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“There’s only enough for three shots anyway. A nightcap for each of us.”
“Thank God,” Nahla says, perching on a barstool. “I have a class at ten tomorrow.”
Aran approaches hesitantly before sitting on the stool beside her. “As a teacher or as a student?” he asks while I focus hard on dividing the remaining ouzo into three shot glasses.
“I teach Hip-hop for ten-year-olds,” she answers. “Koh! You know I can’t drink this straight.”
I pour her portion into a glass, fill it with cold water, and slide the now milky drink over. “Here, my love. And you, Aran? Straight or…”
“Let’s just get it over with,” he says.
I raise my shot glass. “Za zdorówje!”
“Russian?” Nahla asks, confused.
“Then yamas!”
“Yamas!” she echoes and drinks.
Aran watches me for a moment, then clears his throat. “I thought you were Japanese.”
“Half,” I correct him. “My father is Russian, and my mother is Japanese. And my stepmother is Greek.”
His glass is still untouched. Aran presses his lips together, thinking hard.
“If you don’t like ouzo, then…”
That would be understandable. Anise isn’t for everyone. But Aran picks up the glass and throws the shot back in one go.
“Oh yes!” Nahla cheers. “But hello! Kanpai!”
“Kanpai,” Aran says in a flat voice. He sets the glass down by the stove, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and stands up. “Have fun. Nice meeting you, Nahla.” Grabbing his guitar and notebook, he disappears into his room.
“See?” I whisper. “The guy is weird.”
Nahla sips her drink and smiles. “I thought he was nice. And just saying—you two would make a really cute couple.”
I roll my eyes and slide my empty glass toward her. Nahla fills it with her watered-down mix and we clink again.
Deep down, I feel a pang of disappointment. Ever since I pushed Aran away, he’s been avoiding me.
Why does that bother me so much?
9
—
Koh
“What is this?”
My heart skips a beat. I stare into the fridge and grip the door handle. Just the tone of Luke’s voice tells me I fucked up.
I close the door and turn around. He’s standing by the stove, reaching for something out of the grocery bag.
“A steak,” I say, trying to sound casual.
Luke twists his freshly shaved face and scoffs. “I don’t eat meat.”
