Page 134 of Banter & Blushes #1

“ A taco fell from the sky, and honestly, it felt like a divine intervention.”

Clara, my best friend and partner in crime, stops twisting the cap off the bottle of tequila. She raises an eyebrow, her expression equal parts skeptical and amused. “A taco?”

“I’m serious,” I say, making my way to the blender, which is sitting patiently on the counter, awaiting its next neon-colored victim. “One minute I’m walking across the back deck with a tray of daiquiris, the next, there’s carnitas in my hair.”

Clara leans against the bar, shaking her head. Her ponytail bobs with the motion. “Only you could get blessed by airborne Mexican food. Did it at least have guac?”

“Of course it did,” I say. “I attract premium chaos.”

“Let me guess,” Clara says, popping the tequila cap off with a satisfying click. “Some drunk dude thought it’d be funny to throw his dinner at you?”

I grab the ice bucket and scoop a generous helping into the blender. “I don’t think it was aimed at me. It was more like a cosmic offering. Like, ‘Here, Becky, have this taco. You’ve earned it.’”

Clara snorts, pouring a healthy glug of tequila into the blender with the casual precision of someone who knows exactly how much tequila people need to forget their bad vacation decisions.

“Trust me, if the universe wanted to reward you, it would’ve sent nachos.

Tacos are way too fragile for divine interventions. ”

“You may have a point,” I admit. I grab a fistful of limes and start slicing. The scent is bright and sharp, cutting through the humid salt air that leaks in from the open windows.

The Clever Lime is alive, as it usually is in the summer.

It feels cozy, despite the swarm of sunburned tourists and locals packed shoulder to shoulder.

The air brings the scent of saltwater, sunscreen, and alcohol, and the sound of crashing waves filters in through the open windows, mingling with laughter, clinking glasses, and the low hum of music from the speakers. It’s hectic, but it’s home.

This place has been in my family for three generations, and despite the barstools being older than I am and the fact that we still use a handwritten chalkboard menu, people love it. Or maybe they just love the ocean view.

Behind the bar, there’s a shelf crammed with mismatched mugs—everything from chipped diner cups to mugs shaped like flamingos.

It started as a weird tradition with my grandpa, who let customers leave behind their “lucky mugs” for a free drink.

Now, people bring them in on purpose, hoping to get their mug added to the Wall of Fame. It’s ridiculous, but somehow, it works.

Through the window, I can see the waves lapping against the shore like lazy applause. A couple walks by holding hands. She’s got a sunburned nose. He’s wearing socks with sandals. Vacationers.

Clara glances at the door. “Heads up. Incoming.”

I don’t have to look. I already hear the voice. Loud. Male. Trying too hard. Probably just discovered he can grow facial hair. I brace myself and turn.

“Hey beautiful,” the guy says.

His shirt is open halfway down his chest and his sunglasses are on indoors. He leans on the bar like he’s in a commercial for something I wouldn’t buy.

I keep slicing the limes.

“You make that lemonade yourself, sweetheart?” He nods at the blender.

“It’s not lemonade,” I reply, keeping my tone neutral. "What can I get you?"

He blinks rapidly in a manner I guess is meant to come across as charming. “I’m looking for something strong and sweet. Something colorful."

I raise an eyebrow. "Trying to impress your friends?"

He grins like he thinks we’re flirting. Which we are not.

“My drink order or your vibe?” he says, voice dipped in what he clearly believes is seduction but actually sounds like someone trying to sell cologne out of the trunk of a car.

Internally, I groan.

Not again. This is the third one today who thinks “vibe” is a compliment.

I glance at Clara, who’s pretending to rearrange the lemons but is absolutely listening. She once described this look I’m giving her as my “do I have to?” face. I think I perfected it sometime in my early twenties, right around the fifth guy who asked if I wanted to “sneak off to see the stars”.

“Not sure what you mean by that, but I’ll tell you what. I’ll surprise you,” I say, dumping the lime wedges into the blender. “You seem like a… teal person.”

He nods like that means something to him. It doesn’t.

The blender roars to life, which conveniently drowns out whatever comeback he’s trying to off er.

I throw in a handful of blueberries and a splash of curacao for chaos.

The color comes out somewhere between a bruise and a swimming pool, and he watches it spin like it’s a magic trick.

I pour the drink into a hurricane glass, slap a tiny umbrella on top, and slide it across the counter.

“There you go,” I say. “It’s called The Daydream Regret.”

He hesitates. I assume he’s debating whether the umbrella garnish cancels out whatever masculinity he was trying to project.

Finally, he lifts the glass in a mock toast. “To unexpected pleasures.”

Buddy. This is a daiquiri, not a metaphysical awakening.

Clara chokes on a laugh and pretends to sneeze into the towel. I love her.

The guy takes a good, masculine sized gulp—whatever that means—and we both wait.

Three, two, one?—

“Hey,” he calls, holding the drink up like I might not recognize it. “Is this supposed to taste like a fruit roll-up and betrayal?”

“Absolutely,” I say, without missing a beat. “Signature experience.”

