Page 68 of A Love Letter to Whiskey
“That’s not the point.”
“I know, but I’m just saying.”
He huffed. “Would you be okay if I hooked up with other girls?”
My stomach dipped again, this time forcing me to sit up with it. I blew out a breath, physically ill at the thought of him with someone else but knowing that if I couldn’t be his exclusively, I couldn’t ask him to be mine, either. “Yeah. I mean, I guess. I get it. You have needs.”
“Again, that’s not the point.” He ran a hand roughly through his short, neatly styled hair. I missed it long. “I know it sounds stupid, but when I lost you three years ago, I told myself I’d never let that happen again. It’s important to me to be with you, B. But I can’t be if you don’t let me.”
I exhaled slowly, softly, thinking back to the first time he’d told me what he wanted in life. I’d always been unsure, up until this point in my life, but he’d always known. He wanted to work at his dad’s firm, make partner, take over, and have the same family life that his dad did. He thought he’d marry his high school sweetheart, and here he was a college graduate and single. I knew what he wanted, what he needed in life — but I also knew I couldn’t be that for him. Not yet, at least.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I assured him, and I sealed that promise with a sincere smile. “But I can’t give you my all right now. I’m here to work, to get my graduate degree, and to find the rest of myself that’s still floating just out of reach. I want you, I do,” I said again. “Just give me some time to figure out my new surroundings, okay?”
Jamie still looked disappointed, but he nodded. “Whatever you need, I’ll give it to you.”
I believed him when he said that, but sometimes we say things we don’t mean. We may mean them in the moment the words leave our lips, but as time goes on, good intentions get rubbed raw by failed expectations. Those on the promising end forget why they promised at all, hearts jaded — for good reason.
The Scottish are the only ones who can technically spell whiskey as “whisky.” They claim more vowels wastes good drinking time, and I wish I could have realized that then, because that’s exactly what I was doing — wasting time. Letting days and weeks and months of incredible, soul-shattering love pass me by because I thought I knew the right way to spell out the path of my life.
Turned out I was wrong.
Turned out I had a rare, deliciously aged bottle of whiskey in my grip, but I let it slip through my slick fingers and crash to the floor.
And I wasn’t the one allowed to pick up the pieces.
JAMIE PULLED AWAY AFTER that.
Not all at once, but slowly and surely.
Sometimes he seemed normal, sometimes we’d talk for hours and fall into that same easy friendship that’d always existed between us. He never did make it out to see me in Pittsburgh, but I did fly home one weekend, and we spent the entire time tangled in his sheets, save for the one lunch with Mom and Wayne and the dinner with Jenna. And when I got back home, we made tentative plans for him to come see me next, when things slowed down at work. One night, we sat up a movie on each of our screens and hit play at the same time, being as together as we could be through video chat while it played.
And those were the good times.
But mostly, Jamie was absent — thinking to himself even if he was on the phone with me. I knew it was killing him to not have me the way he wanted. It felt like rejection to him, I can see that clearly now, but I was selfish back then and I didn’t see a damn thing — maybe I didn’t want to see it.
Eventually, the calls and texts became fewer and fewer, and I guess I kind of knew that would happen. It was my fault, really — I was the one who asked for the distance, the one who kept it in place, and even though I missed him the more he pulled away, I filled the space he left with more work instead of working to keep him as the occupant.
The summer flew by in a heated streak, blinding me like the lights from a camera flash. Between the internship and my online courses for my grad degree, free time was practically nonexistent. Before I knew it, it was August, and I was in the last two weeks of my internship with a huge open agent event to host before I rounded out my time with Rye Publishing.
