Page 238 of Banter & Blushes

THE ALMOST MOVIE STAR

C.L. RAIN

CHAPTER 1

“Ataco fell from the sky, and honestly, it felt like a divine intervention.”

Clara, my best friend and partner in crime, stops twisting the cap off the bottle of tequila. She raises an eyebrow, her expression equal parts skeptical and amused. “A taco?”

“I’m serious,” I say, making my way to the blender, which is sitting patiently on the counter, awaiting its next neon-colored victim. “One minute I’m walking across the back deck with a tray of daiquiris, the next, there’s carnitas in my hair.”

Clara leans against the bar, shaking her head. Her ponytail bobs with the motion. “Only you could get blessed by airborne Mexican food. Did it at least have guac?”

“Of course it did,” I say. “I attract premium chaos.”

“Let me guess,” Clara says, popping the tequila cap off with a satisfying click. “Some drunk dude thought it’d be funny to throw his dinner at you?”

I grab the ice bucket and scoop a generous helping into the blender. “I don’t think it was aimedatme. It was more like a cosmic offering. Like, ‘Here, Becky, have this taco. You’ve earned it.’”

Clara snorts, pouring a healthy glug of tequila into the blender with the casual precision of someone who knows exactly how much tequila people need to forget their bad vacation decisions. “Trust me, if the universe wanted to reward you, it would’ve sent nachos. Tacos are way too fragile for divine interventions.”

“You may have a point,” I admit. I grab a fistful of limes and start slicing. The scent is bright and sharp, cutting through the humid salt air that leaks in from the open windows.

The Clever Lime is alive, asit usually is in the summer. It feels cozy, despite the swarm of sunburned tourists and locals packed shoulder to shoulder. The air brings the scent of saltwater, sunscreen, and alcohol, and the sound of crashing waves filters in through the open windows, mingling with laughter, clinking glasses, and the low hum of music from the speakers. It’s hectic, but it’s home.

This place has been in my family for three generations, and despite the barstools being older than I am and the fact that we still use a handwritten chalkboard menu, people love it. Or maybe they just love the ocean view.

Behind the bar, there’s a shelf crammed with mismatched mugs—everything from chipped diner cups to mugs shaped like flamingos. It started as a weird tradition with my grandpa, who let customers leave behind their “lucky mugs” for a free drink. Now, people bring them in on purpose, hoping to get their mug added to the Wall of Fame. It’s ridiculous, but somehow, it works.

Through the window, I can see the waves lapping against the shore like lazy applause. A couple walks by holding hands. She’s got a sunburned nose. He’s wearing socks with sandals. Vacationers.

Clara glances at the door. “Heads up. Incoming.”

I don’t have to look. I already hear the voice. Loud. Male. Trying too hard. Probably just discovered he can grow facial hair. I brace myself and turn.

“Hey beautiful,” the guy says.

His shirt is open halfway down his chest and his sunglasses are on indoors. He leans on the bar like he’s in a commercial for something I wouldn’t buy.

I keep slicing the limes.

“You make that lemonade yourself, sweetheart?” He nods at the blender.

“It’s not lemonade,” I reply, keeping my tone neutral. "What can I get you?"

He blinks rapidly in a manner I guess is meant to come across as charming. “I’m looking for something strong and sweet. Something colorful."

I raise an eyebrow. "Trying to impress your friends?"

He grins like he thinks we’re flirting. Which we are not.

“My drink order or your vibe?” he says, voice dipped in what he clearly believes is seduction but actually sounds like someone trying to sell cologne out of the trunk of a car.

Internally, I groan.

Not again. This is the third one today who thinks “vibe” is a compliment.

I glance at Clara, who’s pretending to rearrange the lemons but is absolutely listening. She once described this look I’m giving her as my “do I have to?” face. I think I perfected it sometime in my early twenties, right around the fifth guy who asked if I wanted to “sneak off to see the stars”.

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