Page 53 of On the Plus Side
“Finally,” he said. “I was about to order without you two. What are we getting?”
“A Sour Candy. They’re a Harry’s staple. It’s like drinking a Jolly Rancher.” It was also extremely easy to lose count of how many you’d had. Which was exactly what Everly needed tonight. No time for the slow burn of sipping a frosé.
Stanton’s mouth made an O of intrigue. “Can they make them virgin? Because I can’t deal with a hangover.”
“Ugh, same,” Jazzy added. “I have to drive to New Hampshire in the morning and I’m not doing that rocking a headache.”
“I don’t see why not,” Everly said. “But make sure mine is plenty boozed up.” She was not surviving this night without at least a buzz.
They laughed. Jazzy leaned her ample breasts on the bar to get the bartender’s attention, and in less than five seconds she was ordering.
“Only Jazzy Germaine can order two virgins and no one blinks an eye,” Stanton joked.
Jazzy tossed her hair over her shoulder. “What can I say, I’m a goddess, baby.”
Stanton snapped his fingers in support.
Before their drinks had fully hit the bar, Everly seized hers and sucked it down in three big sips. Her lips puckered for a second, then the sweet lemon-lime taste took over.
Jazzy cocked an eyebrow.
“Liquid courage.” Everly was going to need it, too, because as she looked up, she spied James’s tall frame bobbing through the crowd in their direction. Panic swelled in her chest.
“Jazzy, use your boobs again.” Everly tapped her arm. “I need a shot of something strong, please.”
Two seconds later, she had one in hand.
Everly didn’t see the label on the bottle so she wasn’t sure what the bartender had poured, but its scent burned the inside of her nose as soon as she lifted it to her mouth.
“Wait, let’s get this on camera.” Jazzy angled her phone above them and squeezed beside Everly. “Our girl, Everly, has survived almost four weeks of filming, so we’re blowing off some steam. Here goes nothing!”
Jazzy grabbed her second virgin Sour Candy and the two of them tapped their glasses lightly on the bar as they counted off: four, three, two, one. When Everly knocked her shot back, Jazzy and Stanton cheered.
Except Everly missed her mouth by a good five inches.
As she’d raised her drink to her lips, Logan appeared, the light on his camera already aglow. At the same time, James sidled up to Jazzy’s right. In her surprise, Everly tipped the glass too early, splashing her chin and chest with amber liquid.
“Fuck.” Now she was going to smell like a gas station all night.
“Everly.”
“I know. Another one to bleep out. I’m sorry.” She paused in fussing with the wet spot on her shirt long enough to peer up at Logan. She expected to see that expression he wore whenever she messed up a take, a potent mix of frustration and exhaustion. Instead, there was a small smile on his face and a pile of napkins in his hand.
He wasn’t teasing her or filming her or giving her a lecture. He was just being nice.
For whatever reason, in that moment, drowning as she was in the caustic smell of grain alcohol, his kindness pushed her over the edge. With her heart in her throat and her brain screaming to find a suitable hiding spot, Everly fled for the bathroom. The one place at Harry’s Logan couldn’t follow.
She scrubbed her face, neck, and chest raw with paper towels that pilled against her shirt, leaving a dusting of white specks across the already damp fabric.
Shaking her head, Everly sighed at her reflection. She was a mess. She still smelled like booze, she’d washed half her foundation and bronzer off, and thanks to the wet stains on her cranberry blouse she appeared to be lactating. There was nothing to do now but fluff her hair in the mirror, reapply the lip gloss Jazzy had given her, and commit to drinking so much she didn’t remember any of this tomorrow.
As if he could read Everly’s mind, Stanton had two shots waiting for her when she got back. One was red like a strawberry, the other seemed to be whiskey. He flourished a hand at the tiny glasses. “The boys bought you a few drinks to make up for your… accident.” He placed the amber one in front of her. “James got you some Southern Comfort.”
Everly tossed it down her throat with one flick of her wrist, inviting a celebratory yell from James. The alcohol set her esophagus on fire—she imagined it burning away her humiliation on the way down.
“And Logan got you a Strawberry Bomb.”
She flicked her gaze to him—or, more aptly, to the camera—and knocked the shot back. It tasted like someone had melted those strawberry candies Grandma Helen always used to carry.
