“Refill?” she asks Lo.
He shakes his head. “No, I’m good.”
“Cheers.” I raise my glass at him, and he watches me with narrowed fucking eyes. I put the rim to my lips. Stop me, Lo.
This is a high stakes game of chicken.
And he doesn’t move a muscle or say a fucking word.
I tip the glass back, and the sweet taste of Fizz mixes with the sharpness of whiskey.
Scotch whiskey.
He drank alcohol.
The more I repeat it, the more irritated and concerned I become. I drink half the glass, waiting for him to say something, to grab it out of my hand. But no matter if regret flashes in his eyes, he watches with a cold, dead gaze like I deserve this shit. Like this is my penance for ignoring him for over twenty years.
I set the glass down.
And it takes me a moment to process the weight of what happened.
I just broke my nine years of sobriety.
I stare right at him. “I hope you enjoyed that.”
“Which part? Me drinking or watching you do it?”
I am trying not to explode on him. My muscles are on fucking fire. I grab the glass again, about to down the last of it, but he surprisingly steals it from me, passing it to the bartender.
“He’s done,” Lo says. When he turns back on me, he adds, “If you’re this big of an asshole sober, I can’t imagine what kind of asshole you are drunk.”
I grab his arm before he jumps off the stool and disappears through the tightly packed crowd. “You can’t do this shit,” I growl. “You’re supposed to call me if you have a craving to drink. I could have talked you out of it.”
“Maybe I didn’t want to talk to you!” Lo shouts all of sudden. He hops off the barstool, and I follow, having only an inch height advantage. We face each other, unresolved hate strung between us.
He doesn’t know anything about my childhood, and I don’t expect him to ask. All I wanted was a chance to undo what I had done wrong. To be there for him, to be his brother, and Lo makes it so fucking hard. He never gives me a reprieve like Connor.
“Then call Lily,” I say, “your fucking fiancée, who would be in tears if she saw you right now. Did you fucking think about her when you drank? Did you consider what this would do to her?”
Lo’s face twists. He won’t punch me. “I’m done with this shit,” he says. He’s about to walk away.
I grab him by the arm, not letting him go that easily. “You can’t run from your fucking problems. They’re there twenty-four-seven. You have to deal.”
“Don’t talk about dealing. You won’t even text Dad back. You’re ignoring him like he’s not even alive.” He shakes his head, venom pulsing in his eyes. “You’re doing the same thing to him that you did to me. So why don’t you just do what you do best and pretend that I don’t fucking exist.”
His words slice cleanly through me, the pain like a fucking swift punch to the gut. Lo never needs his fists to fight. He shoves past me, and Connor stops him before he leaves the pub, calming him down.
I hold onto the bar, training my breath to normalize. When it does, I scan the crowds for Daisy. I spot her with Christina and another male model, his jaw chiseled. He leans in close to Daisy, licking his lips as he talks.
What the fuck?
Not tonight.
Seeing that—it’s enough for me to start weaving through the fucking people to reach her. I don’t like her body language that’s angled towards Christina, away from the guy, silently telling him to back off.
They stand by a high-table littered with beer bottles and spilt liquor. The taste of scotch still lingers on my tongue, making me nauseous. Some people recall the perfume their mom wore with fondness, the cigar smell on their late father’s shirt, the cologne, the shampoo—but for me, I smell and taste scotch and I remember my father sitting across from me in a fucking country club. I remember his sharp gaze, his fingers tapping the glass in annoyance, as though the world moved too slowly for him.
I feel like I ingested my past, full of bad memories. It’s a sickening nostalgia.
I try to ignore it as I approach Daisy. The moment she sees me, her face brightens, but it dies down when she absorbs my features. “Do we need to leave?”
“Not yet,” I tell her, my hand finding the small of her back. “Who’s your friend?” He’s been sizing me up this whole fucking time, a beer clutched in his hand. His pupils are also dilated.
“This is Christina,” Daisy says, her arm hooking with that young model. She sheepishly meets my eyes, her cheeks already reddening. “She’s in the same agency as me.”