Page 3 of Don't Go
“That’s too much.” I let him know.
“Take it.”
“Sir— ”
“Please. I’m not gonna feel right walking away if you don’t take it.”
I didn't drag the conversation and took it.
He nodded once and picked up the second glass. This time, he drank more slowly. After setting the empty glass on a coaster, he turned and disappeared into the crowd.
Good luck. Whoever you're trying to talk to, good luck.
I didn't believe in luck. I tucked the forty into my apron and squared my shoulders.
The auction was starting.
A woman at a podium near the front was reading from a card. “Lot fourteen, a vertical of Opus One, vintages spanning 2012 through 2018, bidding to commence at five thousand dollars.” A paddle went up. “Five thousand. Do I hear seven? Seven thousand from the gentleman in the back. Do I hear eight? Eight thousand—nine, ten, eleven. Do I hear twelve? Twelve thousand, fifteen?—”
The numbers kept climbing. They climbed past my rent for a year. They climbed past the deductible on the surgery I couldn't get scheduled before late autumn, and a man in a tuxedo raised his paddle and bought six bottles of wine for the price of a small car, and the room clapped politely.
I stood behind the bar and pulled my lips back from my teeth. It probably looked like a smile to anyone not paying attention.
My phone buzzed in my apron.
Mrs. Park
Dinner ate, meds taken. She's watching the show with Pickles. She says hi and tell the rich people to share.
I almost laughed out loud.Sabrina. Sabrina. Don't cackle at your phone behind a bar at a wine auction. It’s not normal.
I tapped a quick reply.
Sabrina
Tell her I love her.
I put the phone away.
That was when he sat down.
I clocked him before he'd made eye contact. The suit alone would've done it—charcoal, expensive without announcing itself, cut to his shoulders. His hair was light brown and looked like he'd run a hand through it on purpose. He was clean-shaven, smelled good, and looked, frankly, like a man doors opened for.
He raised one finger without looking at me. "Negroni. Light on the Campari, half ounce of Punt e Mes instead of the Carpano, orange peel expressed and dropped, no cherry."
I stared at him and tilted my head.
Who the hell orders a drink like that?
I made it.
I made it specifically to spec because I was a professional, and if you make it wrong on purpose, it just gives them more to talk about. I slid it across.
He picked it up, sniffed it, and took a sip. Then paused for a second.
His gaze drifted to the side, lips parted a fraction before he breathed out slowly.
"I'm sorry. I think—could I get that again? I said half an ounce. I think you went a little heavy on the Punt e Mes. And the orange peel—you expressed it, but I think I'd rather—I'd rather have it on the rim, actually. Not dropped."
