Page 5 of Notes About Vodka (Happily Ever After Hangover #1)

She laughs, a soft, melodic sound that cuts through the quiet hum of the bar. “Feels like it too. I grew up in hurricane alley in the South and today definitely feels like a tropical depression. Thanks, Val. And I transferred into NYU last year, this is my second year there.”

“Really? I go there too.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Wait. How do you…” I ask. Suddenly, I’m so confused.

“Okay, don’t judge or think I’m a weird stalker, but I sit behind you in chemistry.”

“What? You do? Why didn’t you say you started working here in class Thursday morning? That was our last chemistry class right?”

Oh, geez, I didn ’ t miss the class, did I?

“Well, I have said good morning in the past, but no offense, you’re always on your phone.”

“No, I am not.”

“Yeah, you are. You never pay attention to Dr. Marsh or his lectures.”

“Well, what am I doing then?”

“Ha. You are usually playing some sort of game. I’m pretty sure the last one is called Beach Boom because I’ve played it myself a few times.

My best friend Rhea and I had a bet that eventually I would get you to say hello back, but I lost when I conceded that you must be oblivious to the entire world. Or just rude.”

What?! I ’ m oblivious to this siren? And rude? How is it that I ’ ve never noticed her before? I mean, the class is at 8 a.m …

Typically, on mornings when I have early classes, I stay awake after my bar shift. I’m usually so fucking tired that, yeah, I guess I do focus on my phone too much in an attempt to stay awake.

“Well, let me be the first to apologize. And here,” I pour us a second shot and pass it to her, “this is one of my favorites.”

We clink our glasses again, and as she shoots back the vodka, she hums and smiles.

“Oh, wow, this has such a…oh, I don’t know… fruitiness, but not like strawberries, something more tart,” she exclaims.

“It’s the grapefruit. This is Ciroc—very smooth with a bit of a pinch of acid. The last I poured was Tito’s, perfect for mixing with anything because there is very little aftertaste,” I explain.

“Well, they are both very tasty.”

“Thanks. It’s my job to know about drinks, and vodka being my favorite, I try to learn as much as possible. It’s one of the reasons I’m in chemistry right now.”

“Yeah? Tell me some quick facts then,” she teases.

I take a deep breath, ready to dive into my vodka knowledge with as much enthusiasm as I can muster.

“Well, vodka, you see,” I start, my Russian accent thickening as I get more excited, “it’s typically distilled from grains or potatoes, but it’s not just those!

Vodka can also be made from other ingredients, like grapes or even milk.

Yes, milk! It’s called ‘milk vodka’ in Russian, or ‘moloko vodka’—very interesting, da? ”

I notice her eyes widening, so I keep going.

“Vodka has to be distilled at least three times to be considered pure, but—here’s a fun fact—the more times it’s distilled, the smoother it tastes.

You know, ‘potomu chto’—because it removes more impurities!

There’s a famous Russian saying: ‘chistota — zalog zdorov'ya,’ which means ‘cleanliness is the key to health.’ And that’s why we distill it so much! ”

I can’t help but let my excitement show, and I add, “Oh, and did you know that technically, vodka is supposed to be completely neutral in taste? Yes, it’s supposed to have no flavor at all!

That’s the whole idea, you see. It’s supposed to be ‘bestsvetnyy',’ which means ‘colorless,’ but also flavorless. It’s all about purity and smoothness. ”

I pause, catching my breath, then add with a grin. “In Russia, we even have a saying: ‘vodka — eto zhizn',’ which means ‘vodka is life!’ It’s a bit of an exaggeration, of course, but it shows how central it is to our culture. Every region, every family has its own way of making and enjoying it.”

I take a sip of a third shot I poured for us, savoring the taste, and give her a look.

“So, tell me, what do you think? This one is infused with peaches. Do you find it as fascinating as I do? Or am I just ‘govorit' kak p'yanyy’—talking like a drunk, ha!”

She looks at me with wide eyes, impressed by my knowledge. “Wow, you really do know your stuff. And I take it you are not from New York…”

“Eh, no…not exactly. I’ve been here for over a decade now, so it’s home, but I’m originally from Sochi, Russia. Although, I try not to advertise that I'm from the Motherland too often,” I tell her, letting my accent deepen slightly.

