Page 6 of Notes About Vodka (Happily Ever After Hangover #1)

Chapter Three

VAL

At Pianissimo, Tony's watchful eye keeps us from interacting—I can’t even talk to Laura if I wanted to.

In a blur of two weeks, I only catch glimpses of Laura in the chaos of busy nights at work.

Despite the constant hustle and bustle inside the restaurant, she moves with an effortless grace while waiting tables.

When she takes her turn at the piano, it’s as if time slows down.

Her fingers glide over the keys, each note a part of a larger, enchanting narrative.

Her voice fills the room, and in those moments, life outside of Pianissimo and the bustling crowd inside fade into the background.

Every night that I work with her, I am captivated by the way her fingers dance across the keys, each note brimming with a raw, heartfelt emotion that seems to echo the deepest parts of her soul.

It’s like she communicates in a language only her music can convey, and I find myself hanging on every note.

I’m drawn to her like a moth to a flame, completely lost as she loses herself in the melodies she creates.

Her music is more than just sound; it’s a reflection of something deeper, a side of her that feels untouchable yet utterly magnetic.

I’ve never felt so strongly about anyone before. There’s an intensity to this feeling that I can’t ignore, as though the universe has placed her in my path for a reason.

At NYU, I struggle to find a moment in chemistry to even say good morning to her.

Before, I never noticed her at school—I was too preoccupied rushing around, sitting in the back, or just trying to stay awake after late nights at work.

My exhaustion dulled everything; the faces around me blurred into a background that I barely registered.

I focused solely on surviving the day, the rhythm of lectures, caffeine breaks, and sneaking puffs of my favorite herb leave no room for awareness.

In hindsight, I realize how much I missed by not looking up, by not truly engaging with the world around me.

My shifts at the piano bar left me drained, and the mornings became a haze of exhaustion and caffeine.

It felt like I was always running on autopilot, barely aware of the people around me.

It wasn’t until she mentioned that we shared a class that I started paying attention.

That changed everything. Suddenly, I was scanning the room for her every chance I had, hyperaware of where she sat and whether she showed up that day.

At school, she’s so different from the person I see at the piano bar.

Her confidence creates this aura of magnetism, making it impossible not to notice her.

It shapes my perception of her in class, where she seems almost withdrawn in comparison, as though she’s hiding a part of herself.

The contrast makes me even more curious about who she truly is—the bold, radiant performer, or the quiet, reserved student?

Or maybe both? This duality fascinates me, adding layers to her mystery.

At Pianissimo , her body language is open, her confidence radiates as she plays, and she draws everyone’s attention without trying.

Her movements are fluid, almost mesmerizing, and she exudes a sense of freedom that makes it impossible to look away.

In class, though, she’s just so quiet, her gaze often fixed on her notebook, her shoulders slightly hunched as if she’s trying to disappear.

She seems to intentionally avoid standing out, blending into the background in a way that’s almost unrecognizable.

Maybe that’s why I didn’t notice her before—she’s quiet and unassuming at school, a stark contrast to the vibrant energy she brings to the piano bar.

Most mornings, I’m desperately searching for a spot in the back, my ADHD taking over as I weave through the crowded lecture hall, the muffled buzz of student chatter and the scrape of chairs filling the air.

My pulse races as I navigate the chaos, my mind already calculating the closest path to an open seat before the professor’s voice cuts through the noise.

If I make it in time and sit where Laura usually does, she simply doesn’t show up.

Each empty seat feels like a missed chance, a quiet reminder of how close I am to seeing her yet still so far.

The emptiness seems to echo louder than the chatter around me, a sharp pang of disappointment that settles in my chest. My fingers grip the edge of the desk, the smooth surface cold beneath my hand, as if grounding me against the frustrating ache of her absence.

It’s a mix of disappointment and longing that sits heavy in my chest, pushing me to try again the next day, hoping for a different outcome.

Sometimes I wonder if she’s avoiding me on purpose, though I can’t imagine why.

It’s like the universe is against me talking to her again, creating obstacle after obstacle to keep us apart.

