Page 40 of A Thin Line

As I walked into the room, I realized it was…a place for drinking. I learned later that they affectionately called it the “beverage nook.” Against one wall was a wet bar and enough bottles of “beverages” to open a liquor store. There was also a refrigerator and three round tables with chairs all around. The color of the room was earthy browns accented with hunter green, and I couldn’t imagine Sinclair had been the one to design it. Instead, I imagined it had looked this way when his father had been the man of the castle.

I took a few tentative steps when he asked, “Are you old enough to drink?”

“Legally?”

He chuckled, and I couldn’t believe how much I enjoyed the sound. “I suppose that answers my question. Uh…there are a few cans of soda in the refrigerator—Coke, 7UP, and, uh, other stuff. Help yourself.”

Because there was a sink, I simply poured myself a glass of water…and then joined him at his table.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“I’m an adult…meaning I’m old enough.”

“Not to drink, though?”

“Old enough to be here—and that’s all you need to know.”

“Ah. Touchy subject.”

I suspected he already knew my age. With his money, I would have been surprised if there was anything about my dad or me he didn’t know. “Not really. I just think we judge people too much due to their age rather than other factors that might matter more.”

“Such as?”

“Competence. Ability to reason. Emotional intelligence.” As soon as the last two words were out of my mouth, I wished I could take them back, because I didn’t want him to think I was pointing a finger at his quick temper…even though, in a way, I was. So I kept talking, hoping it would help keep our conversation civil. “For instance, there was a student in my geology class last spring who was taking it for dual credit with the high school—so he was younger than me but I swear he was not only one of the smartest people I’ve ever met, but he didn’t act like a high school student. When I think of that phrase ‘old soul,’ I think of him.”

“You’re right. If you ever met my middle brother, you’d swear he was fifteen,” Sinclair said, taking a sip from his glass. “And I don’t mean that in a good young-at-heart way.”

“So why do we judge based on age?”

“Why do we judge based on anything we observe? It’s because it’s a short cut. In prehistoric times, I doubt we had time to get to know someone before making a judgment—so, for survival’s sake, we had to make quick decisions about who a person was based on their appearance, body language, and maybe something they said. It’s no different today.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“I am,” he said, a twinkle in his eye, before he tilted his glass and polished it off. “But today, we do have a chance to get to know people—and sometimes we change our minds about them.”

For a brief second, I wondered if he was talking about me, but then I thought there was no way. We were just making casual conversation—and, for all I knew, he’d had enough to drink that he was just talking without really thinking.

But because he wasn’t yelling for a change—was, in fact, acting a bit like a human being—I felt compelled to do the same. “I’m sorry you had to rescue me from those two thugs tonight.”

He shook his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

“That scratch on your cheek is kind of…nasty.”

“It will heal,” he said, getting up and crossing the room to the bar.

“But…it might scar.”

As he poured more bourbon into the glass, he grinned at me. “It wouldn’t be the first one—and, besides, they say that gives a person character.”

“It could get infected. Character or not, you don’t want that. Did you disinfect it? Those guys seemed pretty dirty.”

“They did. I washed it with soap and hot water.”

“Did you use hydrogen peroxide or antibiotic ointment?”

Putting the bottle back in place, he laughed. “No.”

“Would you let me clean it up?” When he arched an eyebrow, I added, “To return the favor?”

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