Page 29 of Make My Heart Malt

“Have you been in contact with him?”

The ice clinks in my glass as I swirl it, mostly to busy myself with… anything. “We’ve always remained acquaintances with the occasional small talk, but it’s not like I’m running off whispering all my deepest, darkest secrets to him.”

“So you can’t say he’s changed either.”

“I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt. What kind of person would marry someone they didn’t love?”

“I want to say my brother, because that’s exactly something he would do.”

“I still think you’re wrong.” I flip through the pages of my recipe notebook, searching for the next drink to make.

“When you said that was full, you weren’t kidding.” He nods at the notebook.

“It’s kind of like my version of a diary. While some people write breakup songs, I created breakup drinks.” I smile at him.

“How many are about me?” He smirks.

“We never dated, so I never made any about you.”

“With all the hostility you’re throwing my way, I’m sure there’s one or two.”

I continue thumbing through the tattered pages, a smirk on my lips.

“I know that look. That’s the ‘you’re right, but I’m not telling’ look.”

I stop flipping pages and lift my gaze to his. “I don’t have a look.”

He drops his hands to the counter. “Yes, you do. Youget the little half smile and your eyebrow twitches. Tell me I’m wrong.”

I rub the twitch out of my eyebrow. I hate he knows me so well. Even after all the years away he can still read me like an open book. Always has. Apparently still can.

I roll my eyes. “Whatever. Fine. Perhaps there's a drink or two named after you.” Or seven, but I don’t tell him that.

His eyes light up as if I’m giving him the secret to eternal youth. “Show me one.”

“A drink?”

“Yeah. Make it. Let me taste your disdain for me.”

I laugh. “Alright. Let me find one.” The swooshing of paper fills the air between us as I thumb through the pages, looking for the perfect one. “I got it.” This was three years after he left and had his phone number changed. It was then when I finally gave up.

“What’s it called?”

“Runaway.”

He laughs. “Alright.”

I pour us both a shot of tequila, squirt the lime juice inside, and slide his to him.

“That’s it?”

“Yeah. It’s kind of like a sucker punch in the gut. Kind of like when your best friend leaves without saying goodbye.”

He raises his shot glass, and I do the same.

“Well, here’s to runaways getting a second chance.”

I clink my shot glass with his and we both throw back the liquid. The tequila burns as it slides down my throat. My entire body shivers from the earthy flavor and tart lime as a wave of warmth flows from my belly to my cheeks. I shake my head and push off the counter. A sea of fuzziness floats through my head. I grab a bottle of vodka and pourtwo shots into a shaker along with blackberry schnapps. Next, I combine the other ingredients into the shaker along with some ice and give it a shake. I remove the cap and pour the cocktail into a lowball, the deep red liquid glinting in the dim light.

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