months. And Cobb is my friend and will smash the face of any guy who tries to fuck with me tonight.
I should be feeling good.
Great, even.
Instead, the same cold sadness that’s been floating around in my brain returns the second Cobb swaggers off to make a round of Angry Gooses. (Excuse me, Angry Geese —gin, grapefruit juice, a single slice of jalapeno, and molasses. Surprisingly, not as gross as it sounds.)
The feeling is one part melancholy, one part something worse than melancholy.
Something hopeless.
Something that feels like “the end” in a way I’m not ready for.
I’m not ready to give up on happily ever after, on finding my person and building an even bigger, more beautiful life, magnified by the glory of having someone special to share it with. But I’m thirty-two, almost thirty-three, and starting to doubt I’m ever going to find it again.
And by “it,” I mean a man like Tanner Bryce.
Tanner, with his kind eyes, easy laugh, and sexy way of julienning a carrot. Tanner, who was my teacher and my friend, and then, the day I graduated from culinary school and was no longer his student, my lover. He was fun and deep and thoughtful and silly, my perfect match in every way, except one.
He was twenty-eight and ready to settle down; I was newly twenty and ready to take the world by storm.
He wanted to get engaged and start looking for a house; I wanted to backpack around France, learning to bake pastries.
He wanted to be mine; I wanted to see what it felt like to kiss boys aside from my high school boyfriend and former teacher.
At twenty, forever felt like a cage.
At thirty-two, it sounds like freedom.
What would I give to be free from the shackles of swiping right and blind dates and learning to be naked with someone new and hoping and losing hope and breaking up and getting ghosted (or worse) and never feeling completely safe or loved?
What would I give to have a man say my name the way Grammercy Graves says Elly’s?
A lot.
I would give a lot.
It’s not that I’m jealous of Elly’s miraculous love story, I’m just…
sad. And on the verge of losing hope for a happily ever after of my own.
Aside from the eighteen months of my disastrous, impulsive marriage four years ago, I’ve been on the dating market nonstop for over a decade, and Prince Charming has yet to make an appearance.
It’s enough to make a girl look up her old culinary school teacher in a moment of weakness, only to learn that he lives in Brooklyn with his beautiful artist wife and their two sweet little tow-headed baby boys and looks very, very happy…
Yeah, I did…
Last night, in fact.
And now, I’m here, draining a Trash Panda with a speed that probably isn’t wise. Cobb is a heavy pour, and I barely had time to shove a sandwich in my mouth between catering jobs this afternoon. Alcohol, a mostly empty stomach, and encroaching despair are never a good mix .
With that in mind, I chomp into my first Slim Jim, marveling that something made almost entirely of organs and nightmares can be so fucking tasty…
“Ladies and gentlemen!” The karaoke host—a woman dressed as a poodle with pink hair—bounces onto the tiny stage, giving me hope that our ears are about to get a break.
The past three singers were horrendous, but in my experience, people with pink hair tend to know what they’re doing with a microphone.
“I’m Mindy May, your host tonight,” she continues.
“Thank you so much to all the talented people who have already entertained us. But we still have thirty minutes before the band arrives. Come on, friends, don’t leave us thirsting for entertainment.
Surely, there are still a few brave souls out there who love singing and songs featuring animals.
As you know, here at The Brass Monkey, it’s animals only. ”
Someone in the back yells something about animals being full of shit, but Mindy just cheerfully flips them off and goes back to trying to drum up suckers to keep the Ear Bleeding good times rolling.
God, I love this place.
I can’t believe I let months go by without a visit.
I’m contemplating whether I’m drunk enough to attempt my Elvis impression on “Hound Dog” when a voice behind me shouts, “Eye of the Tiger! Somebody has to sing Eye of the Tiger.”
I spin on my stool to see an unexpectedly yummy sight.
Well, hello, Mr. Potential Sadness-Banishing One-Night Stand…
This tall, bulky drink of water has serious potential.
With his shaggy, dark blond hair, easy smile, and worn jeans that hug his strong legs in all the right places, he looks like the kind of well-toned meathead who knows how to show a girl a good time.
He’s clearly an athlete or gym rat of some kind, but he looks too old to be in college, which is great.
I’m not opposed to dating a younger man, but if I never have to meet a guy’s ten roommates on the way out of his frat house on the morning after again, it’ll be too soon.
And weirdly, this cutie looks sort of looks…familiar.
“Why don’t you get up here and make it happen then, handsome?” Mindy calls back, her eyes flashing with appreciation.
Familiar Guy laughs. “I can’t. Not drunk enough yet. Maybe after this next Trash Panda.”
I sit up straighter.
Cute and excellent taste in gross drinks, be still my heart…
As Mindy moves on to harassing the guys playing pool, I make meaningful eye contact with Cutie’s profile until he finally seems to sense that he’s being watched.
When he turns my way, spotting me just four stools down, the brief flicker of shock on his face, followed quickly by a kind of happiness I don’t usually inspire in the scruffier sex, banishes the last of my sad fog.