Page 1 of Make My Heart Malt

ONE

GHOST OF A MAN

Dessa

It’s strange how a plain white envelope can make me so anxious. One might think it’s a notice to report for jury duty or that I need to act fast, or my car warranty will expire. Side note: my car warranty has been nonexistent for eight years. It might be a letter from the police saying they finally figured out who stomped all over Mrs. Halverson’s tulips, and now she’s suing for damages. Sorry, Mrs. Halverson. But it wasn’t all my doing. In fact, I was the only one who gracefully tip-toed across your flower bed unlike the other savages who stomped their way across. Either way, it’s not that. It’s worse. Much worse.

I flip the envelope back and forth between my fingers, the black calligraphy screaming at me on every turn. Screw you, black lettering. Who gives a wedding invitation to their ex? Or has their mom deliver it to my momto deliver to me? It’s a slap in the face. It’s a blatant move that screams, “Look I’ve moved on, why haven’t you?” I hate you, envelope. Ihavemoved on.

Okay. That’s not entirely true. Yes, it’s true I’ve moved on from my ex-boyfriend who’s now getting married, but there’s someone else I’ve desperately tried to move on from. Every year, the start of baseball season is a stark reminder that he’s still around, and he still hasn’t said a single word to me. No phone call. No text. No email. I would even settle for a postcard at this point. It’s better than being ghosted. Because of that, this wedding invite has hives sprouting all over my body. Not because of who’s getting married, but because of who’s going to be there. I’d hate to be the bitch who ruins the wedding by punching her former-best-friend-turned-most-hated-enemy in the face in the middle of “I do.” I don’t think the families would appreciate that too much, even though I would find great pleasure in it.

This envelope has haunted me for the past three months—ever since my mom handed it to me. If things didn’t end the way they did all those years ago, attending this wedding might be a different story. Right now, I don’t have time to replay the last ten years of my life because my best friend Rylee returns to work today from her maternity leave. As I toss the envelope, it slides across the coffee table before coming to a stop on the edge. I climb to my feet and stroll five steps into the open kitchen of my one-bedroom townhome. After grabbing my keys from the counter, I make my way out the front door.

As I arrive at Porter’s Ale House for my bartending shift, my heart stammers in my chest at the highlights from the Seattle-Minnesota world championship game playing on the TV. Not only is it airing on the two TVs behind the bar but also on the projector screen across the room. Eventhough baseball season ended three weeks ago with underdogs Minnesota stealing the win from Seattle, they still like to show the missed catch by Seattle’s star catcher. It became Minnesota’s tiara on top of their Cinderella-story year. And I’m over watching it. Not over Minnesota winning because they played hard and deserve the win, but over watching Seattle. Most importantly, watching their star catcher. With a quick roll of my eyes, I snatch the remote. My hands tremble as I switch channels, hoping to escape seeing him again. A collection of boos echoes through the entire bar.

“Fine. Fine.” I turn the channel back before everyone throws their drink at me. “Baseball season is over. Let’s move on to a new sport,” I mumble to myself. I’m certainly ready to move on. Yes, it’s my favorite sport. Yes, I bleed blue and red for the Minnesota Mallards, but I don’t need to watch every replay fifty times.

As Lach steps next to me, his light brown hair flops across his forehead, I catch a glimpse of his tattoo peeking out from beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his hoodie. He’s an artist and drew all his own tattoos. “You don’t want to piss off the die-hard fans. They’ve waited eighteen years to see their team not only make it to the playoffs but be world champions, especially against a team like Seattle.”

A heavy sigh escapes my lips. The fans deserve it, but what about me? I deserve some reprieve from this torture. “For the past three weeks, that’s all I’ve seen. And that doesn’t include watching it live.” A customer in front of me lifts his empty glass. I nod and get him a refill.

As soon as they announced the dates and times of the championship games, I was tempted to call in sick and bury myself under the covers with a bottle of vodka, but I couldn’t do that to Jake. Instead, I hoisted up my big-girl panties and spent three hours watching my ex-best friendbehind home plate. It was bittersweet watching Garrett miss the catch, allowing Minnesota to score the winning run and beat the top team in baseball. What really broke my heart was Garrett’s press conference. He loves the sport, always has, and it shows in his emotions.