“Oh, wow. And I thought your accent was Cajun,” Laura says with a wink.

“Huh, Cajun?” I ask, confused.

“I’m teasing you, Val. And it’s cool that you're Russian. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone from Russia before. But you do know a lot about vodka.”

”It pays the bills,” I reply, calming down a bit as I push the peach-flavored shot in front of her. “So, tell me, what does it take for a fellow co-worker and now apparently classmate to learn your name and where you are from? Tell me, kracivey devashka, I want to know all about you.”

She smiles at me, and just as she’s starting to relax and pick up the vodka shot, Tony storms over. His face is set in a scowl as he looks her up and down.

“You can’t perform like that. Go change into something dressy and get ready for a busy night. We are packed with reservations. You’re the new girl, you need to work harder. And you better not be taking shots right before your shift.”

Her smile fades, and she nods, standing up from the bar stool, pushing the glass away from her. “Yes, Tony. I’ll be ready in a minute.”

Whispering over her shoulder, she glances back my way and says, “I guess you’ll just have to wait and find out my name later. Thanks for the notes about vodka.”

I watch her walk away, taking in the view of her perfect ass in those still-damp black tights.

Tony watches her too before turning back to me. “Val, stop while you’re ahead. She’s the type who’ll sleep with you and leave you. And just in case you need reminding, it’s prohibited to have relationships with coworkers. Do I need to remind you about your mistakes with Roquelle?”

I grit my teeth, feeling a surge of frustration. “I wasn’t?—”

“Just focus on your work,” Tony cuts me off before I can finish. “I don’t want any trouble from you.”

Before Tony leaves, he turns around and says, “Oh, and those shots? Don’t think I didn’t see you two. That’s coming out of your tips tonight, and if it happens again, you can take your ass back to Russia. Don’t think I won’t tell Dante. I don’t care if he took you under his wing, I’ll ruin you.”

I nod, biting back a retort, and return to my shift.

The bar is slow even though the dining room is busy.

The storm outside is keeping the usual rowdy crowd at bay with only large parties coming in for the new entertainment.

Apparently, my girl caught the attention of many people that first night.

The atmosphere is subdued, with only the occasional burst of conversation breaking the calm as I wait for her to take the piano stage.

I occasionally see her running drinks and food to her tables. Once I even swear I heard her laugh with a few of the other wait staff from the dish drop off station. I swooned from hearing the happy sound.

A few die-hard patrons sit nursing their drinks at the bar.

They are helping me pass the time as the sound of rain patters against the windows, creating a soothing, sleepy backdrop.

The warm glow of the overhead amber lights reflects off the polished wooden surfaces, casting a cozy ambiance over the room.

The faint scent of whiskey, sandalwood, citrus and aged cherry lingers in the air, mingling with the occasional burst of laughter from a corner table in the cocktail section of the bar.

Finally, after what feels like hours of waiting, my girl takes the stage, wearing a fitted black cocktail dress that accentuates her entire body. A scooped neckline reveals her collarbone. I lick my lips, thinking about the moment I will kiss along the edge.

Her ass is the perfect apple as she takes a seat and pulls the bench closer to the piano.

She’s captivating as she sings and plays. Blending songs by John Legend, Macy Gray, and Alicia Keys into a seamless performance; her voice is a sultry, soulful melody that fills the bar, drawing the attention of every patron.

Eventually, one of the other pianist waiters joins her on the other piano. Complementing her notes as she sings Fleetwood Mac that blends into a heart wrenching Miley Cyrus.

I am so happy I love all contemporary American music. This girl is beyond good on the keys.

As the night wears on, I keep finding myself stealing glances at her. She owns that piano, and the whole room just follows. Her music’s like a balm for my tired soul. Even with the storm raging outside, there’s this warmth she brings, like she’s making everything a little less harsh.

As the shift finally comes to an end, I glance around the bar and notice that it's almost empty, with only two lingering customers still nursing their drinks.

