“I watched Holly fight it,” Dalton went on. “So I know it ain’t easy.” His jaw ticked. “But she made a choice.”
Silence.
“And now you have to.”
Diego folded his arms. “You don’t get to keep the whiskey and her.”
Mac nodded. “Pick one.”
“Personally?” Dalton said. “I’d choose her.”
Mac pushed off the tool chest, brushing his hands on his jeans. “We can help you face your demons,” he said. “But—”
Dalton smirked, “—but when it comes to a certain five-foot-tall blonde menace…you’re on your own, brother.”
That got a real laugh—from me, from all of us. The kind that didn’t erase the pain but proved we’re still standing in it together. For the first time all day, I could breathe. .
I found a broom and started to sweep. Something, anything, to keep my hands busy. The sound of bristles on concrete filled my head where whiskey wanted to live. A discarded washer, a cigarette butt, random bits of metal. I pushed them into a dustpan like a man collecting tiny wrongs. My hands steadied. I didn’t feel better. But it was better than doing nothing.
Hours knocked by. Prospects drifted. A couple regulars came through for coffee and gossip. The sun got tired of all of us and started down. Hannah reappeared with food from time to time. The next three days went by just like that.
One evening, Hannah found me on the back steps, elbows on knees, staring at gravel like it might spell an answer if I read it long enough. She set a coffee beside me and sat with the kind of sigh that belied her age.
“You already know what to do,” she said. No preamble. No parable. “You keep waiting for someone else to tell you it’s time, so I’ll say it: it’s time.”
My eyes burned. “I don’t have the right words.”
“That’s the thing about honesty. It doesn’t have to be perfect or right. It just has to be real.” She nudged the cup toward mewith a knuckle. “You’ve got everything you need. Keys. Jacket. Backbone.”
“Backbone’s on order,” I joked half-heartedly.
She almost smiled. “Expedited shipping. Go to her. And remember, you both deserve this.”
I stood. The lot air cut clean lines through the fog in my head. My cut still smelled like rain and the kind of trouble you survived by choosing not to be the guy you were when you bought it. I grabbed my keys. My hand didn’t shake until I put them in the ignition. Then they did. I drove anyway.
Holly’s building sat square and ordinary and holy. The front light put a cheap halo on the brick. The ficus in the lobby looked healthier than I did. I took the elevator ’cause I’m pretty sure my knees wouldn’t have made it up those damn stairs. My knuckles hovered over the door like they were checking for heat.
I knocked.
Footsteps. A pause. Then the chain slid. Deadbolt. The door came three inches, four, stopped.
She looked like the longest night and the reason you waited for dawn. Hair twisted up with a pen stabbed through it. Old sweatshirt. Bare face. Eyes swollen and furious and wounded all at once. God. I had never wanted to kneel so badly in my life.
“Hey,” I said. It sounded useless.
She didn’t open the door wider.
“I’m done,” I said, and my voice shook before I could stop it. “I’m done.”
“With what?” she asked.
“With hurting you. With making you look at me like you’re already planning the funeral.”
Her jaw tightened.
“I didn’t drink,” I said quickly. “I wanted to. I stood there with it in my hand. I could feel it burning in my throat before it even touched my lips. And I thought about you.”
She didn’t soften.
