Page 3 of Notes About Vodka (Happily Ever After Hangover #1)

Unfortunately, I wasn’t ready for college then. Honestly, I’m not sure if I am now given that I can barely stay awake in my 8 a.m. classes and I’m almost never ready for the exams at NYU. I thought coming back to college being a bit older would be easy. Yeah, its not.

It doesn’t help that I have to translate the information from English to Russian, compose my answer mentally, and then translate that answer into English, all with the hopes I don’t forget the question by the time I have something of a response in my head.

It’s exhausting, and sometimes I wonder if I’m just setting myself up for failure .

But I’m stubborn. I want to prove that I can do it, even if it takes everything I’ve got.

After working at several restaurants as a server in old Russian town near Brooklyn, I eventually landed a job here, at Pianissimo .

Dante, the owner of the piano bar, was one of my regulars in Brighton Beach and thought I had potential.

Taking me under his wing, I started as a runner for the performers and gradually worked my way up to being the head bartender.

Dante has taught me every part of this business, beginning at the bottom. Now that I’m in control of my hours and behind the bar full time, the money is fucking fantastic and makes up for the long hours.

Especially in this damned heat. Not as hot as her though.

As my head bobs with hers, I realize that the real stars of the show are the wait staff who not only serve food and drinks but also sing and play piano during the long, busy shifts.

The bad part is that we have a rotating door of talent and very few have made the long haul and have been here for more than a year or two.

But she ’ s different. She could make this place shine.

I am glad that my role is simply to mix and pour the perfect drinks for our patrons.

Okay, I have to make the orders, deal with Dante and Tony’s bullshit, schedule the other bartenders, and listen to patrons venting about their shitty lives as they attempt to hit on the ladies and guys who work the floor.

It’s a lot, but it keeps me busy, and sometimes that’s the best thing for me—to stay busy and keep the noise in my head at bay.

As dream girl switches to the same song by Dave Matthews Band, Tony continues to make notes on his hiring paperwork and I lose myself further into my thoughts.

I can’t believe that it's been over a decade since I left Sochi. To say I am missing my parents and friends who have moved on with their lives in an understatement. I feel caught between two worlds: the home I long for and the aspirations I want to pursue in the United States. I miss the familiar warmth of my mother’s cooking, the sound of my father’s laughter, the comfort of speaking my own language without hesitation or translation.

Initially, my plan was to leave, but now that I am here for the unforeseeable future, I can't help but dream of one day owning my own restaurant. I want a place where I can blend my Russian roots with what I’m learning here in the United States.

I’ve fallen in love with BBQ, Latin food, and most importantly, creole and cajun food.

I really fell in love with American cuisine on a missionary trip while living with my host family in Florida.

The church took us to Baton Rouge, where I ate everything I could.

Now I want to infuse my Russian flavors with Southern soul food and cuisine from the bayou.

Yet, I also envision bringing American-style eateries back to Sochi, confident that they’ll thrive alongside popular fast-food chains and cater to those craving western delicacies.

You can always find a KFC, McDonald’s, or Burger King in Russia, but what about all night, slow-cooked ribs over mashed potatoes, or queso-covered steak nachos?

Yeah, that’s not available in Russia yet to my knowledge. And I want to be the one to bring it there. I want to bring a piece of the life I’ve built here back home, a bridge between two worlds that sometimes feel impossibly far apart.

One of the best things that happened to me while living in the United States was when I finally received a diagnosis for my ADHD in my early 20s.

It explained so much about my struggles—why I couldn’t focus, why I was always restless, why I felt like my mind was always racing.

However, as I find myself still zoning out and staring at the beautiful songstress on stage, I can't help but feel conflicted; is it a blessing or a curse ?

Focused on my daydream, I’m not ready for reality to intrude on my thoughts.

Especially, when Dante, my boss, snaps me back to the present with his loud.

“Val, get the fuck out of your head man. Are you high or something? I told you stop smoking that dank crap. Get over here, we need help hauling in the kegs and liquor bottles. Didn’t Isabella tell you that shithead last night fucked it all up.

Don’t worry, I fired his ass this morning.

Over text if you are interested in knowing. ”

I struggle to break my gaze away from the siren and make my way towards the back.

Groaning at Dante, I say, “Good, the raspediet needed to go.”

The work is strenuous, but I am used to it. As I lift and move the heavy kegs and cases, it brings back a sense of familiarity and routine. By the time I am done, my muscles ache and sweat beads down my back. I enjoy the cold keg fridge as I re-hook the lines and blow out any residual gas.

As I rush back to the main room, I am desperate to catch another glimpse of the girl who auditioned for one of Tony's coveted talent spots. But instead of staying and shadowing one of the current staff for the night, she’s gone, vanished into thin air without a trace.

A sharp pang of disappointment claws at my chest, leaving me breathless and grasping at straws. I’ve never seen her before and now I just want to know her name or if she was chosen for the job.

The thought of never seeing her again hits me like a ton of bricks, leaving behind a gaping hole in my heart. In a futile attempt to ease the overwhelming emotion, I rub my hand frantically over my chest, hoping to physically push the feeling away.

What the fuck, Val? Get a grip, she ’ s just a ghost to you .

I approach Tony, who is busy sorting through applications. “Hey, Tony,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Just saying, you should hire the redhead with the raspy voice.”

The talent manager nods absently, scribbling a note. “Yeah, that one is packing some hella pipes, but seeing as we are already overstaffed… Probably not, but I’ll consider her in the future.”

With a sigh, I move behind the bar, ready to start my long, late-night shift.

As I mix drinks and serve customers, my thoughts keep drifting back to her.

