Page 60 of Good as Gold
“Get that tap?” my father’s voice asks.
“On it,” he replies easily.
“We got a long line again,” my father complains. “Where’s Leila?”
“Just unpacking the cups,” he says. “I’m sure she’ll be here in a second.”
Nope. I’m going to need a moment. I take several deep, calming breaths.
I’m only half as nervous, but I’m twice as eager, and there are still many hours to go.
I take another shaky breath, then I make myself duck around to the wagon’s door and climb in.
* * *
The next couple of hours seem to last forever. Matteo and I work side by side, barely speaking, save for words like “two Goldenrods” and “two cups, please.”
He’s working as hard as a soldier in battle, and I can hardly keep up. My mind keeps straying to that kiss and wondering when I can get another one.
Luckily the beer runs out before the festival ends. “That was exhausting,” my father complains as we begin to break down the wagon and pack the truck. “How about this—you two finish cleaning up, and you can split the tip jar.”
“It’s not really my money,” I say quickly.
“Sure it is,” Matteo insists as he faces a stack of bills. “You drove out here to bring us supplies and stayed to help. Lyle, here’s your bank deposit. I’m changing out the tips for twenties, though, so I don’t have to buy groceries with singles, like a stripper.”
My father laughs as he takes the cash pouch. “All right. Good work today. Tomorrow I’ll send Otto a bottle of scotch for convincing you to stick around this summer.”
This summer. “The whole summer?” I squeak.
They both turn to look at me. “Yeah,” my dad says, hitching up his pants. “He’s going to run the wagon all over Vermont for us. It’s good promo and very profitable, too.”
“I was going to mention that,” Matteo says, yanking the elastic out of his hair and sending dark waves tumbling to his shoulders. “Slipped my mind. Here’s your split of the tip jar.”
My mind is still stuck on having Matteo around all summer. I take the bills numbly, but then notice it’s quite a stack. “Wait—how much did you just hand me?”
“Just over four hundred bucks,” he says, untying his apron.
I look down at the wad of money. “Really?”
He shrugs. “People like to tip hardworking bartenders, almost as much as they like your family’s beer.”
“They even like to overpay for the mass-market crap in bottles,” my dad says with a sniff.
“Spoken like a true beer snob,” I mutter.
“You say that like it’s an insult. Later, kids.” My dad gives us a mock salute. “I’m going home to catch the hockey playoffs.”
“Have a good evening,” Matteo says cheerfully.
And just like that, we’re alone.
All alone.
“You hungry?” Matteo asks.
“Definitely,” I say in an overheated voice. And then I realize he meant forfood.
“All right.” His smile understands my mistake. “You mind stopping for takeout on the way home? I’ve got to drop off the wagon and Otto’s truck. I can meet you at your place.”
