Chapter 7 Oh Fck
“ H alf an ounce of simple syrup…”
The clear liquid splashed and filled the shot glass halfway before I dumped it all into a bigger glass. Next, whiskey bourbon.
I thought those were two different alcohols?
“Sure you don’t need any help?” Ethan called from the couch, piquing my growing annoyance even higher.
“I’m positive.”
At hearing the blatant irritation in my own voice, I shot Ethan a fast but small smile before gearing my attention back to the drink.
Picking up the bottle of whiskey and then the bottle of bourbon next to it, I poured one shot of each into the drink before swirling them together.
Some strangled noise came from the man on the couch as I mixed the two dark liquors, and I chewed my bottom lip between my teeth to keep from tossing some less than friendly words in Ethan’s direction.
He’d been making remarks or obviously judgemental noises since I started practicing drinks for the bar an hour ago. One more comment about my pouring skills and he better be ready to get a drink in his face.
“Wait—this recipe says I need orange bitters,” I thought aloud. My eyes jumped over to the fresh orange sitting patiently next to the cutting board. “I’m guessing that means like, freshly squeezed orange juice?”
“Oh my god,” Ethan groaned once again, and my jaw clenched in response almost immediately.
Just ignore him. Just ignore him. Take a shot of tequila for strength and then keep ignoring him.
Abiding my brain’s suggestion, I poured myself a quick shot of the silver tequila I bought for my practice session and raised the glass to my lips, tipping the bitter taste of regret back into my mouth.
“I may be wrong, but aren’t you supposed to be practicing making drinks and not getting wasted on them?” I waited a moment for the burning sensation sliding down my throat to quit so I could speak without coughing.
“I can do both.”
Ethan cocked his head to the side. “An admirable feat.”
Nodding politely, I gave my attention back to the nearly complete Old fashioned. I palmed the orange and went in search of a knife, eventually finding a sizable one hiding in a kitchen drawer.
“Alice, are you sure you don’t want my help with that?”
A very real worry replaced any superior judgement in his voice as he eyed the large knife I held in my hand. Rolling my eyes, I set the orange down on the cutting board.
“I’m not twelve, Ethan. I can use a kitchen knife without supervision.”
Placing the blade against the rind of the orange, I pressed down until the orange gave way to the blade, smoothly cutting and splitting the fruit right in half. Pride pulling up on my cheeks as I appraised the inside of the orange, I slid my gaze up to Ethan’s watchful stare.
Moving the knife to cut a smaller slice of the orange, I said, “See? I told you I could— gah! ”
I cried out as pain sliced through my finger just as the blade of the knife did the same.
“Shit.” Ethan’s curse was drowned out by the sudden heartbeat building louder between my ears.
I clamped my other hand around my middle finger, squeezing it hard to try and keep the pain from worsening. I tried to focus my attention on anything that wasn’t the pressurized pulsing through my fingertip as lines of crimson blood seeped through the cracks of my hand.
“I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine,” I rattled off as a blur I knew was Ethan came bustling around the side of the counter and joined me at the sink. The kitchen filled with the rush of running water as he turned on the faucet while simultaneously grabbing several paper towels.
“Put your hand under the water.”
I did as he said, chewing back a sharp gasp as frigid water poured against my cut.
“I really don’t think it’s that bad,” I tried, ignoring the blood running murky as it mixed with the sink water and raced down my hand.
I don’t think this is what Patrick meant when he told me to work on my Bloody Mary.
“Let me see it.”
My skin burned a cocktail of heated embarrassment and searing pain, and I peeled my hand away, finger by finger, to reveal my wound.
“Please don’t say I told you so,” I breathed.
“I won’t. I’m thinking it, but I won’t say it.”
“Thank you.”
“Here, put this on it, and I’ll go get some bandages.” Ethan handed me the wad of paper towels he’d collected and disappeared off in search of bandages.
Why did this keep happening to me? It seemed like whatever new thing I tried lately, I was punished for it.
Trying new things and getting myself out of my comfort zone was an important part of moving on, so why wouldn’t the universe let me do it?
All I wanted to do was make drinks, be good at my new job, try a new activity; so why couldn’t I do any of that without messing up first?
No matter what I tried since moving here, I always failed first.
“Okay, let’s dry off your hand.” Ethan appeared next to me, a box of bandaids in his hand.
Over the next few minutes, Ethan dried, cleaned, and dressed my small wound until my finger had stopped bleeding and my left hand was officially useless.
