But within minutes, Bailey is back, looking like she’d rather run out the front door than face our table again. “Your future wife sent this over. She said she knows how much you love chocolate milkshakes.” Then she darts away while I stare down at the creamy brown drink in a long-stem martini glass. With an umbrella and cherry again. These cherries are going to be the death of me. Somehow, my brain has connected them to the lipstick Summer wears, and the color isn’t even that similar. But it’s going there anyway. It’s going other places too. Like how that mouth would look
