A Love Letter to Whiskey (31 page)

AFTER THAT, THINGS HAPPENED
in threes.

Three days, I let myself mourn. In my head, I checked into an in-and-out version of rehab, housed at Casa a la B. As soon as my plane landed, I turned off my phone, stocked the house with wine, beer, vodka, everything
but
whiskey, along with copious amounts of junk food, and got down to business. I changed into my favorite pair of sweats and a loose sweater that hung off my shoulder and I didn’t change into any other clothing until the seventy-two hours was up.

In those hours, I thought long and hard about a lot of things. I thought about work, about my current situation, about my family, about what point I was at in my life. At the forefront of my mind was Jamie and I — what we were, what we weren’t. I listened to classical music mostly, took a lot of baths, gave myself room to think and cry and do whatever was necessary in the withdrawal process. I drank too much, ate very little even though I had plenty there, and at the end of it all, I came out with three very solid conclusions.

One, I was where I needed to be. I wasn’t going to regret staying in Pittsburgh or taking the full-time job with Rye Publishing. I loved what I did, who I worked with, and how my future looked. I worked damn hard to make it to where I was. I knew going into my internship that the likelihood of me getting a full-time position was slim to none, and yet I’d impressed the shit out of them and landed a permanent spot. There were no regrets there. And, though I missed the surf, I really did love the city. I loved who I was becoming. Sure, I was lonely, but I had offers to go out — to make friends — I just had to start taking them. I could do that. It took me so long to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. Once I found it, I’d held tight to it, and now it was the only thing one hundred percent certain in my life.

Two, I was like my father. And that was okay. I had always said I was a combination of him and my mother, and it was true. I had his selfish tendencies, but they were balanced out by my mom’s giving heart. I was angry with myself for leading with my father’s half for the last several months, but I knew I couldn’t change that. And in a way, I didn’t want to. Everyone needs to be selfish at one point or another in their lives. Sometimes it’s okay to put yourself first, and I didn’t regret chasing my dream or standing on my own two feet. I only regretted losing someone I loved in the process. But now, it was about looking forward, and in my future I saw nights out with friends, a balance of work and fun, spending more time on the phone with my mom and less at my desk. Well, at least a
little
less.

Three, and perhaps the most difficult conclusion I came to was this: I had been blind. I thought I knew what Jamie and I were, what had developed between us — and in a way, I did — but in a larger way, I didn’t. What I did know, I shied away from, afraid of consequences. Afraid of burning. You see, I realized that I loved him, I realized that he loved me, but that wasn’t enough. Because what I
didn’t
realize was that Jamie bruised my heart that first day we met, when he literally ran into me, and every time I’d seen him since then, it had been like jabbing that bruise with granite fingers. A self-inflicted wound. I liked the way it hurt with him, the way it stung, the way it wasn’t perfect — and so did he. But I was done hurting myself. I was done hurting him, too.

I wasn’t sober for even a single minute of my three-day bender, yet I emerged with a clear head and clean spirit.

That was, until the next round of threes hit.

It took three months for Jamie to try to call me. When he did, I ignored him twice, but my curiosity got the best of me on the third call and I picked up.

“B?”

That’s all it took, him asking my name on a breath of desperation.

“I’m here, Jamie.”

He breathed, either with a sigh of relief or uncertainty. “I am so, so sorry. God, I was such a fucking dick to you. I was monstrous. And you didn’t deserve any of that.”

“You’re damn straight I didn’t.”

“I didn’t know what to do when you showed up, okay? I was already drunk, I was confused, I was blindsided.” He paused, and I lifted the wine to my lips. I was going to wait. I was going to let him talk. “B, I can’t… I don’t know how to live in a life where you’re not a part of it.”

I gulped my wine a little too hard, fighting the urge to choke as I sat up straighter on my sofa. My eyes blurred with tears from the liquid going down the wrong pipe and I took a moment to gather myself, which left more time for Jamie to talk.

“I know things are different between us… I guess I was holding onto what we could have been at Alder or something, I don’t know. I never meant to pressure you and I never meant to lose my shit on you, either. Sometimes you really do drive me crazy,” he said with a chuckle and I smiled at that, because I knew the feeling. All too well. “But I need you, as a friend, B. I have to have you as a friend.”

Friends.

My mind flashed back to the times we’d agreed on that very sentiment — and failed. Jamie Shaw and I couldn’t be just
friends
— we didn’t know how. Still, my stomach was tightening and curling in on itself as I sat on the phone with him. I missed him — so much — and here he was apologizing and asking me to stay in his life. I wanted him in mine. I knew it wasn’t smart, I think I would have bet money right then and there that it would blow up in our faces, but I didn’t care. Once again, even after my stint in rehab, I chose being selfish over being careful.

I sighed. “You never lost me, Jamie. You never could.”

And it was true. I couldn’t think of one scenario where he would lose me forever, because a piece of my soul was tied to that boy — and I had already lost so much of myself at that age, I refused to let go of what little I still held onto.

We talked on the phone for another three hours, and it took me all three to tell him I was sorry, too.

