Page 136 of Banter & Blushes #1

I rinse my hands at the sink and wander over, towel slung over my shoulder. He doesn’t take the sunglasses off, which is interesting. Most people want to be seen when they walk in here. They want someone to notice the tan, or the watch, or the vacation glow they’ve been cultivating since Tuesday.

But this guy?

He reads more like a human shrug. Not trying too hard. Not trying at all. That alone makes me tilt my head and decide to say something.

“You look like a Trust Issues kind of guy,” I say, resting my hands on the bar. “That’s a drink, by the way. Coconut, lime, pineapple, a little cinnamon. Rum. Makes you feel like you’re on vacation while questioning every decision you’ve ever made.”

He gives me a short laugh. “What if I just want something boring?”

“That depends,” I say, pulling a glass from the shelf. “How boring are we talking? Water? Club soda? A dramatic monologue about your kale cleanse?”

He smirks, but the sunglasses stay on. “Ginger ale.”

I blink. “Wow. You weren’t kidding.”

“Figured I’d give my liver a vacation,” he says, tone dry but amused.

A non-answer. Evasive, but not unfriendly. Like someone used to dancing around questions without stepping on toes. Could be hiding a hangover. Either way, I don’t push. It’s none of my business.

I grab a bottle of ginger ale from the mini fridge, pop the cap, and pour it into a highball glass. He doesn’t ask for a garnish, which is good, because ginger ale doesn’t deserve one.

“Here you go. One wildly underwhelming beverage.” I slide it across the bar. “Let me know if it fails to meet your expectati ons. We strive for mild disappointment.”

He takes a sip. “Perfect.”

I lean against the back counter and watch him for a beat. There’s something familiar about the curve of his jaw under the beard. Not that I make a habit of memorizing jawlines. Except maybe in very specific, very fictional pirate contexts.

I brace myself.

This is usually the part where the smile creeps a little wider, where the compliment arrives—sometimes smooth, sometimes clunky, sometimes clearly rehearsed in a mirror.

Then comes the casual question about when I get off work, or if I’ve ever considered modeling for yacht catalogs, or if I’d like to join someone for a naked sunset walk.

Awkward conversation and a side of mediocre-to-horrible flirting.

It’s not that I think I’m some kind of seaside siren. It’s just what happens when you’re a woman behind a bar in a beach town and you smile more than you scowl.

But…

It doesn’t come.

He just sips his drink again, elbow resting on the bar, gaze drifting toward the open doors like he’s watching the breeze play favorites with the napkins.

I blink.

Is he… not going to hit on me?

For a fleeting moment, I wonder if I forgot deodorant.

Subtly, I shift one arm.

No. Citrus vanilla, just like I remember applying this morning.

Okay. Good.

Did I brush my teeth?

Yes. I remember the minty moment of triumph when I managed to get toothpaste on my eyebrow somehow.

So what gives?

I glance down.

Is there something on my shirt?

Nope, just the tank top with the seagull wearing sunglasses

He doesn’t even seem to notice it.

Huh.

I’ve gotten all kinds of creepy comments whenever I wear this, like “lucky seagull,” or “”I’d love to see what he sees under those glasses.”

Ick factor ten, but it’s one of my favorites so I wear it anyway.

But this guy? Nothing.

Maybe he’s married.

I check—no ring. Not that that means anything.

Maybe he’s having an affair. Or maybe he’s just really into ginger ale and not emotionally unavailable bartenders .

My gaze shifts back to him.

He still hasn’t said anything. Still hasn’t looked at me again.

And for some reason, that’s weirder than if he had.

“So what brings you to our tiny corner of beachside mayhem?” I ask, mostly to fill the quiet. “And don’t say the ocean. That’s everyone’s answer. Bonus points if it’s weird.”

He hesitates, then shrugs. “I like bars that open early.”

“Clearly you’re a man of discerning taste.”

He doesn’t laugh this time, just lets the silence settle around us like we’re two people at a bus stop who both know the bus isn’t coming.

I fidget with a napkin. There’s a tiny seagull doodled in the corner. I don’t remember drawing it. Probably me though. I’ve never met a blank napkin I didn’t want to ruin.

The guy finally takes off his sunglasses, resting them on the bar. His eyes are sharp and blue, the kind that probably land well on camera. There’s something in his expression when he sees me looking. Not recognition. Something more like quiet resignation.

“Have we met?” I ask, before I can stop myself.

There’s the briefest pause before the words leave his mouth, like he's considering a different answer. Or deciding not to give one. Instead, he simply shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

I narrow one eye. “Are you sure? You look like someone who maybe once tried to sell me essential oils.”

He lets out a short breath of a laugh, but it’s not really a laugh. More like disbelief. Like he honestly can’t tell if I’m messing with him or if I genuinely don’t know. It hits a little different now that I can see his eyes. “Positive. I don’t even use regular oils.”

