Miriam shook it. “Your place is incredible. Thank you for accommodating this last-minute deluge of ridiculous singing people.”

Ernie smirked. “Y’all aren’t nearly as bad as the tourists. What can I bring you?”

Hannah took over. “We want two of the Fried Everything platters, Cass-style, to start with, please, while these hooligans settle down enough to figure out what they want to eat. And, a pitcher?” She looked around, shaking her head at them. “Does everyone but Noelle want beer?”

“Cole also doesn’t drink,” Miriam said. “Bring him anything with caffeine and sugar, he’ll be fine. Wait, what’s Cass-style?” She flipped over the menu, trying to find what she’d missed.

“Everything’s kosher,” Noelle said. “It’s on the secret menu.” Warmth washed over Miriam at the idea that this small-town dive bar had loved her aunt Cass so much, they had a secret kosher menu.

Noelle turned to Cole. “You don’t drink, either?”

Cole was busy building an elaborate structure out of sugar packets. Ernie was watching him like he was an overgrown child who should not be allowed out by himself.

“Nah,” Cole said. “Both my parents are alcoholics, seems like genetic Russian roulette tee-bee-aitch. I mean, never tell them I said that. They don’t think they’re alcoholics, just ‘well pickled.’ Anyway”—he did spirit fingers—“I make enough bad decisions without adding a lack of inhibitions. What about you?”

“I played the game of genetics and lost,” Noelle admitted. “I drank my whole lifetime share of beer before my twenty-first birthday, so now I let other people drink instead.”

Miriam was torn between loving Noelle and Cole bonding and dreading that she had to talk to Tara, pretty much immediately. She turned to Ernie, who was waiting for them to decide, and said, “A pitcher of hot cocoa, if you please.”

Ernie went to leave until Miriam called out, “Wait! This is very important. Is your lipstick transfer proof?” If she was staying here, she was going to start making friends, and this seemed like the place to start.

“It’ll still be on when I’m buried, probably,” Ernie said. “I’ll write all the details on the check.”

“You’re an angel,” Miriam told her seriously.

Ernie looked down at her beer-soaked Ramones shirt, torn-up skinny jeans, and decade-old Chucks and nodded. “I am.”

“Is that why things were tense with your parents? The alcoholism?” Tara asked Noelle, sounding genuinely interested, the ice in her tone thawed. When her hair brushed past Miriam, it smelled like star jasmine, cutting through the grease and hops and musk. The floral smell was comforting, but it didn’t make fireworks explode inside her the way Noelle’s citrus and Old Spice did.