Three weeks after that, Mom and Wayne eloped. Then, they bought a boat, sold everything else, and decided to live on it. She told me all this over a nine-minute video chat, her and Wayne laughing like kids the entire time as they told me how crazy but
right
it felt. I couldn’t have been happier for them, but it reminded me in a place far in the back of my mind just how lonely I was.

And so, I threw myself back into work and managed to finish out my online master’s degree, but I made sure I scheduled in fun. I went out with the crew after work, happy hours and Pirate games whenever I could. I explored more of my city, even taking the time to go up on the Deumont Incline to see it from the best view. Jenna flew in for one week in March and it snowed, so we went sledding for the first time in our lives at a park just outside of the city. I still talked to Mom whenever I could — whenever she wasn’t busy traveling with Wayne — which was rare, but I took any chance I could.

Three people were promoted before me, and in August, almost a year to the day since my first promotion, I made Literary Agent.

I already had an impressive list of clients, and they started growing rapidly once I had the official title and the means to get things done my own way without jumping through as many hoops. Commission was steadily building, changing my income in ways I wasn’t expecting, and Randall knew me by name, which I couldn’t say for everyone in our office. It seemed I had made just as many friends as I had enemies — which meant I was doing something right.

Everything was looking up. Jamie and I were actually succeeding at being friends. We didn’t talk all the time, but we texted when we could, and called each other from time to time. That familiar ache and burn was still there when we talked, especially when he brought up Angel, but it wasn’t as loud, and I was busy enough not to let myself dwell on it. Everything was fine.

Everything was
just
fine.

The phone rang three times on September 3rd, on a gray, cool day in the city. I watched the drizzle settle like fog over Market Square out my window as I answered.

He said only three words, but it was everything he
didn’t
say that I heard loudest. Because you see, I was waiting for him to tell me why.
How.
I was waiting for him to tell me he was kidding, or that I’d misheard him. I was waiting for him to take it back, to rewind time, to let me figure out how I hadn’t seen it coming. But he didn’t say any of that. He said only three words.

“I’m getting married.”

I ended up in a bar that night — the bar right under my apartment building. I flipped a manicured middle finger up to the voice in my head telling me I was stronger, that Jamie Shaw rehab had worked, that I had a program I could follow to find solace. It was all bullshit. Those three words hit me over and over and over again, each time with more force, each hit reminding me
just friends
was
just impossible
. So, I self-medicated.

Three shots of Fireball.

And then River walked in.

“YOU’RE
FUNNY
,” I SAID,
smiling as I poked River in the chest.

He quirked one brow, amused, and lifted his gin and tonic slowly to his lips. “Am I now?”

I nodded. “Mm-hmm.” Then, I sipped my own drink — my water — because clearly I had had enough. In fact, I couldn’t even remember why I said River was funny. Did he make a joke? I wasn’t sure.

I wasn’t sloppy drunk, but I was definitely solidly buzzed. My feet were warm, smile loose, eyes hazy. I was still dressed in the yoga pants and loose t-shirt I’d been wearing in my apartment, and I didn’t even feel a little ashamed about it.

I thought it would make me feel better to drink, to get out of the house, but it didn’t. That fact didn’t stop me from word vomiting to River in the hopes that it could change.

“Did I tell you he asked me to be his
Best Lady
?” I laughed, stirring the black straws in my glass of water, wondering if it would turn to vodka if I stirred long enough.

“You did.”

“You know. Like the best man, like his number one. Except I’m a girl.”

“Right.”

“I said yes, of course,” I added quickly. “Because we’re so close, and I love him, but like…
really?
” I shook my head. “It feels weird.”

“Feels to
me
like this guy really did a number on you,” River mused, turning to face me more head on. His legs were so long, stretching out to rest on the heels of my own bar stool. I looked at him more closely that night, noting the light tone of his hair, the brightness of his eyes, the way his hair was always so put together.

“Yeah,” I finally whispered.

“So, I’m going to go out on a ledge here but… is the guy you’ve been talking about Jamie?”

The fog in my head cleared a little at the mention of his name. Suddenly, my brain kicked into overtime, thinking over everything we’d talked about that night. What had I told him? How much did I spill? I traced back, remembering that I told him an ex was getting married, which was actually kind of a lie, but easier to explain. I told him we hadn’t been split up but a year, which was true. I’d told him about us ending on bad terms at first, but reconciling, remaining friends, and then the phone call.

So, not much. But still, enough.

Enough for me to feel oddly protective of Jamie’s name. I didn’t want him to be known as an asshole, because he wasn’t. In all actuality,
I
was the asshole. I also didn’t like the fact that River remembered Jamie’s name. Had he really seen it that many times on my phone? And what if Jamie ever flew up here to visit me — would River treat him badly knowing all I’d just divulged?

Nothing was making sense, but I somehow found the response I felt was right.

“Nah, you don’t know him. Just an ex.”

“That you were dating last summer as an intern?”

River’s gaze was questioning. Not accusatory, not prodding, just curious.

“We never actually
dated,
technically. Like, if you want to talk titles and all. I don’t know. New topic,” I said, waving the bartender down to refill my water.

River’s hand darted out and grabbed the bottom of my bar stool. He tugged me closer, our knees touching, and he leaned in close. “You’ve been talking about this guy all night, and now when we’re getting down to the root of it, you want a change of subject. Talk to me.”