I wanted to toss the entire glass back and feel the burn of the whiskey as it made its way down my throat and into my stomach. I knew it would erase the heartache and the pain. I knew that it would silence the thoughts that had raced through my head every minute—every second—since I’d watched her drive away.
I had thought I’d gotten the girl back. I thought our night of crazy, wild, passionate sex meant that she chose me.
I laughed, the sound bitter and poisonous to my own ears. Mick O’Riley—the bartender and owner of O’Riley’s—shuffled slowly over to me. “Something wrong?” he asked in his gruff voice. I looked up at him blankly. “With your drink. You haven’t touched it.”
“That’s probably a good thing,” I replied. I sighed heavily, willing myself to find the strength to walk away from this bar—from the enticing drink in front of me. I could practically taste it on my tongue.
“Do you need me to call someone, son?” Mick’s gruff voice was as gentle as it could get, and his light eyes held concern I didn’t want to see. I dropped my gaze back down to the glass of whiskey before me, holding it between my hands as if it could jump out at me.
“All those times my old man came in here,” I said, focused on the drink. “Did you ever ask him if he needed you to call someone?”
Mick peered at me silently. He appeared locked in some kind of memory. “I didn’t, no,” he finally answered several long minutes later. I drew in a breath, finding the act of inhaling oxygen painful. “It was a different time back then. We didn’t meddle, we just let people suffer in their brokenness, let them nurse their pain however they saw fit.”
“So why are you asking now?” I demanded, my eyes flashing with contempt and anger.
“Let me tell you a story,” Mick’s voice was as tired as his wrinkled eyes. There was no humour in his gaze, no happiness or joy—just an old, exhausted sadness that seemed to pour straight out of his irises directly from his soul. “A few days before your old man died, he stopped in here. Same story as usual—wanted to drink until he was numb. I kept the whiskey coming, because that was my job. And then Brent Miller did something he’d never done in all his years sitting on that there stool,” Mick said, gesturing with a subtle nod of his head to the very barstool I was sitting on. “He stared into his whiskey, and said ‘what have I become’.”
The silence between us was heavy and thick. I swallowed, my throat dryer than ever. “Then what happened?”
“He practically fell off the stool and stumbled outside,” Mick answered. “But he left the whiskey. It didn’t matter how drunk he got, healwaysfinished any glass I put in front of him…except for that night.”
As despicable as my old man was, and as much as I hated him and resented him for everything he put me and my siblings through—I knew the strength it took for him to walk away, to leave the glass untouched.
“Son, I can’t pretend that I understand what you’re dealing with. All I know is that there are going to be many things in this life that stress you out. Don’t give in. Remember the days that are good and hang onto them with everything you have. Then it’ll get easier to ignore the call.” He nodded down at the glass in front of me pointedly.
“How do you know that?” I demanded, scowling.
“I’ve been bartending my whole life here, I’ve seen the drink destroy many men.” Mick said warily. “You’re doing good kid,” he added. “Don’t mess it up now.”
I stood up and tossed down a couple of bills, avoiding Mick’s gaze. I nodded once, saying nothing more as I turned around and walked out of the bar to my truck. I sat in the cab for several long minutes, staring at the clock. It was nearly one o’clock in the morning, and I’d been out all evening. I’d sat on that bloody barstool for five hours.
The drive home seemed to take forever. I slammed the truck door, about to walk down the pathway that led to the basement door. I came to a stop when I saw Becky sitting on the front steps of our porch, dressed in her pajamas and a bath robe, Hunter laying down beside her. We’d been tasked with the job of taking care of Brock’s dog while they honeymooned. The poor mutt was sulking almost as much as I was.
“What are you doing up?” I asked, pausing.
“Krista texted me. Said she saw your truck parked outside of O’Riley’s. Want to tell me what you were doing there?” she asked, fighting to keep the emotion out of her voice as she stood up. Disappointment had her lips pulled down in a frown.
I inhaled, my nostrils flaring as I drew in a breath. I didn’t know how to answer; I didn’t know how to tell my sister that I’d been inches away from throwing away the last several years of recovery.
“I swear to God Braden, if you started drinking again—that’s it. You’re gone. I can’t have that around Aiden,” Becky added, her eyes welling up with tears.
“I didn’t,” I assured her, my voice as raw as I felt on the inside. “I wanted to, Becky. God I wanted to, but I didn’t.”
Becky stared at me, as if trying to decipher whether or not I was telling the truth. I met and held her gaze, wondering if she could see the honesty in my eyes, or if she just saw the ghost of our father. “What stopped you?” she whispered.
“Mick, believe it or not,” I replied. I dragged my hand through my hair, tugging at the roots. I opened my mouth, about to tell Becky the story the old bartender had told me—but it almost felt private, something that was meant for my ears only. “And the fact that I don’t want to be like Dad. I just…sometimes the thirst overwhelms me.”
“I think you need to stop this, Braden.”
I lifted my eyes up, my brows knitting together with confusion. “Stop what?”
Becky was fidgeting, her fingers tapping against the table with her restlessness. She brought them down to her lap, then placed her palms against the table—almost as if she didn’t quite know what to do with her hands. Her crystal clear blue eyes rose to meet mine. “I think you need to stop chasing Elle. It’s upsetting you, it’s making your recovery harder. You went to a bar tonight, alone for Christ’s sake.”
My eyes narrowed. The irritation I felt at Becky sticking her nose in my business yet again bubbled and boiled. “I’m not chasing her, and this isn’t her fault.” I replied, sternly. “She isn’t the cause of this,Iam.” I added, turning my back to her. “Besides, I haven’t heard from her since Monday. For all I know, she’s back with him, and maybe she belongs there.”
I heard my sister exhale, before crossing over to me and putting her arms around me. “I’m sorry, Braden. But I think you’re both hurting too much. You both need to focus on yourselves.”
I pulled away from her embrace and stomped downstairs. There wasn’t really anything I could say in response, anyway. Becky was right. Elle and I were both broken. If she had chosen to be with someone who wasn’t broken, someone who could handle her issues and didn’t bring more to the table, well I’d have to accept that somehow without self-destructing. If I had to lose Elle, I was just glad that she could be with someone like him.
