The stool next to me is pulled out, and the older man sits beside me with a glass of water and lemon. “What are you doing here, Calloway?”
“Taking a test,” I say. I look at him and see his frown. “What are you doing here?”
“Something like a test. But mostly, I was hungry.” His hand gently smacks my shoulder. “Why did you order it?”
“It’s a test,” I say again.
He sighs deeply, huskily. “Doesn’t answer my question.”
I sigh and sit up, leaning forward on my forearms and reaching for my jar. “This was mine and Lana’s.” I hand it to him. “We saved our loose change and whatever cash we had lying around in it.”
Terrance turns it in his hands, examining it and squinting to see through the glass. “What’s that say?”
“House Jar,” I answer. “It was the money we were saving for a house one day.”
Terrance snorts and sets down mine and Lana’s jar. “You drink that, you’re not only hurting her,” he says. “You’re hurting yourself.”
“I know,” I say. “But I don’t care about me.”
“You should,” he says. “She does.”
“You think I’m a shit guy, Terrance,” I sigh, spinning the glass between my thumb and fingers.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I don’t think you’re shit because you’re sitting in a bar suffering,” Terrance says. “You don’t think I’ve done what you’re doing right now? You think you’re the only one who has all those chips but some days just needs a fucking drink?”
I swallow, nodding slowly. “I don’t want to hurt her.”
“You know how you stop hurting people, kid? You stop hurting yourself. You stop killing yourself and bleeding on people who have never even held a knife to you. And you, Christian, used to bleed all over that girl when all she was trying to do was bring you some bandaids,” he says, and I sniff. “If I think you’re a shit person doesn’t matter. Doyouthink you’re a shit person?”
I shrug, sniff again, and scratch at my jaw. I take a beat tobreathe and stare down at the tequila in the glass, waiting to be drunk. It isn’t calling my name the way it used to, maybe it’s just me calling out instead. This is just the wrong thing.
I release the glass and, with shaky fingers, push it away from me.
“Sometimes,” I answer. “Sometimes, yeah.”
“Why?”
I blink. “What?”
“Why do you sometimes think you’re a shit person?”
I shrug. “I just… The decisions…”
“Those decisions are your past, Christian,” Terrance says gently. “This, now, here with her—thisis your present. You want to know if I think you’re a shit person? I don’t. You aren’t the guy you were, I know that. You just seem too busy proving that to other people but not enough time to prove it to yourself.”
Terrance drinks his water and asks for a refill, and I push the class of tequila even farther until it’s close to the other edge of the bar.
“I’m not drinking it,” I say.
He gulps down half of his water and sighs, refreshed. “And who are you not drinking it for?”
“Myself,” I murmur.
“Go home, kid. She’s waiting for you.” Terrance claps my shoulder and gives me a small smile before he begins to walk away.
