“Why? What happened between you? When did you stop playing practical jokes on each other?”
“Come on, Dylan. Can I call you Dylan? I wouldn’t be here if things were rosy between John and me. He told you that I was screwing up, didn’t he?”
“He told me he suspects that you’re suffering from post-traumatic stress.”
He looked away from her, stretched his neck, readjusted his shoulders, drew his legs in, and rubbed his hands up and down his thighs. “Did he tell you the nature of that trauma?”
When he looked at her again, she gave him a small nod. He noticed a tiny twitch at the corner of her lips and a sorrowful blink of her eyes, which held steady on his. Those subtle indications of sympathy were more effective than an outpouring of platitudes would have been. He couldn’t have stomached that. He’d heard enough banalities to last him a lifetime. For all the goddamn good they’d done.
He didn’t say anything for some time, his eyes roving around the room, his jaw working in spite of his trying to keep it from clenching. He was aware of her watching him closely.
Eventually, he came back to her. “Did John tell you that after…” He cleared his throat. “That after, I developed a fondness for the grape? Actually, that’s a figure of speech. My drink of choice was gin, and it’s not usually made from grapes.”
“Tell me about that.”
“About gin? Well, it’s made from various grains with lots of botanicals added, but always juniper berries. In mid-nineteenth-century England, so many people got hooked on it, they nicknamed it blue ruin. Do you know why they called it that? Do you know that bit of trivia? Do you like trivia?”
She ignored his bullshit. “I was told you went on and off the wagon.”
He gave a definitive nod. “Yessss. Several times. Bowie, who was still my friend then, covered for me.”
“Until he’d had enough, he said.”
“Yeah. One morning when I failed to come to work, heshowed up at my house and found me…” He shuddered. “I’ll spare you the details, but it was a messy scene. John wasn’t touched by my, uh… illness. Rather than show some compassion, the son of a bitch drew a line in the sand. It was either AA or unemployment.
“So, I signed up for AA. Secretly, of course. Out of town. He and I kept it hush-hush. Beth knew. No one else outside our tight little circle. Wanna hear the twelve steps? I thought the ten commandments were rigid, but whew.”
Unfazed, she said, “Lieutenant Bowie told me that you got sober and stayed sober for six months.”
“Um-huh.”
“Until last Saturday night, when you suffered a relapse.”
“Relapse? That’s a nice way of putting it.”
“Bowie believes it was prompted by the date.”
He chewed the inside of his cheek, saying nothing. Immediately after realizing that he was jiggling his knee, he forced it to be still.
Softly she asked if he would like some water and motioned toward the bottles on the end table. “No thanks.” Then, “There’s not a clock in here. Is that on purpose? How much time is left?”
“Don’t worry about the time,” she said. “Is Bowie wrong about the anniversary date contributing to the episode last week?”
“I can say anything I want to, right?”
“Yes.”
“I can also sit here like a stump and say nothing at all, right?”
“Yes. But sitting here in hostile silence wouldn’t be very helpful.”
“Not helpful toyou. But my hostile silence could be just the therapy I need.” He stood, picked up his jacket, and pulled it on.“I don’t think you and I would ever be a good fit.” He came this close—this close—to adding a sexual context to that, but thought better of it. “It’s been nice knowing you, but I’m outta here, and I ain’t coming back.”
She had stood up along with him. “I wish you would reconsider.”
“I’ll bet you do. You’ll miss out on a paying gig. The mandated sessions with me could really add up. Let’s see, two a week for six weeks.” He started counting on his fingers. “That’s—”
“Mitch,” she said in a chastening tone. “Insulting me is no more effective than wisecracking. Please think about—”
