We had made a hobby of attending festivals—barbecue, beer, wine, whiskey—anything that promised good food, good drinks, and an afternoon of fun. Many were held at the now-defunct Brooklyn Expo Center, a sprawling space filled with rows of vendor tables, food trucks lined up outside, and tucked-away VIP rooms for the lucky few. One bitter February afternoon in 2022, Tom and his friends set out for the Brooklyn Whiskey and Spirits Festival. They arrived early, fueled up with lunch nearby, and then joined the line, flashing VIP wristbands like golden tickets. Inside, glasses in hand, they set off. The afternoon blurred into a whirlwind of booths and pours: scotch stalls, tequila tables, a rum hut, rosé recess, a whiskey kiosk, stout stands, and bourbon boxes. But the drink that stopped them cold was something unexpected—Root Out, a root beer–flavored whiskey. Straight, it was delicious; blended into ice cream, it was magic. Giddy with discovery, they queued up for the VIP tasting room, not realizing that the best thing that day wouldn’t be on any tasting menu. Elsewhere in the Expo, Steph was wandering with a friend and her friend’s boyfriend. They were arguing—again—so she drifted off on her own, weaving through the crowd until a curious sign caught her eye: Root Out. Root beer whiskey. It sounded… terrible. She hesitated in front of the booth, arms crossed, already deciding she wouldn’t like it. That’s when he saw her. She stood there, skeptical, frozen in indecision, and before he knew it, the words were out of his mouth: “Try it. I guarantee you’ll like it.” She turned, startled, and tilted her head back to look up at him. He grinned and pointed to the bottles. “I’m telling you—it’s so good.” Her lips curved into the faintest smile. “Okay… thanks.” And then, just like that, he walked away. Hours later, Tom and his friends were back in the main hall when he spotted her again across the crowd. His friend elbowed him and whispered, “There’s the woman from the Root Out booth. Go say hi!” She saw him at the same moment, her face breaking into a wide, easy smile. “Well?” he asked, half-teasing, half-hopeful. “Did you love it?” She laughed, a bright sound over the festival noise. “I did.” “I knew it.” He couldn’t stop smiling. “I told you! I’m Tom. What’s your name?” “Steph.” And just like that—over root beer whiskey—everything shifted.