Pass the Nirvana

I'd never been to a bar before.

I didn't know if this really counted as one, being in a home and all. Black and white marble cabinets housed troves of liquor, and a line of people had snaked around the bar itself; men and women lounged in armchairs and couches, enjoying a generous view of Lake Champlain in the moonlight from the truly giant window that stretched from wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling.

Liv had sidled into an opening at the bar, pulling me along to take a small space beside her. My gaze shifted uneasily from her rounded face to the bottles just behind the bar. "Hey, uh - Liv?"

She pursed her lips. "Before you start your next sentence, consider very carefully: I'm not letting you *not* drink."

"Nevermind," I hummed. Alright then - plan B. Which of these looked least likely to taste like cough syrup? "What's, uh, that bottle there? Korvoiser?"

"What the fuck did you just say?" Liv blinked at me, owlish, then followed to where I was looking. "Oh my god. Courvoisier. Yeah, no, you're not having that."

"Kor-vas-ee-ay," I repeated under my breath. "Courvoisier. That's a weird way to spell it."

"It's French, dumbass."

"I know it's fucking French-"

"Three shots of tequilaaaa," Max sang, popping up behind Liv like a ghoul. He must've slipped away to grab the shots, complete with

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