“You’re missing out. There’s this garlic one that’ll change your worldview.”

He tilts his head like he’s considering it. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The bell above the door jingles again and a couple of tourists walk in, arguing gently about whether they want tacos or fish and chips.

I move to greet them, take their drink orders, and start prepping something with more umbrellas than actual liquid.

I keep half an eye on Mystery Ginger Ale Guy while I work.

He hasn’t looked at his phone once. Just sits there watching the slow, messy rhythm of the afternoon take shape.

However, he did put his sunglasses back on.

When I swing back around, he’s nursing the drink like it’s medicine. He taps the bar with one finger.

“So you name all your drinks after emotional baggage?”

“Only the good ones.” I refill a glass of water and gesture toward the chalkboard. “We’ve got Daydream Regret and Trust Issues. I was going to add Problem Child but it wouldn’t fit.”

He grins. “You made those up.”

“I did.” I pour a splash of soda water into a shaker, mo stly to look productive. “Most people don’t notice. They just order whatever’s closest to their mood.”

“And what would I be if I ordered Trust Issues?”

I shrug. “Someone who once got ghosted in a hotel lobby and now refuses to make eye contact with fruit garnishes.”

He lets out a full laugh this time and leans back on the stool. “That specific, huh?”

“I don’t make the rules. The drinks do.”

Clara slips behind me and nudges my hip with hers. “You need a hand?”

“I’m good,” I say, but she follows my gaze to the guy at the bar and raises a brow that says we’re going to talk about this later. I give her a look that says no we’re not. Her look doubles down. Mine retreats in defeat. She wins most of our silent conversations.

By the time I turn back, he’s drained half the ginger ale. Still watching, but not in a creepy way. More like someone waiting for the second act of a play to start. I mentally upgrade him from Mystery Ginger Ale Guy to The Quiet Ginger Ale Guy Who Might Be on the Run from a Life Coach.

I consider asking his name, but that feels too direct for this kind of energy.

“Well,” I say, reaching for the towel again, “let me know if you want to graduate to a drink that comes with a tiny flag.”

He lifts the glass slightly. “I’ll consider it.”

The door opens again and more customers shuffle in, drawn by the promise of shade and sugar.

I fall back into the familiar rhythm of mixing, pouring, and dodging questions like what’s the wi-fi password and why can’t I find you on one of those hookup apps.

I check on Quiet Ginger Ale Guy Who Might Be on the Run from a Life Coach a few times, and each time he’s just there.

Not intruding. Not hovering. Just part of the furniture now, somehow.

Eventually, he stands and drops a few bills on the counter.

“Thanks for the… conversation,” he says.

I nod. “Anytime. We’re always here for complicated beverages and unsolicited life commentary.”

He’s wearing the sunglasses like armor. I stare at the ginger ale glass wondering if I should have offered him at least a napkin with a joke on it. Something people tuck in their wallet for no reason and forget about until three years later when they’re moving and suddenly sentimental.

He pauses like he might say something else.

Then doesn’t.

Just turns for the door.

But before he pushes it open, he glances back. Not the casual kind of glance people give when they’re checking to see if they forgot their car keys or cell phones. This one sticks. Not long, not heavy. Just long enough to feel like a question.

Then he’s gone.

I watch the space where he stood for a second too long. The glass is still sitting there, a few amber bubbles clinging to the side s like they don’t want to leave either.

Clara sidles over, already grinning. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The one where your brain starts writing bad poetry in the margins.”

I toss the towel at her and she dodges it, laughing. But my heart’s not in it. I refill the ginger ale glass with water and drop in a lemon wedge. Not for anyone. Just because the glass looked too empty sitting there by itself.

I should go wipe down tables or clean the syrup nozzles. Instead, I rest my elbows on the bar and watch the little citrus wedge bob in the water. Something about the way he looked back has burrowed under my skin.

He didn’t hit on me.

He didn’t ask for my number or comment on my eyes or tell me I had good energy. He didn’t even smile like he was thinking about it.

Which leaves me with two possibilities.

One, I did forget deodorant. Or toothpaste. Or somehow managed to develop a deeply off-putting aura overnight.

Or two…

I lean on the bar and rest my chin in my hand. The lemon wedge spins slowly in the glass.

Or two, he’s just not that into me.

Which is somehow worse.

Not because I wanted him to flirt, exactly. But when someone doesn't act the way you expect, it throws you off balance. And lately, balance is one of the only things I've been good at. I've got my routines, my rhythms, my orbit. People come in, they flirt, they leave. Predictable. Safe.

But this guy? He's a question mark. And I don't like not knowing the answer.

Because now I’m curious. And curiosity is dangerous. It’s how I ended up learning to play the ukulele, how I found out what durian tastes like, and how I once accidentally joined a paddleboard yoga class when I was just trying to rent a kayak.

I glance at the ginger ale glass again. Still sitting there like an unsent text message, daring me to hit send.