When he first started playing professionally, I refused to turn on any of his games. All the hurt and anger resurfaced again. A sport I love shouldn’t cause me so much pain. By his third year playing for the Seattle Warblers, I had no choice since they were playing Minnesota. It was hard at first, but eventually I numbed myself to the pain. Eventually, each game got a little easier. I may hate him, but I still want to see him succeed. Even now, as the press conference replays on the TV, I have a hard time turning away.

Garrett’s gaze fixates on the microphone in front of him. “You don’t get many second chances. I really screwed up this time. It was my fault we didn’t win.” He lifts his head and stares directly at the camera, but it’s like he’s staring at me. “But next time I’m coming out one hundred twenty percent. I’ll give it my all and make sure that next year we take home the trophy.” His bright green eyes glimmer. I’m not entirely sure if it’s because of the lights or if he’s a little teary-eyed. Maybe both. Despite being a recording I’ve watched so many times I have it memorized, my heart still plummets to my stomach like I should care about his feelings right now. Then I remember he sure as hell didn’t care about mine. Finally, I rip my gaze away from the TV as it cuts to commercial. He’s dead to me and has been for the last ten years.

To keep my thoughts off Garrett, I busy myself with creating a fresh drink special. I tap the tip of my pencil on a notepad as I think of ingredients that will pair well together. Maybe I should name it “Asshole Baseball PlayersWho Have No Regard For Anyone’s Feelings But Their Own.” I think it’s catchy. But instead, I pick a more neutral name and call it “The Mallard.”

“You know what I like about baseball?” Nora leans her butt against the edge of the beer cooler next to me, her long blonde braid draping over one shoulder.

Lach grabs a pint glass and pulls the lever down on the tap, watching the golden liquid fill the glass. “The hard work, dedication, and skill that goes into playing the game?”

“No. The baseball pants,” Nora deadpans. She rests a hand on her hip and taps her chin. “Though I suppose filling out a pair of polyester pants perfectly does require a lot of hard work, dedication, and skill.”

Once the beer is full, Lach passes it to a customer, then turns to Nora. “Yeah, that’s the most important reason why you should like baseball.”

“It’s my ‘why,’ and you don’t get to question it.” Nora flips her braid over her shoulder. “What about you, Dessa? Why do you like baseball?”

I spin the bottle of vodka upside down and pour an ounce into the shaker. I’ve been bartending since I turned twenty-one, so I can eyeball a pour and only be fractions of an ounce off. We’ve tested my skills many times at the bar since no one believes me. It’s a great bar trick that gets customers to buy shots. “Who said I like baseball?”

“Um, the baseball earrings and Minnesota shirt you wore all baseball season kind of gave it away,” Nora says.

“Oh.” I pause. “Like Lach said, I’m a fan for the hard work and dedication.” Grabbing a bottle of coconut rum, I pour it into the shaker. I was once a fan of the baseball pants, but now they remind me of Garrett. Throughout our junior year of high school, he would always make sure there was a seat for me behind home plate, giving methe perfect view as he practically did squats on the field. Back then, I had a thing for baseball pants. Right now, baseball pants can suck it, along with the catchers who wear them.

“I'm not sure what you’re making, but with that much alcohol, I’d think you’re trying to take down an entire baseball team,” Lach says as he unfolds a step stool, setting it in front of a giant chalkboard drink menu hanging on the wall and climbs the three steps.

His voice pulls me from my baseball pants thoughts. “Shit.” I set the bottle of rum on the bar and stare at the shaker with four more ounces of liquor than I wanted.

“Distracted by baseball pants. It’s okay.” Nora pushes off the bar. “It happens to the best of us. In fact, I firmly believe the invention of baseball pants was intended to attract women to the sport. Spoiler alert: it worked.”

I twist my head to face Nora as she saunters to the opposite end of the bar.

“So, what’s the drink called?” Lach glances down at me.

While I create the drinks for the weekly menu, he writes them on the board and adds fancy doodles to go with them. I peer over my shoulder, the chalk marcher scritches above me while he finishes shading in the letters of the saying, “Have you met my friends Barley and Hops?”

“I don’t know, since I screwed it up. Maybe there won’t be a fresh drink this week.” I throw my hands in the air and let them fall to my sides as my bottom lip juts out. Seeing Garrett on TV must have flustered me. That’s the only logical explanation why my concentration is nonexistent. I dump half of the alcohol into another shaker and some pineapple juice into the first shaker. I shove the lid on top and give it a couple of shakes before Ipour the liquid into five shot glasses and pass them to a few customers sitting at the bar. “Fruit cocktail shots.”

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