Page 1 of Uxpectedly Ever After

I've never understood people who can't keep their shit together.

"Vodka soda, two whiskey neats, and a margarita with no salt," I repeat back to Mr. Wall Street with his watch that costs more than an entire year of my student loans and his eyes that never quite reach my face. It’s because they’re on my boobs, but I like to think he’s got a small dick and this is the most action he’ll get this month.

See? Keeping my shit together. Snapping at the guy’s only going to mean losing out on tip money, I need more than my dignity.

He barely nods before turning back to his friends, but I couldn't care less. The less interaction, the better.

Friday nights at Ember are always pure chaos. I can't mix cocktails fast enough, and despite the upscale vibe of our trendy Portland bar, these suited professionals turn into animals after their third-ish drink. My hands fly over bottles and shakers and glasses and ice so fast, I don’t even have time to think. Good thing all I need is muscle memory.

My fingers are sweaty, and the margarita glass slips in my grip. I grit my teeth and flex my fingers to hold on. They ache, but I save the potential disaster at the last second. I’m tired as hell, and not as sharp as I should be after the double shifts I've pulled all week. But I’ll rest when I’m dead. There’s no time for weakness or sleep when you’ve got goals as big as mine.

"Your eye’s doing that twitchy thing again," Navy says as she slides past me behind the bar, her electric blue hair tips catching in the light. "The one that only happens when you’re in your 'I'm running on fumes and spite' era."

I touch the corner of my eye reflexively. Yep, it’s totally twitching. "It is not."

"You know I have eyes, right?” She grabs three bottles of tequila without looking, her movements so graceful it's annoying. "When's the last time you had fun? And making to-do lists doesn’t count."

"Wednesday." I lean forward to deliver drinks to Wall Street and flash him my pay-my-rent smile. He adds an extra five to the tab, his eyes dropping momentarily to my not-at-all-sluttily-displayed cleavage before I straighten up. What can I say? The system works. "I alphabetized my spice rack by region and cuisine. You have no idea how satisfying that was."

Navy's laugh follows me down the bar. "God, you're hopeless. You need to get laid before your vagina seals shut."

"No, what I need is to pass Business Analytics," I counter, already mixing a Manhattan for a woman in a killer dress who's been waiting with the patience of someone who knows what it's like on this side of the bar. "My final project is due Monday. I have quarterly projections with Theo tomorrow, and somewhere in all of that, I need to do laundry because I'm officially down to my emergency underwear."

"Emergency underwear?" Navy perks up. "Please tell me it's something slinky and black you've been saving for a special occasion. Like…" She taps her black tipped finger against her lips as she pours a draft beer one-handed. “Getting railed in the bathroom at work by one of these random suits.”

I snort. "It's the five-pack of ugly briefs I got at Target because I keep putting off laundry day." I slide the Manhattan across the bar with a genuine smile. The woman winks at me andI sigh. She’s who I want to be when I grow up. Someone with tons of confidence who knows exactly what she’s worth. People don’t walk away from a woman like that.

For the next three hours, it’s just me and the booze and the neckline of my tank top getting progressively lower and lower as people get drunker and looser with their wallets.C’mon, douchebags. Give up your money. Mama needs to open her bar.

I pour, shake, and serve on repeat until my brain feels like it’s been through a blender. My mental to-do list scrolls on a loop while I try to figure out a plan for how I’m going to get it all done over the next forty-eight hours: four-hour study sesh minimum (kill me now) to prep for my final, tackle laundry mountain, go on a journey to the grocery store (this is literally what it feels like to me, a whole-ass epic quest), do enough meal prep so I don’t die of starvation this coming week, and of course, the inventory spreadsheet, which might be the only thing I’m actually looking forward to. Maybe if I skip breakfast tomorrow (because who needs food?), I can cram in another hour of Business Analytics before my meeting with my boss.

By the time the last stumbling, slurring mess of a human finally clears out, my feet feel like they’re bleeding. I must look about eighty with the way I’m hobbling around while I close out the register.

We crushed our previous Friday night record, and despite how exhausted I am, I get a little rush knowing it was the changes I’ve implemented that did it. That quarterly bonus might just be enough to toss another sad little crumb into the gaping maw of my "Clover's Bar" fund. Five years of this grind, and I'm still just inching my way to freedom, but goddammit, Iwillmake it happen.

"Alright, that’s it. Operation: Get Clover Laid and Slightly Less Stressed is a go." Navy leans against the sticky, liquor-soaked back bar, already changed into her non-work clothes inskin-tight jeans and a crop top that barely contains her awesome octopus tattoo—those tentacles look like they’re climbing up and down her torso and I’m kinda jealous she was brave enough to get it. "We’re going dancing. Right now."

"Are you high?" I keep wrestling with the mountain of cash from the register and the pile of rubber bands beside it, not even glancing up at her insane suggestion. "Some of us have actual adulting to do and can’t afford to be hungover or sleep until two tomorrow.”

"All of us have responsibilities. Some of us just remember we're twenty-six, not dead." Navy yanks the elastic from my messy bun, and my dyed-black hair tumbles down around my shoulders, suddenly making me feel even grungier. When did I last wash my hair? Three days ago? Four? Shit, I can’t remember. "Live a little, Clover. The world won't spontaneously combust if you have fun for one damn night."

"My Business Analytics grade might." I swat her hand away, wincing as a sharp pain shoots through my aching wrist. "Besides, I look like I rolled around out back behind the dumpster. I’m sweaty and gross."

"You look like a hardworking bartender who deserves tequila and some no-strings-attached fun to work out those kinks. Besides, you’ll only get sweatier when you dance, so no one will notice." Her eyebrows do a suggestive wiggle. “Lucky for you, tequila’s the first step and pretty soon you won’t care about the rest.”

The bell above the front door chimes, and my automatic "We're closed" is already forming on my lips. But the words die before they can escape when I see Kasen's broad frame filling the doorway, his expression tight and unreadable. My stomach plummets faster than the stock market during a crash.

"Kasen?" My brothernevershows up here at this ungodly hour, at least not without us having plans. He’s got a look on hisface I don’t like. That's his "someone's in the hospital" or "the brewery's on fire" look. "What’s wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." He tugs on his favorite black beanie, a nervous habit he’s had since we were kids. "Can't a guy just drop by to see his favorite sister?"

"I'm youronlysister, Kasen, and you're so full of shit your eyes are turning brown." I narrow my eyes at him, already bracing for bad news. "You've gotthatlook."

"What look?"

"The same look you had when you shattered Mom's favorite vase playing indoor baseball and tried to convince her the house was haunted and a ghost did it."

Navy snorts a laugh. "Alright, well, this is my cue to make like a tree and get the hell out of here." She grabs her jacket and keys. "Text me tomorrow, Clover. Or don't, if you're actually out doing something I would do. Bye Kase!"

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