Page 161 of A Love Letter to Whiskey
One last hit.
One last high before I committed to being clean.
The night before the wedding, when my groomsmen humored me in camping at the springs, I finally started to accept it. I watched B joking with the guys around the fire, thought of how my whole life would change in mere hours, and had this weird, sort of sad awakening.
It’s okay that she won’t be in my life the way I thought she would, I convinced myself. Because she’s still my best friend. And I won’t lose her — ever.
All my groomsmen wussed out far too early that night, retreating into their tents to sleep, and warning me I should do the same. But I was wired, my nerves a mess and my mind racing. I was far from ready to sleep.
Fortunately, B stayed up with me.
It was easy, there by the fire, catching up and talking a little about the past, about the present, about the future. I loved to listen to her go on and on about the books she’d read, about the promising authors she worked with. I teased her about becoming one herself someday.
And no, the irony of that now is not lost on me.
Eventually, we ended up on our phones, watching stupid YouTube videos as was a frequent past time for us when we were younger. We watched some of the old classics before showing each other new finds, and before long, we were laughing so hard tears pricked our eyes.
“Here, watch this,” B said, shoving her phone into my hand. “I have to find a bush to pee in.”
I laughed. “Gross.”
With a mocking curtsy, she skipped off behind the tents, and I turned my attention to her phone.
She’d pulled up a video of a lip sync battle with some of my favorite celebrities, and I laughed as I watched it play out. But then a notification came through for a missed call and a voicemail, making the video pause.
I frowned, clicking the notification. It was a call from Jenna, and I debated calling her back just to fuck with her. I hadn’t talked to her since that night I ran into her and B at the bar after I passed my CPA exam.
Because the service was so shitty out at the campsite, the call didn’t come through at all — just the voicemail.
My thumb hovered over Jenna’s name to call her back, but then, I saw it.
My name.
Not just once, not just twice, but line after line of voicemails in her log with my name next to them.
My heart stopped, ears ringing as I tapped the first one I saw.
Hey, B, it’s me. I, uh…
There were muffled noises then, and the memory came flashing back, how I was sitting on the beach watching the sun set, my board next to me. I remember wishing so badly she was next to me, too.
I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday. Twenty-one today. That’s a big one. I wish you were here so I could take you out for a proper celebration.
I tried to laugh, and even now, I remember how that fake laugh had brought tears to my eyes.
Please, B. Call me back. Please.
My throat burned as the voicemail ended, and I stared at the fire, listening as the branches and leaves rustled under B’s feet on her way back to me. I didn’t even bother to hide the screen. I waited until she stopped, and then I stood, turning to face her, and holding the screen so she could see.
“You kept my voicemails?”
B swallowed, her eyes flicking to the phone and back to me before she swiped the device from my hands and hastily shoved it in her pocket. “Yes.”
“You used to listen to them, those years when I was at Alder.”
B looked like she wanted to disappear. “Yes.”
I nodded, swallowing, trying to process what that meant. “Do you still listen to them?”
“Sometimes,” she confessed.
That confession was like a block of cement slamming into my ribcage.
“Why?” I asked, pained. “You can call me, B. Anytime.”
She laughed. “Yeah, I don’t think your fiancée would have appreciated another woman calling you at two in the morning.”
The mention of Angel seemed to shock me back to the present moment, and I sighed, tearing my eyes from hers as I digested it all.
She kept my voicemails.
She still listened to them.
She… God, what did that mean?
I realized with a powerful split of my heart that it didn’t matter. Because in less than twenty-four hours, I was getting married. I was marrying a woman who cared for me, who loved me, who had done nothing but treat me right from the moment she first met me.
And B was right. Marrying Angel meant my relationship with B would change. There was no way it couldn’t.
My shoulders slumped with the realization.
“We should get some sleep,” I finally said.
