worked in a liquor store, stocking shelves and operating a cash register for a living, for what, just above minimum wage? Because he got to talk to her in that liquor store, and possibly flirt with her while he sold her a bottle of vodka, while you couldn’t pay me enough to walk into a liquor store. Or any store.
“You know, this was the official vodka of the Rolling Stones’ fiftieth anniversary tour,” she informed me. “Have I convinced you yet?”
“We’ll see.”
She handed me a shot and a pickle, looking happily undaunted.
“This dude really saw you coming, huh?”
“I mean, I may have been wearing several skulls.” She stood above me, lifting her shot and her pickle ceremoniously. “Wait. Do we do a Russian cheer or a Canadian cheer?”
“I don’t speak Russian, so…”
“What is that nosto-vitia thing Russian gangsters say in movies when they drink? Nosdro-vee-ah? Nos-do-via?”
“I think that’s just in movies.”
“You’re leaving me hanging here.”
“Alright,” I said. “To your good health.”
“Is drinking straight vodka healthy?”
“The pickle adds nutrients. I think.” I tipped my shot glass at her, accidentally spilling a bit of my vodka. She gave me a dirty look like I was cheating on purpose. Then we sank our chilled shots.
I bit into my pickle as the cold burn went down my throat.
Taylor popped the end of her pickle in her mouth and sucked on it tentatively. Then she bit through the crunchy skin and ate off a chunk. We eyed each other, neither of us revealing a reaction.
“Did you ever try that shot-of-rye-followed-by-a-shot-of-pickle-juice thing that went through Vancouver last year?” she asked me.
“Nope. Sounds gross.”
“You know, it really was.”
“That was a thing?”
“Yup. ‘Hipster’s delight’ or some shit.”
I handed her my empty shot glass with a short laugh. “Really?”
She grinned. “I have no idea what it was called. It was all the rage at parties. And by parties I mean hipster knitting circles, book clubs and baking exchanges.” Her eyes met mine, and maybe she realized as the words came out of her mouth that I wouldn’t know that, because I never went to parties, of any kind.
“I didn’t know ladies at knitting circles drank liquor shots.”
“They do when they’re twenty-nine.”
“I had no idea you belonged to any of the aforementioned social happenings.”
“I don’t. I have friends who tell me these things. I’m not a joiner.”
“Me either,” I said humorlessly.
She tipped her head, like, Why you gotta be self-deprecating like that?
I really hoped she didn’t think she had to be antisocial, or pretend she was antisocial, on my account—as much as I was definitely jealous of her life outside this house. Even if it involved knitting circles.
“Anyway, this is way better,” she added, picking up the vodka bottle and changing the subject. I could already tell she was getting protective of me that way. Steered us clear of topics that might make me feel bad. “I hate rye. Tastes like vomit to me. Maybe because I experienced so much of it in reverse while throwing it up in my teenage years?”
I cocked an eyebrow.
“Too much information?” she asked, as she poured us out more shots.
“Nope. I prefer you uncensored.”
“That’s good. Because when have I ever censored myself while we’ve had a conversation?” She handed me my next shot and a pickle.
“The first several times we had a conversation.”
“Well, what was I supposed to say?” She raised her shot glass, holding my gaze. “You’re strange, but you’re hot and more interesting than anyone I’ve ever met. Please hire me, I want to see what you do all day and maybe stare at you a bit.”
“You’re strange,” I replied, shot glass in the air, “and gorgeous, and sexier than anyone I’ve ever met. Please work for me and move into my poolhouse so I can make you hang out with me all day and maybe stare at you a lot.”
Eyes still locked, we drank to that like it was a toast or something.
Then a smile crept over her face like she couldn’t help it. She broke eye contact as she collected my shot glass again. I watched as she poured out another shot. “How many of these are we drinking?”
“I mean, might as well while it’s ice-cold, right? They go down easier. When it gets too warm, we’ll stop.”
“So… you did this tradition with Gabe?”
“Yup. We all did it together, the guys in Alive. After shows, special occasions… whenever Gabe rolled it out.”
“Interesting,” she said, pausing to munch on her pickle.
“Bring that shit over here and get in the pool with