I unscrewed the cap anyway. The fumes hit me instantly, sharp and aggressive. I didn't bother looking for a clean glass; the dishwasher was full of casserole dishes I hadn't unloaded. I grabbed a coffee mug from the drying rack—one of the "World's Okayest Golfer" mugs I’d given Ryan as a joke—and poured until the liquid reached the rim of the cartoon golf ball.
I brought it to my lips, my hand trembling just enough to make the liquid shudder.
The knock at the door sounded like a gunshot.
I jumped, the mug jerking in my hand. Whiskey sloshed over the rim, splashing onto my fingers and dripping onto the hardwood floor.
"Shit," I hissed, setting the mug down hard. I wiped my wet hand on my jeans, the smell of alcohol suddenly overpowering, like I’d been caught doing something illicit.
The knock came again, louder this time. Three heavy thuds.
I walked through the dark hallway to the front door, my socks sliding on the cold wood. I expected a neighbor. Maybe Mrs. Henderson returning for her serving spoon, or the Millers dropping off yet another foil-wrapped lasagna, because apparently, carbohydrates were the only cure for widowhood.
I flipped the deadbolt and pulled the door open.
It wasn't a neighbor.
Ben Walsh stood on my porch.
He looked like he had been dragged through a demolition site. He was wearing his heavy Carhartt work jacket, the canvas dark with grease stains, and his jeans were coated in a fine layer of white dust. Drywall, or plaster. It clung to his boots, his cuffs, the stubble on his jaw.
The porch light had burned out three days ago—another thing Ryan usually took care of—but the streetlamp cast enough light for me to see his face. He looked wrecked. His eyes were sinking into dark hollows, and his mouth was set in a grim line that looked painful to hold.
He looked like the physical embodiment of the wreckage I felt inside.
"Olivia," he said. His voice was rough, like he’d been swallowing gravel.
We stared at each other. I hadn't seen Ben since the funeral, and before that, I hadn't seen him in months. He had been Ryan's shadow for a decade—best man, business confidant, fixture on our couch every Sunday. And then, abruptly, he wasn't.
Now, standing in the freezing night air, I looked at him and saw the weight he was carrying. The man was haunted. Hecouldn't quite meet my eyes. He looked past me, into the dark hallway, as if expecting Ryan to walk up behind me.
"I'm sorry," he said finally. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, shivering slightly. "I got your text. I should've called. I just... I was on a job."
"You look it," I said. My voice was brittle, sharp enough to cut.
He flinched, just barely. "Can I come in?"
I thought about closing the door, telling him to go to hell, that he was six days too late. But the silence in the house was so loud I couldn't stand it anymore, and Ben—with his dust and his guilt—was the only person on earth who held the other half of the puzzle.
I stepped back and pulled the door wider.
He hesitated, scraping his boots on the mat with unnecessary force, trying to leave the mess outside. Then he stepped over the threshold. I closed the door against the wind and locked it.
"Kitchen," I said, walking past him.
I heard his heavy footsteps following me, the sound distinct and rhythmic, so different from Ryan’s long, loping stride.
The kitchen was still dark, lit only by the appliance LEDs. I didn't turn on the overheads. I didn't want him to see my swollen eyes or blotchy skin.
The mug of whiskey sat on the counter where I’d left it. I grabbed another mug—a plain white one this time—and poured.
"I'm good, Liv, I don't?—"
"Drink," I said. I shoved the white mug across the granite toward him.
He looked at the mug, then at me. He seemed to realize that this wasn't a social call. This wasn't a drink between friends mourning a loss. This was an interrogation, and the whiskey was the only lubricant I had.
He picked it up. His hands were rough, calloused, the knuckles split from the cold and the work. The white dust of the construction site was ground into his skin, a stark contrast to the smooth ceramic.
