“He told the bartender to call the cops,” the officer said, sounding sheepish. “When I got there, he confessed to wanting to drive drunk. He told me if I didn’t arrest him, he’d probably get behind the wheel.”
The two cops bowed their heads closer, whispering and gesturing, occasionally glancing over at Aberlour.
Aberlour didn’t have superhuman hearing. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he could tell they were just mostly confused anyway.
To be fair, he was also drunk, so perhaps his judgement wasn’t the best.
He was sitting on the floor, not caring that it was probably still sticky with remnants of piss and puke, his legs stretched out in front of him, his head lolling against the cinderblock wall.
He was drunk. Well past the point of making good choices, and two seconds away from fucking up his life even further. He was a danger to everyone, including himself, which is exactly why he’d turned himself in.
“Son?” Aberlour looked up. The sergeant had a large mustache that twitched when he spoke. He looked uneasy, almost awkward.
“Your emergency contact isn’t picking up.”
Aberlour nodded, because of course he wasn’t.
He imagined the voicemail message they’d get instead. Marcus’ voice, deep and warm, politely asking the caller to try back at a later time, or leave a message he wouldn’t listen to.
“Did you leave a message?” Aberlour asked with a laugh.
“Yes,” the sergeant replied.
Abe did his best not to scoff. Cops usually didn’t like being mocked.
There was a long pause. He looked at Aberlour expectantly, like Aberlour might know who else to call.
“It’s fine,” he said. “I’ll just sleep it off right here.”
With a hesitant nod, the sergeant shrugged and walked away.
The floor was cold, the wall was rough. He shut his eyes and nodded off slowly. It wasn’t the best sleep of his life, but he thought it might not have been the worst either. Morning arrived and there was a cop calling his name, dragging him out of his drunken stupor.
“Aberlour,” the officer said.
He stretched his neck and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes before he turned to look at him. He still felt drunk, which was odd considering sleep should have helped him return to sobriety.
“Yup,” he said, struggling to his feet.
“Your ride is here.”
It couldn’t be.
Aberlour shoved himself forward, grabbing the bars like the floor might give out.
Marcus was dead. Aberlour had seen it. His head, his blood. He’d seen it all. It couldn’t be. His ride couldn’t be—
“You look like shit,” Oliver declared.
It was rude, but it wasn’t a lie.
Oliver looked good. Well dressed. Put together. He was wearing jeans and a nice burgundy sweater that outlined a muscular chest and wide shoulders. His dirty blond hair was brushed back from his forehead, long as always. His big blue eyes were the same as ever. Only his smile was missing. Instead, he was scowling in annoyance.
Aberlour didn’t really have the words to reply to Oli’s insult. He’d never expected Oli to show up. They hadn’t spoken in months. Not since they’d parted ways at the funeral, and Oliver had been swept away by his family and girlfriend, leaving Aberlour behind for good.
“You’re free to go,” the officer said, holding the cell door open for Aberlour. For a second, he toyed with the idea of ripping the door from the man’s hands and slamming it shut inOliver’s face. He didn’t. It would be futile. Oliver had the key. He’d always had the key to Aberlour.
Instead, he dragged his sorry ass out of the cell, each step a little heavier than the last. He didn’t stop for a sermon. He nodded towards the officer and started walking. One foot in front of the other. Slowly, like a man walking to the gallows, until he stepped out into the cold evening and filled his lungs with fresh air.