The storm outside has calmed to a light drizzle, but my mind is preoccupied with finding her before she disappears again.

As the rest of the staff finish up their closing tasks—rolling silverware, squeezing citrus for tomorrow's drinks, and hanging clean glassware—I search for her among them. But apparently I’m too late because she’s nowhere in sight.

I even check the dressing rooms in case she slipped away unnoticed to change her clothes, but she’s not there either. She’s like a ghost in the night.

But why? Most of us stick around to unwind, vent, meet up and have an adult beverage before we all head home.

Disappointment settles in my chest as I begin cleaning up, now surrounded by the heavy and oppressive silence of the bar.

As I finish counting the cash in the register, I notice a discarded napkin on the bar’s surface. There’s a dark red kiss on the side facing up with a doodle of a tulip.

Picking it up, I see a single word written in neat handwriting:

"Laura."

A smile forms on my face, knowing that she didn’t completely disappear from my evening. I fold the napkin carefully and tuck it into my pocket.

I’m like a moth to the flame.

Despite Tony’s warnings, I can't help wanting to figure Laura out. There’s something about her that just pulls me in, and the more I try to push it aside the feelings, the desire, the interest that is growing inside me, the more I find myself thinking about her.

It's like every time I see her, I get a little glimpse of something deeper, something just out of reach that keeps me coming back for more.

I know Tony thinks I'm being reckless, that I should just let it be, but I can't. It's not in my nature to walk away from something that intrigues me this much.

As I lock up the bar, I find myself saying her name out loud, “Laura.”

Her name slips out so easily into the chilly night air, like it belongs there, like it's meant to be spoken by me in this quiet, empty space.

The sound of it hanging in the stillness makes me smile, and I shake my head, feeling a bit ridiculous but also strangely satisfied.

There's a warmth that comes from just saying her name—I can’t quite explain it.

I feel a spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, there's more to this than I even realize yet. Laura’s a mystery, and I want to solve it—not just because I'm curious, but because I feel like there's something important waiting at the end of it.

Something worth all the effort. I don't know if it's her smile, the way she seems so guarded yet vulnerable at the same time, or maybe it's her music, the way it seems to speak directly to a part of me I didn’t even know was listening.

I think about the way she plays, her fingers dancing over the keys, her eyes closed as if she's lost in another world.

There's something almost magical about it, like she's letting us see a piece of her soul, but only just enough to leave us wanting more.

It's that feeling that draws me in—the sense that there's so much more beneath the surface, layers that she's kept hidden from everyone else.

And if her music is any indication, this journey will be nothing short of rhythmically harmonic, full of unexpected turns and raw, unfiltered moments.

I slip my hands into my pockets and start walking, the cold air biting at my skin, but I barely notice it.

My mind is too wrapped up in thoughts of her.

I think about the way she looked at me earlier tonight, her eyes lingering just a little longer than they needed to, like she was trying to figure me out too.

Maybe she feels it also—this pull between us.

Or maybe I’m just imagining it, getting carried away in my own head.

Either way, I can't deny that there's something there, something worth exploring.

Tony's words echo in my head again, his warning to stay away, to not get involved. I know he means well, that he’s trying to look out for me, but it’s too late for that.

I’m already in, whether I like it or not.

And the truth is, I do like it. I like the mystery, the challenge, the idea of peeling back the layers and finding out who Laura really is beneath all those guarded looks and half-smiles.

The streetlights cast long shadows as I walk, my breath visible in the crisp night air.

I wonder what she's doing right now, if she's home, if she's thinking about me at all. It’s crazy, I know—we barely know each other.

But there's something about her that makes me feel like I've known her for much longer, like our paths were meant to cross.

Maybe it's fate, or maybe it's just wishful thinking, but either way, I can't shake the feeling that this is only the beginning.

I reach the corner of the street and pause, looking back at the bar, the lights now off, the place silent and still.

I smile to myself, a sense of determination settling in.

I’m not going to back off, not now. Laura’s a puzzle, and I’ve always loved puzzles.

I want to know what makes her tick, what makes her laugh, what makes her play the way she does.

I want to know her story, every detail, every note.