Kiss My Cupcake(19)

I rap on the bar top. “Anyway, back to live bands. Won’t we need sound equipment for that?”

“Yeah, but I have two sets at home, so I can bring one to keep here if you want. Most bands have their own equipment, but they’re not all created equal.” He smirks. “Plus, we can host a karaoke night. Everyone thinks they’re a singer when they’re drunk.”

“Hell yes, they do,” I agree. And I can just imagine Alice in Wonderland throwing an epic fit over it.

“Look at how excited you are.” Lars mirrors what I’m assuming is my wide smile. “You win this thing and you definitely better credit me with some of the ideas, man.”

“It’s a long shot. Literally hundreds of bars have been nominated.”

“Yeah, but this one has history and a great story. I vote we start posting about our grandparents. Tori Taylor ships pretty much every famous couple out there.”

I frown, feeling like I’m missing something. “Ships what?”

“She’s always posting about couple goals. Anyways, it’s something else we can post about if we need to, you know, to pull in the lady crowd.”

“Right, yeah.” I don’t want to have to worry about things like couple goals and romance. I just want laid-back and easygoing. A nice chilled-out environment where people come and drink pints and enjoy conversation or sports or whatever, as opposed to my uptight neighbor and her perfect prissy cupcakes and fruity drinks. “I’ll get some graphics made so we can start promoting the live band. You think this Saturday will work for you?”

“Yeah man, I can get the guys together for Saturday.”

“And you’ll be ready to perform?”

The bell over the door chimes, and a group of women who look to be in their early twenties walk in.

“I was born ready.” Lars winks and turns to the group of women. “Evening, ladies. Looking thirsty.”

I shake my head and leave him to his flirting. It’s after seven and I have yet to make a stop next door for my daily dose of sweet and sour. My neighbor might be an annoying pain in the ass, but those cupcakes are addictive. I’m starting to wonder if they’re laced with something.

I stop by every night before closing—she shuts down around nine, but stays open later on Friday and Saturday. It has to make for insanely long days for her. But her hours aren’t my problem. Besides, I pull long days, too.

I nab a coupon from behind the bar. “I’ll be back in a few,” I call out as I pass Lars chatting up the group of women who now span the four barstools directly in front of the draft taps.

He tips his chin up at me and goes back to checking IDs as I push through the door and step outside in the waning evening sunshine. It’s still warm and balmy for early September. I miss the nights where I used to have time to sit outside on my balcony and enjoy watching the sun set. Now I’m always here, at the bar, watching the light fade through the windows.

I’ll get that back someday, though. For now, I remind myself that there’s a bigger plan and a few missed sunsets aren’t the end of the world if I’m able to pursue my dream.

When I was young—in my teens, and long before I was of legal drinking age—my dad used to dabble in home brewing. I learned from a very early age to appreciate the science behind creating superior craft beers. It had always been a hobby for my dad and somewhere along the way it became a passion for me. Now, aside from my grandfather, it’s the final connection I have with my dad, the one thing I don’t want to give up, especially as the memories of him continue to fade.

For a while money mattered more than dreams, but when Grams passed, it shifted my perspective. I needed the memories to stay fresh and I needed time with Gramps, so here I am.

I glance up at the sign I had custom made, expensive but worth it. Your storefront is your main source of advertising for passersby, and the more alluring it is the more likely people are to come in. I snicker as I pass Alice in Wonderland’s sidewalk sign. Today it reads: DON’T BE BITTER. TREAT YOURSELF TO SOMETHING SWEET!

I open the door and survey the shop. Despite it being a Tuesday, the café is busy, almost every table occupied by latte-and martini-drinking women. In the corners, young couples huddle, their textbooks lying open but ignored as their owners pick at cupcakes, their feet intertwined under the tables while they flirt.

Alice-Blaire is behind the counter, hands propped on her hips, bottom lip caught between her teeth. Her dress is pale pink with a huge rainbow swirl lollipop print. The skirt flares wide; obviously there’s some kind of material underneath to make it so…poofy. It accentuates her lush, curvy figure. Her hair is pulled into some kind of intricate up-do, making her look like she’s stepped straight off the set of a fifties-era sitcom. She sure is an interesting woman.

Her head turns and her welcoming smile turns saccharine. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite neighbor.” She bats her lashes. “I’ve been expecting you.”

My own grin widens with genuine happiness. For reasons I don’t quite understand, part of me really enjoys the daily dose of snark I get from Blaire.

“Miss me, then?” I lean on the glass display case. Yes, I’m very aware it says I shouldn’t. I’m also aware that the second I leave she’ll be out with some environmentally friendly, lemony-smelling glass cleaner, wiping away the mark my forearm leaves behind.