I left his office and made it to my car, gripping the steering wheel hard enough that my knuckles went white.
Brooklyn. Ten years ago. Hundreds of families displaced.
My phone felt like lead when I pulled it out. I knew what I’d find before I even opened the files. Knew it in my bones, in the sick certainty settling in my stomach.
By evening, I was three drinks deep when Jake finally showed up at the bar in Midtown.
“Jesus Christ,” he said, sliding onto the stool next to me. “Who broke your heart?”
“No one.”
“Then why are you drinking like someone died?”
The laugh that came out of me sounded wrong even to my own ears. “Maybe they did.” The words tasted like truth I didn’t want to admit.
“Okay, cryptic.” He signaled the bartender for his own drink. “You want to talk about it or just drink until you can’t remember why you’re drinking?”
“The second one.”
“Fair enough.”
We sat in silence for a while. The bar was crowded, loud with voices and laughter and the clatter of glasses. Normal people having normal evenings, unburdened by the knowledge that they’d destroyed lives a decade ago.
The whiskey burned going down but didn’t touch the cold settling in my chest.
“I might have done something unforgivable,” I said eventually, the words scraping out of me.
Jake looked at me, really looked at me. “Did you kill someone?”
“Not directly.”
“Then it’s probably forgivable. You’re being dramatic.”
I wanted to believe that. Wanted to believe there was a path back from this, a way to make it right.
“Come on,” Jake said, apparently deciding I needed distraction instead of philosophy. “There’s a group of women at the end of the bar who’ve been looking at you since you walked in. Let’s go say hi.”
“Not interested.”
“Since when are you not interested in beautiful women?”
“Since always. You know I don’t do that.”
“Your loss.” He stood, adjusted his collar, his expression confident like he’d never been turned down. “More for me. You sure? The redhead looks exactly like your type.”
“I’m sure.”
He shrugged and headed over anyway. I watched him turn on that charm that had been getting him out of trouble since we were kids. He bought drinks and made them laugh, leaning in close to one while already eyeing another.
The bartender refilled my glass without being asked. Maybe I looked like I needed it.
“Does your girlfriend know about your flirting with others?” I asked when Jake came back for his drink.
“We’re on a break.”
“A break or broken up?”
“Does it matter? A man has needs, Archie. Can’t be expected to sit around waiting.”
