Dashing Through the No (Summersweet Island #3) - Tara Sivec Page 0,7
of SIG tonight.
“When are you and Bodhi going to tie the knot?”
“Has he proposed yet?”
“Do I smell babies in your future?”
What you’re smelling is my brain melting every time you ask me a stupid question like that, Margaret.
Or it’s quite possibly the paper snowflake I just ripped from the fishing line hanging down from the ceiling right above my head and am now holding over a red jar candle surrounded by holly leaves, letting the candle’s flickering flame eat away at the stupid decoration. I feel a tad calmer once the paper snowflake is incinerated into ash inside the jar, just like I always do when I light something on fire that annoys me and it instantly disappears. And since I can’t exactly light everyone in this room on fire, the shit hanging above my head that I have to keep smacking out of the way as I make drinks for people all night will have to do.
“Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” is playing from the sound system, people are enjoying the Christmas cocktails I’ve been churning out all night, and they’re all happily dressed in their best and gaudiest Christmas sweaters. This is a time of great joy and happiness, and I look around the room and just want to burn it all to the ground. It’s not that I hate Christmas, exactly; I’m just more annoyed than normal this year, and it’s all my boyfriend’s fault, so he has to die. Repeatedly and tragically.
“Heads up!”
Even though I’m distracted and in a shit mood, my reflexes are still spot on. My hand flies out to catch the small foam Santa stress ball that just came flying at me from across the room. I carefully toss it back high over the heads of guests to my nephew-through-friendship, Owen, before popping the top off a bottle of beer and sliding it over to Gina from Starboard Sweets.
The only good thing about bartending this Christmas party, aside from the extra money, is that all of my friends are in attendance and I get to see them while I work. Palmer and Birdie have been wrapped around each other in a corner, sucking face all night in between talking everyone’s ears off about their wedding plans. Shepherd has been taking last-minute Christmas orders for his stupid shirts covered in glitter. Wren and Owen have been playing catch with the stress balls they gave out as party favors. Laura, Birdie and Wren’s mom, has been juggling two dates all night, who still aren’t aware they’re both on a date with the same woman. Murphy keeps getting yelled at for turning the Christmas music off because it gives him a headache, and now he’s over by the hors d’oeuvres table handing a kid an entire plate of cookies after making him cry. And Emily has been teaching everyone the “Jingle Bell Rock” dance from Mean Girls. So, pretty much just your typical Friday night on Summersweet Island.
“Jeanine Char just told me the news about Bodhi meeting his unfortunate demise when a squirrel jumped out of the Christmas tree he cut down and chewed off his carotid artery.”
For the first time tonight, I smile when Birdie slides her empty glass across the top of the bar for me to refill. Not only is she my BFF, and seeing her always puts me in a better mood, but she’s the only person in this room tonight wearing a ridiculous Christmas sweater that I approve of. It just has two giant red and green Christmas ornaments on it and says Balls in pretty cursive lettering.
“Oh, good, that one’s getting some traction. That squirrel one’s my favorite,” I tell her as I remove the clear plastic Christmas ornament from inside the glass of melted ice, toss it into the trash, and dump out the water. “You want another Jingle Ball cocktail?”
She nods emphatically, and I get to work making Birdie her signature Christmas cocktail that coincidentally goes perfectly with her sweater—pine-infused vodka, soda water, and cranberry juice garnished with a sprig of pine and a few frozen cranberries. All served inside a clear plastic Christmas ball with a red-and-white straw coming out of the ornament’s opening at the top, nestled into a glass filled with ice.
“Another Jingle Ball cocktail for the woman who never shuts up about her fiancé’s balls,” I announce to Birdie as I slide her finished drink across the bar top to her.
I haven’t come up with a signature cocktail for all of my loved ones