Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“We are supposed to have backups in the freezer.”
“We ate that too,” I said, snorting at how ridiculous that sounded.
It was hard, at times, not to think of this house—and by extension, us—like the Golden Girls. Sure, we were about thirty years too young, but damn if the setting wasn’t pretty similar.
Floral couches, rattan furniture, big, lush green houseplants, wallpapered kitchen with appliances older than I was, a covered back porch with metal chaise loungers overlooking the carefully designed lush back gardens. Courtesy of my grandfather, not Gram. He’d been quite proud of his yard work. As he should have been. Since his passing, I had been the one trying to maintain it. It took a lot of trial and error, but I’d managed to revive it after some years of failing.
The only room in the house that didn’t look like it was fresh off the set of that eighties show was Triss’s room.
Where I’d been very fond of the delicate wallpaper in my childhood bedroom, of the shabby-chic crackled white nightstands and dressers, even the frilly bedspread, Triss had all but gutted her room as soon as Gram was seaside.
Granted, her room had been in a coastal theme—heavy on the theme with lots of fish and anchors and all that stuff—and didn’t have the soft, sweet, feminine look that my room had.
She’d gone full-on cottage-core, or maybe it was more nineties witchy-core. Whatever it was called, it was a vibe. Full of dried flowers, crystals, candles, thrifted art, and a bed covered in lush linens and enclosed inside a gauzy white canopy.
“Okay. I have it,” she said, hopping up, smirking. “Do we happen to have any limes?” she asked.
“Ah, yeah, I think so.” We usually had some citrus rolling around at the bottom of the produce bin, all but forgotten until we needed it for something.
“Should we… put it in the coconut?” she asked, brows wiggling, waiting for me to get the reference.
A small smile started to tug at my lips.
“I think we need… Midnight Margaritas!” she said, throwing her arms up, twirling in a circle, then shimmying her way to the kitchen.
When we’d been little, we used to watch and rewatch Practical Magic and dream of being Sally and Gillian when we grew up. Mostly because, well, that was kind of who we were.
She was crazy, risk-taking, take-no-shit, romantic Gillian.
I was practical, careful, shy Sally.
We used to try to cast the spells they did when they were girls, bringing our future loves into our lives.
Gillian wanted someone exotic and mysterious with dark hair and a fancy car.
I’d wanted someone tall, stable, and kind. With a beard. The beard had been terribly important to me for some reason.
We’d always loved the Midnight Margaritas scene and swore that, when we were old enough, we would have our own nights like those.
Usually, they were reserved for nights when one of us had a hard day. Work troubles, boy troubles, just the blues.
But every once in a while, one of us would hear the music blaring, just barely covering the whirring of the blender, and it would be a fun night of dancing around, drinking, and just relishing in some spontaneous joy.
So while Triss got the margaritas started—since she claimed I always skimped on the booze—I went ahead and got the music going.
“Let’s have it on the back porch,” she called as she brought the tray with the pitchers and glasses out of the kitchen a few moments later.
I wanted to object, to remind her that the heat was set to hell, despite night having fallen hours before.
But I figured that after I got a drink or two in me, I wouldn’t really care anymore.
So out onto the back porch we went, cracking open the windows to the inside so the music could spill out.
Then we drank.
Well, Triss chugged.
I sipped.
Because it tasted like straight-up tequila. I figured once she was distracted, I would go grab some more of the mix and pour it in to cut the taste.
Until then, I was enjoying the music and the ambiance with our little solar twinkle lights draped across the wooden beams above our heads, and the mushroom solar lights I had strategically placed in the flower beds to make them look like a fairy garden. And, of course, the stars.
“Come on!” Triss said, drunk off her ass as she reached for both of my hands, pulling me up out of my chair, then dancing me off of the porch, around the side of the yard, heading toward the front.
I was vaguely aware of the rumble of a motorcycle. Unusual in our area, but nothing that I felt like I needed to note, not as Triss spun me around like we used to do when we were little kids, and I felt more drunk off of that than the margarita.