On the rare occasions when we do cross paths in our chemistry class, she sees me. There’s a flicker of recognition in her eyes, but before I can make my way over to her, she’s gone. She vanishes into the crowd with a swiftness that leaves me standing there, frustrated and unsure of what to do next.

She has been impossible to keep up with.

Every time I think I’ve caught up, she slips away again, and it only makes me want to try harder.

Her elusiveness feels like a challenge, one that pulls me deeper into this need to understand her and be part of her world.

There’s a mystery to her that I can’t ignore, a sense that she’s holding back something extraordinary.

It’s frustrating, yes, but it’s also thrilling.

I can’t help feeling determined to bridge this gap between us.

Each missed connection only fuels my resolve, making me more certain that I have to find a way to connect with her, no matter how elusive she seems.

Even as I navigate these moments of disappointment, I’m struck by how much she’s begun to occupy my thoughts.

Her presence—whether at the piano bar or in the fleeting glimpses I catch of her at school—has a way of lingering, like an unfinished melody I’m desperate to hear the rest of.

It feels as if each interaction with her offers just a few notes, hints of a story waiting to unfold.

That melody represents everything I don’t yet know about her—the layers of her personality, her dreams, her fears.

It’s a tantalizing puzzle that leaves me yearning to discover more, to piece together the full composition of who she is.

And maybe that’s what keeps me going: the hope that one day, I’ll get to know the whole song.

The bar’s a madhouse tonight, packed like always.

I catch glimpses of Laura hustling between tables, balancing trays full of drinks like it’s nothing, but we don’t exchange more than a nod or two.

It’s driving me crazy that we can’t talk.

Every night, it’s the same. She’s always just out of reach, moving too fast for anything more than a look.

I want to say something. Anything.

But Tony’s got eyes everywhere, and the last thing I need is to get her fired—or myself. He’s been jumpy lately, watching us like he knows something’s up, and I’m not risking it. So we stay silent, and it’s killing me.

I’ve got to find a way to reach her, even if it’s just for a second.

I grab a napkin from the bar, thinking maybe I’ll write her a note. Something quick, something that’ll make her smile. But nothing sounds right. I start scribbling a few things down, then immediately tear them up.

Too cheesy, too dumb, too try-hard.

It’s ridiculous how hard this is.

Finally, I write,

"What are your notes about vodka?"

It’s not perfect, but it’ll do.

Laura comes by to grab another round of drinks for her tables. I push the napkin into her hand, hoping she won’t drop it or brush me off. Her fingers graze mine for a split second—enough to make me freeze—and she gives me this quick, surprised look before disappearing back into the chaos.

For the rest of the night, I wait, thinking maybe she’ll shoot me a glance or slip a note back, but it’s just one drink order after another. No sign of anything. By closing, I’m frustrated. What did I expect? That she’d stop everything and start writing back to me in the middle of a rush?

The next day, as I go to open the teller, I find a napkin left at the bar for me. Soft, cursive handwriting says,

"Vodka, hmmm… My notes?

Maybe I should begin with no great story ever started with a salad."

I laugh. Laura’s funny.

A grin tugs at the corner of my mouth. She got it. She’s in on the game. Maybe we can’t talk, but this—this works. It’s our own little thing now, hidden in the middle of the madness.

After Laura’s witty vodka comment, I had to keep the notes going.

Scribbling on napkins and old receipts feels like second nature. It’s crazy how much you can learn about someone without ever saying a word to their face—like how she prefers almost all music, or that she once drove directly to West Virginia on a whim just to see the leaves change colors.

“Now that I know your name and that you have a sense of humor, where do you get your accent from?”

I write next, curious. The next shift, she leaves me a napkin reply:

“I hauled it all the way from Alabama in the trunk of my car.”

I lose it, laughing behind the bar like an idiot. So, Laura’s from the South. I guess that explains the drawl I couldn’t quite place.

I've worked hard to minimize my own accent, hopefully I sound less Russian and more like a New Yorker.