Page 239 of Banter & Blushes

“Not sure what you mean by that, but I’ll tell you what. I’ll surprise you,” I say, dumping the lime wedges into the blender. “You seem like a… teal person.”

He nods like that means something to him. It doesn’t.

The blender roars to life, which conveniently drowns out whatever comeback he’s trying to offer. I throw in a handful of blueberries and a splash of curaçao for chaos. The color comes out somewhere between a bruise and a swimming pool, and he watches it spin like it’s a magic trick. I pour the drink into a hurricane glass, slap a tiny umbrella on top, and slide it across the counter.

“There you go,” I say. “It’s called The Daydream Regret.”

He hesitates. I assume he’s debating whether the umbrella garnish cancels out whatever masculinity he was trying to project.

Finally, he lifts the glass in a mock toast. “To unexpected pleasures.”

Buddy. This is a daiquiri, not a metaphysical awakening.

Clara chokes on a laugh and pretends to sneeze into the towel. I love her.

The guy takes a good, masculine sized gulp—whatever that means—and we both wait.

Three, two, one?—

“Hey,” he calls, holding the drink up like I might not recognize it. “Is this supposed to taste like a fruit roll-up and betrayal?”

“Absolutely,” I say, without missing a beat. “Signature experience.”

He doesn’t know what to do with that, probably deciding whether to post a passive-aggressive review or just go shirtless on the beach until someone takes pity on him.

I turn my attention to the next set of glasses, pretending I don’t see him.

“So…” he says, leaning in just enough to enter my personal space bubble. “You off anytime soon? Maybe you and I could take a walk. Watch the stars. Talk about our favorite fruit-flavored drinks.”

I line up two clean tumblers like they’ve done something wrong. “Tempting, but I already promised my boyfriend I’d cry into a bowl of popcorn while rewatching vintage baking fails with him. We have a very full schedule.”

He blinks. There’s a brief moment of confusion like he’s trying to decide if I’m joking.

“Winston doesn’t like to be stood up,” I add, glancing up just long enough to meet his eyes. “He takes it personally.”

He laughs, but it’s the kind that turns into a throat clear. “Right. Got it.”

“Sorry. Just not available.” I slide the tumblers aside and start wiping the bar. It’s the universal sign for this conversation is expired.

To his credit, he doesn’t argue. He gives a sheepish little shrug like he knows the game’s over but appreciates the effort he put in.

“Guess I’ll just enjoy my fruit betrayal solo,” he says, lifting his glass with one last grin.

“You do that.” I flash a polite smile and pivot to help Clara, who’s busy shaking up a round of margaritas but somehow still manages to shoot me a look that says bless his clueless little heart.

As he wanders off, still sipping, Clara slides the shaker toward me. “Winston is your boyfriend? I didn’t know.”

I grab the shaker and give it a little spin on the bar before pouring the margaritas. “We’re in a serious situationship. He brings emotional stability and a weird snoring habit to the table. I bring snacks and a questionable taste in throw pillows.”

Clara raises an eyebrow. “Sounds intense. When’s the wedding?”

“Probably never. He’s emotionally unavailable when squirrels are involved.”

She laughs, nudging the finished drinks toward the end of the bar where a group of sunburned bachelorettes are waving like dehydrated flamingos. “You need a hobby.”

I gesture around us with both hands. “Clara, I make glitter-rimmed cocktails and deflect misguided flirtation for a living. What more do you want from me?”

“Okay, fair. But maybe just one hobby that doesn’t involve collecting coasters with bad puns on them.”

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