Aberlour grunted in response as he kept working a divot in the bar with his thumbnail, chipping away at the wood, as this place was chipping away at his patience.
“Come on, Gav, it’s my engagement party.”
Aberlour heard a dramatic sigh of annoyance. It was so familiar. The tone, the gentle humour. He could have picked Oli’s voice out of a crowd anytime, anywhere.
Indeed, this was an engagement party to remember. Complete with over-the-top decorations and overdressed guests. The invitation he’d received was not totally unexpected. Why the fuck he’d showed up, that was for the devil to tell.
“Right,” he answered with an awkward nod.
Then Oliver’s hand landed on his shoulder. A strong, sturdy hand. Familiar and warm.
“Let me buy you a beer, yeah? For old time’s sake,” Oliver said cajolingly, and when Aberlour turned to refuse, that beautiful smile was the same as it had always been. Impossible to ignore, heartbreaking at its core.
“Sure,” he answered, giving in like always. It was pathetic. But inevitable.
Oliver placed an order with the bartender while Aberlour did some people watching.
The place was packed with way too many people. Preppy, bougee folks who filled the high-end cocktail lounge and restaurant that served $20 cocktails. He’d seen Oliver’s parents doing their usual kiss-ass, glad-handing first thing. A few childhood friends were there, too, who he recognized fromOliver’s pictures. Everyone else was a stranger to him. All dressed up for the occasion, they looked like a bunch of lawyers and politicians. Aberlour was distinctly out of place.
“Here,” Oli extended the long neck beer to him, and Aberlour took it with a quick nod and a tense smile.
“I’m so glad you came,” he said, and Aberlour wished he hadn’t.
“Sure,” he replied automatically. He didn’t really want to get into anything, so he figured he’d keep this conversation short and sweet. Tactically, it seemed wise.
“I’m being honest.”
“I’m not.” He tipped the beer back for a long swallow and tried to block out Oliver’s gaze that remained fixed on his profile.
Crowded places made him anxious and were nausea-inducing. Being at the fairgrounds was one thing, since the booth was his own space and the environment was completely familiar. But going to a new bar or a crowded restaurant always made him twitchy. The compulsion to keep looking over his shoulder constantly plagued him, his sixth sense telling him an enemy combatant was ready to shoot him or stab him if he didn’t remain vigilant.
“Then why did you come?” Oliver challenged him, dragging him back to the present.
Oliver was always pushing. Never leaving well enough alone. Aberlour had shown up. Wasn’t that enough?
Aberlour wasn’t falling for this trick. He looked out across the crowd and took another swig of beer.
“This ten-dollar imported beer tastes like shit, by the way,” he commented, instead of answering Oliver’s question. He didn’t want to, and he sure as fuck didn’t have to. He felt Oliver’s gaze burning holes in the side of his face, but he wasn’t going to give in. Not this time, goddammit. Not here. Not now.
“Oh, fuck you!” Oliver snapped furiously. The emotional response was so sincere, so genuine, that Aberlour forgot all about not giving in and turned to face him.
“Why’d you come if you’re going to act like a cunt?” he hissed.
Oliver goddamned Darling was incredibly angry, as Aberlour lived and breathed. He nearly smiled at the sight of all that glorious temper on display. But these days smiling took too much effort, so he didn’t bother.
“Maybe because I couldn’t quite fucking believe it when I got the nice little pink invite.”
Perhaps that was the answer Oliver had anticipated, or maybe it wasn’t even close. Either way, the anger fell away from Oliver as quickly as it had emerged. Rolling off him like water off a duck’s back. Aberlour was bitter with jealousy. Anger stuck to Aberlour like gum on his shoe.
“I told you I was going to do it. I called you,” Oliver responded defensively, like he too couldn’t quite believe the pink envelope and its laughable invitation.
Hehadcalled Aberlour. Time and time again, but Aberlour had never picked up. It wouldn’t have mattered. The end result would have been the same. The whole thing had been well orchestrated by Oliver’s mother from the get-go. He’d always known how this would all play out. And now here he was, locked in a debate that he couldn’t fucking win in this lifetime. Nor the next.
A fucking wedding. Oliver was getting married to the bitch in charge. Oliver had fucking proposed. To her. Aberlour would have laughed, but he was afraid something else would come out instead. And it wouldn’t be pretty or something he wanted to expose to the light of day.
“Guess I’m just used to you not seeing things through,” Aberlour answered, and the words hung in the air betweenthem. Maybe Oliver hadn’t thought he’d bring it up. Maybe Oliver had forgotten that Aberlour never could keep his mouth shut. Maybe Oliver had forgotten—well, most likely every-fucking-thing.
He wasn’t sure why he was so angry. He hadn’t come here with the intention of lashing out. He’d come—well, it wasn’t all that clear—but it wasn’t to lash out. So why was he doing exactly that?
