These are for Capricorn 75, because she asked and I couldn't wait until January. Hope you're feeling okay, Cappy! I think there will be like 4 or 5 of them.
Also Known As: The Epilogues
Epilogue 1.
Turns out, I don't actually hate beer. Emmett and his old man opened a microbrewery on the Northern Beaches just after we finished school, and they offered me a gig tending bar. As a result, I discovered that my problem was not with beer—it was with shitty beer. Like Alec's bloody VB.
It's a pretty cool job. They let me set my hours around my uni timetable, and I get to wear board shorts to work. If it weren't for WHS codes, I'd probably wear thongs, too. The Brewery's philosophy is lazy Sunday arvos, sand between your toes, and cracking a cold one open with the taste of the surf still on your skin. Timber floors the colour of sand, sea blue leather, laidback music: It's the kind of place I'm happy to hang out in even when I'm not getting paid.
Tonight, I knock off at eleven, pour myself a schooner of the Dark Red Ale Emmett's been working on, and snag a stool on the other side of the bar.
"Where's mine?" A pretty brunette steals my beer, swallows half of it in one go, then offers me her cheek. I kiss it and pull her between my knees.
"Hey, you."
My Jasmine looks tired. She spent the afternoon at a friend's place, working on a group assignment for one of her classes, and then she was rostered on for the dinner shift at the Thai restaurant across the street from The Brewery.
Her hair's damp, though, and she doesn't smell like the Thai basil she likes to chew while she's working, so I figure she must've gone home to have a shower before coming in. That's a good sign—if she wanted to have an early night she wouldn't have bothered going home first.
"Good night? Pretty busy in here."
"Yep. Been like this since about four o'clock this arvo."
She finishes my beer off, then catches Emmett's eye and holds up two fingers.
He pulls two bottles from the fridge and pops the lids. "This just got bottled Friday," he says. "Let us know what you think."
Before we can even take a sip, his attention is claimed by a trio of blondes in brightly coloured sundresses, similar to the one Bella is wearing.
My girl leans against me as she brings her beer to her lips.
"You okay, babe?"
She nods. "Just a long day. I wanna have some fun." She winks at me and I groan softly. Anticipating, not complaining.
Because "fun" with this girl could mean skinny-dipping at Freshy at two in the morning, then climbing up to our cave to wait for the sun to rise. Or it could mean catching a cab into the city so we can walk across the Bridge because she wanted to feel the breeze from up there, or maybe it could mean going on what she calls a "gelato crawl" through Surry Hills and Darlinghurst.
We've been together for three years now, and things are going pretty spectacularly. I mean, yeah, we fight sometimes. Who doesn't? But mostly, it's a blast just being with her. She's my best friend, as well as my girlfriend, and even when she's dragging me through the Cross at three o'clock in the morning, I'm almost always smiling. I'd probably follow her anywhere.
Sure, she has some annoying habits—just dumb stuff really. Like, when she stays over at my flat, she insists we wash the dishes by hand. Which, seriously? That's the whole point of having a dishwasher. But she calls it a "bonding experience," which is code for her picking a topic to debate, then twisting everything I say until I have no idea what my point was in the first place.
She has some strange insecurities, too, but so do I. She hates her shoulders; I don't like my teeth. She worries about the wobble of her thighs and bum and stresses out about wearing a bikini to a crowded beach. I see the ripped dudes checking her out in her bikini and wish I had a six pack and massive biceps—until I realise that would require joining a gym or some shit.
And she's still a deadset weirdo about me going down on her. I've tried to push her on it a couple of times over the years, assuring her I'm not at all grossed out by it, and that she's being unnecessarily neurotic. Last time, though, the discussion ended with her stamping her foot and yelling, "it's a mucous membrane, Edward!" I don't force the issue now. It's not like it's a deal breaker.
"What did you have in mind?" I take a pull of my own beer. It's the Black IPA, which I was dubious about, but it's actually pretty bloody good.
Bella shrugs, picking at the label on her beer bottle. "I'll think of something."
I chuckle. "Let me know."
thongs = flip-flops; schooner = 425mL (in NSW, anyway); arvo = afternoon.
Thanks for reading, friends. Shell x