He doesn’t know what to do with that, probably deciding whether to post a passive-aggressive review or just go shirtless on the beach until someone takes pity on him.

I turn my attention to the next set of glasses, pretending I don’t see him.

“So…” he says, leaning in just enough to enter my personal space bubble. “You off anytime soon? Maybe you and I could take a walk. Watch the stars. Talk about our favorite fruit-flavored drinks.”

I line up two clean tumblers like they’ve done something wrong. “Tempting, but I already promised my boyfriend I’d cry into a bowl of popcorn while rewatching vintage baking fails with him. We have a very full schedule.”

He blinks. There’s a brief moment of confusion like he’s trying to decide if I’m joking.

“Winston doesn’t like to be stood up,” I add, glancing up just long enough to meet his eyes. “He takes it personally.”

He laughs, but it’s the kind that turns into a throat clear. “Right. Got it.”

“Sorry. Just not available.” I slide the tumblers aside and start wiping the bar. It’s the universal sign for this conversation is expired.

To his credit, he doesn’t argue. He gives a sheepish little shrug like he knows the game’s over but appreciates the effort he put in.

“Guess I’ll just enjoy my fruit betrayal solo,” he says, lifting his glass with one last grin.

“You do that.” I flash a polite smile and pivot to help Clara, who’s busy shaking up a round of margaritas but somehow still manages to shoot me a look that says bless his clueless little heart.

As he wanders off, still sipping, Clara slides the shaker toward me. “Winston is your boyfriend? I didn’t know.”

I grab the shaker and give it a little spin on the bar before pouring the margaritas. “We’re in a serious situationship. He br ings emotional stability and a weird snoring habit to the table. I bring snacks and a questionable taste in throw pillows.”

Clara raises an eyebrow. “Sounds intense. When’s the wedding?”

“Probably never. He’s emotionally unavailable when squirrels are involved.”

She laughs, nudging the finished drinks toward the end of the bar where a group of sunburned bachelorettes are waving like dehydrated flamingos. “You need a hobby.”

I gesture around us with both hands. “Clara, I make glitter-rimmed cocktails and deflect misguided flirtation for a living. What more do you want from me?”

“Okay, fair. But maybe just one hobby that doesn’t involve collecting coasters with bad puns on them.”

“That’s a lifestyle, thank you.” I reach under the bar and pull out the latest addition to my coaster collection. It reads You had me at Merlot, then you lost me at karaoke .

Clara groans. “That one hurts.”

“That’s how you know it’s art.” I wipe down the bar again, even though it doesn’t need it. I like the way my hands stay busy while my brain bounces through a dozen thoughts it will never commit to.

A guy at the far end waves and asks for two Trust Issues. I nod and start gathering ingredients. Clara leans on the counter, watching me the way you’d watch a squirrel try to open a childproof container.

“You know what I think?” she says.

“Oh no.”

“I think you should go on a date.”

“I think you should take up pottery so you can gently cradle that bad idea and then smash it with a stick.”

She laughs again. “C’mon. I’m serious. You’re in your prime. You’ve got good hair. You own matching socks.”

“They’re all Winston’s.”

She pauses. “The socks?”

“Yes. We share.”

She shakes her head, but she’s smiling. “You’re impossible. The universe could drop a taco on your head, and you’d still find a way to avoid an actual connection.”

“Maybe the universe should mind its business,” I say, wiping down the bar. “Tacos are safer.”

I glance past her to the open window. Outside, the ocean stretches endlessly, its surface shimmering.

A couple walks by, their laughter carried on the breeze.

For a second, something tightens in my chest. Not longing, exactly.

More like… curiosity. What would it be like to want that?

To let someone in, instead of deflecting every connection with a joke?

Clara shakes her head like she can’t tell if I’m joking, and honestly, sometimes I can’t either. “Okay, so maybe not datin g. But just… something.”

“I have something.” I finish the Trust Issues with a flourish of nutmeg, slide them down the bar, and lean in. “I have Winston, a ghost crab I’m ninety percent sure is living under my porch, and a five-season commitment to a show about competitive cake carving. I am fulfilled.”

Clara rolls her eyes so hard they practically do a cartwheel. “You’re going to be one of those mysterious old ladies who lives by the sea and talks to seagulls like they’re coworkers.”

“Dream life,” I say with zero irony. “Seagulls never ask about your relationship status.”

Before she can reply, the blender growls to life with its usual dramatic flair, and two more orders roll in from table seven. The conversation drifts like foam on the tide, swept away by the rhythm of summer nights and sticky glasses and the bar that never really quiets down.

I glance out the window again, watching as the waves curl and crash against the shore.

A group of tourists stumbles by, laughing, their voices carrying over the sound of the ocean.

It’s a scene I’ve seen a thousand times before, but now, it feels…

different. Like the universe is holding something just out of reach, waiting for me to notice.

Still. For now, I have my beach, my bar, and my dog. And a fresh stack of punny coasters waiting to be judged.

Honestly?

Not a bad place to start.