“How am I supposed to make drinks with a mummy hand?”
Ethan gave me a pointed look. “You let me help you like I tried to get you to do all night.”
Huffing out a defeated exhale, I realized I really had no other choice now. “Fine, but you have to tell me what you’re doing when you’re doing it so I’m still learning as we go along.”
“I will, promise. Just call me your left-hand man,” he said with a cheeky wink.
“That was so lame.”
“I’m fully aware.”
Ethan picked up the Old fashioned I was in the middle of making before my grisly accident and brought it under his nose. He gave it a quick sniff and his sharp features scrunched in disgust.
“This is basically just sugary shots of whiskey and bourbon mixed together.”
I slumped my hip against the counter, eyeing Ethan with hard-to-hide amusement. “I’m assuming you’re telling me you could do better?”
“Oh yeah,” he chuckled, not bothering to conceal his arrogance. “What’s your favorite drink?”
“Uh, Long Island Iced Tea?”
Displeasure wrote itself in between Ethan’s dark eyebrows. “I’m not making you a Long Island Iced Tea.”
“Why not?”
“Well, first off,” Ethan glanced around at the alcohol I’d bought and laid out on the countertop.
“We don’t have all of the ingredients. And second,” He swiveled his critical stare back to me.
“I don’t need you wounded and drunk when your sister comes home.
She’ll never trust me to be alone with you ever again. ”
Offense burned a pathway across my mind at the fact that he thought I needed to be monitored like a child, but thanks to the alcohol bustling around in my veins, I let it go for now.
“Fine, then how about a margarita?” Ethan nodded approvingly and got to work.
I watched him as he moved around the kitchen, explaining to me what he was doing while he was doing it.
The way he moved was almost like a dance, graceful and confident in his actions.
His hands gliding through the air as he reached for what he needed next, his smile relaxed but unyielding as he shook the contents of the drink together in a tumbler, his biceps flexing beneath his shirt sleeve as he did so…
“And then you strain it into the glass and garnish with usually a lemon or a lime,” he finished, setting the freshly made drink in front of me. Skeptical, but admittedly way more curious, I picked up the drink in my good hand and tested it with a sip.
“Holy crap.” The sweet and sour notes of flavor washed across my tongue as I looked to Ethan with surprise parting my lips. “Where’d you learn to make that?”
He shrugged, trying to not let his pride show as he looked to the floor.
“Just something I put together years ago. I added extra simple syrup and agave nectar to make it sweeter.”
“Wait, this is your own recipe?”
“Not my own recipe per se. Just my own added touches.”
“And you never had any training or anything?”
“Nope.”
“Then, how’d you get so good at it?”.
Again, he shrugged but this time, the dismissive action did not match up with the next words out of his mouth. “I’m chock-full of natural talent.”
“All right, Mr. Perfect,” I joked, fighting down a grin. “What’s next?”
Over the course of the next half hour, Ethan taught me how to make a Cosmopolitan, a Sex on the Beach, and a Gin and Tonic.
Each drink he would make first and then have me make it myself to practice.
I was getting pretty good at it too. We’d both sample the drinks we’d made for each other, and as the time passed, I could feel the alcohol loosening my muscles and my inhibitions all at once.
Each joke Ethan made, I laughed harder. Every successful drink I made, I cheered louder. And with every minute passed, my brain and my mouth drifted further and further apart.
And boy, was Ethan feeling it, too.
“Are you sure you’ve never bartended before? You’re like super good at this.”
“I swear!” Ethan chuckled, the noise singing through my heart. “I’m not lying to you, Blondie.”
My shoulders sank as my head fell back. “No.”
“What? You can’t shoot that nickname down so quickly, Blondie .”
“It’s uninspired! Try again later.”
A groan resonated through Ethan’s chest, forcing a melody of laughter through my own.
“Fine. But I am telling the truth. I never bartended or anything. I just like creating things.”
“Have you always liked being creative?”
He nodded, nursing the last Gin and Tonic I made for him. “Yeah. I’ve always enjoyed making something from nothing.”
“So, how’d you get to having a career in law?”
Something of intensity blazed behind Ethan’s eyes before he could hide it and spiked curiosity as I witnessed the momentary vulnerability.
“That’s a long story for another time.” And just like that, he’d shut me down and out. He moved out of the kitchen and into the living room. I followed even though I probably shouldn’t have.
“You didn’t always want to be a lawyer, did you?”
“Nope,” Ethan said, short and quite clipped. I didn’t let it bother me, though.