Jaime bumps into Carson from behind in a way that feels aggressive. Carson once told Willa she wasn’t pretty and Willa had gotten the same expression on her face that Jaime has now—shock, hurt, resignation. With Willa, it wasn’t quite as bad. Willa was pretty, just not as pretty as Carson. This, maybe, had been at the heart of their sister conflict. At one Christmas Stroll when Willa and Carson were twelve and nine, a group of women in full-length fur coats had approached them, exclaiming about how gorgeous Carson was. Exquisite. Pretty enough to model. Someone get this kid an agent! Carson had loved the compliments, but she’d been self-conscious about Willa. Why hadn’t the women said anything about Willa? Once the ladies moved on, Carson turned to Willa and said, “You’re pretty too.” Willa had slapped Carson right across the face, sending Carson’s cocoa flying out of her hand; it landed on the brick sidewalk and detonated in a hot-chocolate-and-whipped-cream explosion. Carson just picked the cup up and threw it away. She knew, somehow, that she’d deserved it.
The gentlemen order a third round of kamikaze shots—they’re on an actual kamikaze mission, it seems—and then a fourth. Although four shots is where Carson should draw the line with herself, if not with them, she throws hers back. Then Brock Sheltingham asks for the check and when she slaps it down, he says, “How about a kiss?”
The question is outrageous. Has this dude not heard of #MeToo? Does he not know that women are no longer to be messed with? Carson can see the other so-called gentlemen watching Brock with barely suppressed alarm and maybe also delight. He’s showing off. Okay, then, Carson thinks. She pulls Brock forward by the front of his beautiful, expensive shirt and lays on one hell of a kiss with tongue, a kiss old Brock can’t handle; he’ll be tenting the front of his trousers when she’s done with him. The gentlemen are cheering and Carson guesses that the rest of the bar is starting to take notice and that probably a few phones are out. She milks it for another second or two, sending a psychic message to Zach: At least someone wants to kiss me! Carson could easily take this guy as a sugar daddy; she could wear Balenciaga and travel in private jets. No more Cape Air flights for Carson!
She lets Brock go. The gentlemen cheer, and she runs the card.
Jamey （boy） comes over and says, “Do you know that guy? Is he your boyfriend or something?”
“My uncle,” she says.
The look on Jamey’s face is priceless but Carson can’t maintain a straight face. “Kidding. He’s just a customer.”
Four kamikaze shots have gotten her seriously buzzed.
Two Whale’s Tales, vodka soda, vodka tonic, Mount Gay and tonic, Diet Coke （Carson looks up to make sure that isn’t Pamela）， margarita, no salt. Carson handles the orders but her head is swimming; she’s sloppy with the soda gun. Bartending isn’t a job that can be done well while intoxicated.
She lassos Jamey （boy） and says, “Cover me for a minute, please, bruh. I’ll be right back.”
She’s not drunk, but she’s not sober. She neglected to eat today—no smoothie, no bagel—which was why the espresso hit so hard and why she’s spinning now. She needs to clear her head and make it through her shift, then she can go home and rage against the machine, the machine being love.
She’s not quite all the way in the bathroom stall when she pulls out her vial of cocaine. She sits on the toilet and bumps, then bumps again, not realizing that the stall door is hanging open and that someone is watching her and that the someone is Jaime until it’s too late.
Jaime walks out of the ladies’ room without a word. Carson stuffs the cocaine down into her purse—no, that’s not good enough, she needs to throw it away, but she can’t bring herself to throw it away. Jaime won’t tell, she’s too chickenshit, and even if she does tell, it’s Jaime’s word against Carson’s.
Carson strides out to the bar, shoulders back, beaming. Jamey looks relieved to see her. He says, “There’s stuff on your nose.”
“Thanks, now piss off,” Carson says, and she runs the back of her hand under her nostrils.
Vodka tonic, planter’s punch, sauvignon blanc. Carson is pulling a fresh bottle of Matua from the minifridge when she sees a pair of legs. Carson’s eyes travel up. It’s Nikki.
“George wants to see you in his office,” she says.
“Now?” Carson says. “I’m busy.”
“Now,” Nikki says.
It’s not true Jaime is holding a grudge about something I said earlier, my boyfriend broke up with me, my mother is dead, it will never happen again, I’ll do whatever you want me to do, I’ll go to a program, see a therapist, just please don’t fire me.