For the first time in a long while, I feel something more than the dull ache of homesickness and the pressure of my ambitions.

I feel a spark of excitement, a longing to know more about the elusive, witchy woman who has captivated me.

Oh, God, that voice.

I imagine her painted red lips singing to another microphone as the night wears on.

Wondering more about her, I question, where is she from, why is she here, did she see me hanging back in the shadows as I watched her play?

What secrets does she carry beneath the scar on her back, and what has brought her to a place like Pianissimo ?

Luckily, the hot summer day has brought in a lot of traffic.

Everyone in the city is in the bar tonight trying to cool down and enjoy a drink.

So my thoughts become limited as the night picks up.

But they stay on a delicate simmer, kept on the back burner of my mind amongst the busy night.

Her voice, her presence—it’s a mystery and I don’t want to let go.

Two nights later and it’s another unusually busy Thursday night .

Not only is it over 100 degrees outside, the humidity is worse. The air is thick, oppressive, and even stepping outside for a break feels like a mistake.

I’m balls to the wall at the bar with three people deep and even more patrons clamoring for beverages in hopes to cool off, or maybe heat up with how some people are looking at each other.

The energy is electric, charged with a strange mix of frustration and longing.

It’s almost palpable, the tension in the room, as people push and pull against the heat and each other.

The buzz of conversation and laughter fills the air, mingling with the clinking of glasses and the occasional shout from the back tables.

I’m in my element, moving efficiently behind the bar, pouring shots, mixing cocktails, and cracking open beers.

My hands move on autopilot, my mind effortlessly falling into the rhythm of the job.

But as the night drags on, the relentless energy of the crowd starts to drain me.

“Hey, Mads! I’m going to head out back and take a quick smoke break,” I shout to my fellow bartender—a tall, muscular man with a dark complexion and a quick wit.

He’s at least four inches taller than me, packed in muscles, and always has a steady presence that balances the chaos around him.

And you will never catching me calling him by his full name; Maddison Allison Earlison.

Last person who did ended up in the underground Fight Club and came out darker than a blueberry, which made him almost as dark as Mads.

“Go ahead, Val. I’ve got this,” Mads replies, expertly sliding a beer down the bar to a waiting customer.

I slip through the back door, breathing in the cool night air.

The alley behind the bar is quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos inside.

I light a special cigarette, taking a deep drag and exhaling slowly.

The nicotine calms my nerves, but it's the tiny bit of pot interlaced in the cherry that really does the trick.

I need it because my mind is still racing after a redheaded mystery.

The high helps, smoothing the rough edges of my thoughts.

As the good vibes set in and my brain relaxes, my body follows. I think back to my siriena. The image of her at the piano, her fingers moving with such grace, her voice pulling at something deep inside of me. I never believed in love at first sight, but I think I was struck by cupid.

It’s been two nights since I heard her sing, and I haven’t been able to get her out of my mind.

Her voice lingers, a haunting melody that stays with me as I go through my routines.

The way she seemed to pour herself into every note, every word—it’s stuck with me in a way that I can’t shake.

I’ve found myself replaying the sound of her voice in my head, wondering what her story is, why she sings the way she does.

After finishing my cigarette, I head back inside and make a quick detour to the bathroom. I splash some water on my face, trying to shake off the fatigue and the haze of my thoughts.

As I return to the bar, I pour myself and Mads a shot of vodka.

“Cheers,” I say, raising my glass.

“Cheers,” Mads echoes, clinking his glass against mine.

Just as I’m about to take the shot, I hear a familiar raspy voice coming through the speakers.

My heart skips a beat, and I set the full glass down, looking towards the stage. There she is, my redhead from two nights ago.

“Hello, everyone,” she introduces herself without giving her name, “it’s a pleasure to be here at Pianissimo . I’m grateful to Dante and Tony for giving me this opportunity. I’m even more excited to join this beautiful piano bar as one of the new evening entertainers.”

Then, she begins playing a slower version of Led Zeppelin's Stairway to Heaven , her fingers gliding gracefully over the keys as she sings.

The rowdy crowd falls silent, enchanted by her voice.

I’m captivated as well, my heart beating in time with the rhythm of her music.

From my vantage point behind the bar, I can see her back, that long thin scar stands out under the gauzy red dress hugging her delicate pear-shaped frame.

Her vibrant red hair falls in natural waves, like she’s just emerged from the ocean.

Throwing back the vodka shot, I decide then and there to make it my mission to get to know her better.

She will be mine and I will be hers.

Normally, I don't mix business with pleasure and have workplace flings, but for her, I am willing to make an exception. There’s something about her that calls to me, something that I can’t ignore.

I need to know more, to understand what makes her sing with such raw emotion, what secrets lie beneath that scar, beneath her voice.

As the night wears on, she continues to serenade the crowd with her unique versions of classic rock songs, each one more captivating than the last. The way she transforms each piece, making it her own, leaves me spellbound.

My shift ends and I finally have a chance to approach the wait station to introduce myself, but when I rush to the back she is nowhere to be found.

This is unfortunate because she should be here doing her side work, but she’s just gone. The disappointment in my heart increases as I search and still can’t find her. I want to ask Isabella if she left already, but I don’t even know her name.

My heartache continues to linger when she doesn't show back up for work at Pianissimo .

Days pass…

I hope to see her again, but as each day ends, I am met with disappointment. It's strange to feel such a pull towards someone I barely know, but it's there, undeniable.

I even made a playlist with the songs she sang, adding fuel to my sad obsession.

Until I see her again, I'll be waiting. There is a spark of excitement keeping me going, reminding me that there’s still something out there, someone out there who intrigues me and gives me something beyond being stuck in a country I don't belong.