“Taste as many as you want, Daisy.” Oliver releases me. Motions to the left side of the row. “I arranged them most bitter, to most sweet.”
“Give me the one on the right.” Holden laughs. “You know I can’t take bitterness.”
“How’d you deal with your brother for so long?” he teases.
Holden just laughs. “That was easy. It was being friends with Chase—”
“He and Ariel seem really happy.” I turn to Holden. “What’s it like, having a niece? She’s so cute.”
“Don’t get ideas,” Oliver says. “You’re too young.”
Does he really think I’m going to jump to getting pregnant because I saw a cute kid? I’m not sure I ever want kids. I certainly don’t want any now. It’s hard enough taking care of myself. “I’m not even—what time is it?”
Oliver pulls out his cell. Brandishes the time. A quarter to eleven.
God is it really that late? My mind is racing—from the caffeine and the proximity of the guy who drives me wild.
My body is buzzing. But there’s an exhaustion under all that energy.
An incoming crash.
It’s something, that I can feel that. That I’m in touch with my body enough to know. That I’m not running on caffeine and self-loathing.
More caffeine and desire.
It’s a lot better than self-loathing.
It’s so much better.
“All you need is a sip,” Oliver says.
“Really? I’m allowed even though it’s not midnight?” I ask.
“I’ll make an exception. For your birthday.” He picks up the drink on the right. Hands it to me. “You’re already eighteen in London.”
Holden chuckles okay, sure.
Neither of us calls out my brother’s hypocrisy. He drinks—and fucks—constantly, but he tries to shield me from that.
If he’s going to let up on the over-protective thing for one night, I’m not going to call him on it.
I take the drink. It’s something clear, in a martini glass, with a lemon rind hanging off the edge.
All these drinks are presented well.
I guess Oliver is an artist. Maybe it’s not about his love of alcohol. Maybe he’s going all out. For my birthday.
It’s possible.
“Dry martini,” he says. “With lemon. Not olive.” He turns to Holden. “She hates olives. Ironic, huh?”
“Dunno. She’s not crazy about you,” Holden says.
Oliver pushes him playfully.
He pushes back.
They laugh. It’s big. Hearty. Happy. Real.
Okay, here goes nothing. I hold up the glass. Toast to no one. Take a small sip.
Oh my God.
It’s so strong. Almost all alcohol. Gin, I think. Rubbing alcohol and something with pine.
Then lemon.
It’s astringent. Like over steeped tea.
Holden laughs. “It’s too much, huh?”
It’s not terrible. And, no doubt, it’s light in sugar. A good choice if panic hits me. If that voice starts whispering are you really going to drink all those calories? You have to fix that.
I’m not letting that voice in tonight.
Either, I’m knocking her out with booze. Or I’m sticking with drinks that won’t send me into panic mode.
Rum and diet really isn’t that bad.
I set the drink down. “Not my favorite.”
Oliver takes the glass. Takes a sip. “You can’t toast alone.”
I guess that’s reasonable.
“Should I call Luna?” he asks.
“No.” I shake my head. “If she’s doing her makeup—”
Oliver chuckles knowingly. “Can’t complain about the results.” His eyes fill with something—
Ew. “Don’t,” I say.
He nods of course not. Takes another sip. Motions to the second drink. “This is a gimlet. Lime and vodka. A lot like that first drink. But a little sweeter.”
“Okay,” I say.
“If you want something different.” He taps the third glass. “An old-fashioned. Quality varies. It can be fucking bliss or total shit.”
Holden nods true. “Since you made it, I’m sure it’s the latter.”
“Never get it as a well drink. Fuck, the places we’re going tonight, you’re gonna want to keep it simple. Straight booze or booze and one mixer.” He picks up the drink. Places it in my hands. “I made it pretty dry. But I can add some simple syrup if it’s too much.”
“When did you—” I take the drink. Swallow my question. Do I really want details about Oliver’s skill in fixing drinks? He did work as a bartender for a hot second. Right after he turned twenty-one.
It wasn’t that long ago, but—
Tonight isn’t about that anyway. I know, better than anyone, that you can’t help someone until they’re ready to accept it.
I hold up my drink to toast.
Oliver clinks glasses with me.
I take a long sip. Swallow hard. This one is strong too. A little less strong. With more sweetness, more richness, a hint of orange. “Shit.”
“You like it?” His eyes light up. “Yeah?”
“I do. But it’s… a lot.” I take another sip. A smaller one. There’s something appealing about the rich flavor. It’s almost spicy. Like tea.
“Try this.” He finishes his martini. Places the glass on the counter. Picks up another drink.
It’s a shade darker, and it’s in a different glass. One with a round bottom. Like something a super villain sips as he recounts an evil plan.