But she was pretending to be okay.
The whisky goes down.
I order another.
You should stop, a small rational voice somewhere in my head warns.
Go to hell, the rest of my alcohol-soaked brain replies.
The pub door opens.
I don’t even look up.
I don’t care who comes in or leaves.
I just want to be left alone with my guilt and self-destruction.
But naturally, the universe has other plans.
Footsteps approach.
Someone sits on the stool beside me.
“McLeod.”
His voice is cautious, like he’s talking to an injured animal.
Which honestly isn’t far from the truth.
I glance up at the newcomer.
“Jamie MacNeil,” I say flatly.
I pour every ounce of bitterness I’m feeling into those two words.
Perfect.
Really.
Because apparently my night wasn’t miserable enough already.
I lift my glass in a mock toast and drink.
“You should probably slow down with that,” he says.
I shoot him a dark glare while he settles onto the bench across from me.
“Thanks for the medical advice. I’ll keep it in mind.”
He orders a beer, waits for Ewan to bring it over, then looks back at me.
“I came to the Games to figure some things out. About Glenfield. About the past.”
I don’t answer.
None of this concerns me.
Nothing in this town truly does.
