Page 135 of A Love Letter to Whiskey
I thought it would be okay. I thought we could take a few steps back and be fine.
But Ethan wasn’t stupid. He smelled the threat I imposed, and I couldn’t even blame the motherfucker when he told B to stay away from me. I knew he’d asked her, without either of them telling me, because we went from hanging out every week, to her ignoring me in a snap of his fingers.
I respected it.
I obeyed it.
Until my world came crashing down, and I knew the only one who could save me was her.
“IT’S GOING TO BE alright, son,” my dad tried to assure me on that cold February morning, but I could tell from how rough his voice was that it was a lie. Or, at the very least, an assurance he couldn’t make with full faith. “You just focus on school, okay? I don’t want you worrying about this.”
I ran a hand back through my hair, trying to digest it all. “How am I not supposed to worry?”
“Your dad has a handle on the situation,” Mom chimed in, and again — her voice gave her away.
I swallowed, nodding, trying to believe them.
“Recessions happen. It’s natural for our clients to cut back where they can, and sadly, we’re usually one of the first places they think to cut. Besides, if they’re not making money…”
“They don’t need our firm,” I finished for Dad.
“Everything will right itself. It always does,” Mom said, and I could imagine the warning look she was giving my father even though I couldn’t see her face. “We’ve been through worse, and we survived.”
Barely, I wanted to say, but I kept my mouth shut.
“Go have fun!” Mom continued. “You’re a college student, which means your only responsibility is to keep your grades up and earn that degree, okay? Besides, didn’t you say B is there with you?”
My chest caved in on itself then, and I wished I hadn’t told them. My parents loved B almost as much as I did, and now that she’d been ignoring me, it was just another splash of salt in my wound.
“Mm-hmm,” I managed.
“You should call her. Make her take you out and take your mind off things. She always knows how to make you smile.”
Thanks for the sucker punch to the gut, Mom.
After we exchanged I love you’s and promises to talk soon, we ended the call, and I sat there on the edge of my bed with my head hanging between my shoulders.
I needed to move. I needed out of my head.
Changing quickly, I grabbed my ball and headed out to the courts, wasting away the morning as I ran drills and sweated it out. I skipped class and didn’t even care. Still, when morning rolled into afternoon and the evening creeped in, I knew once it got dark, I’d be in hell with my thoughts if I didn’t think of a way to combat them.
And the only person I wanted in that moment was B.
I pulled up her name on my phone, rolling my lips together and knowing it was a bad idea. She’d made it clear without telling me a word that she needed space — likely for the health of her relationship with Ethan.
I should have respected it.
I should have found a different way to handle my shit.
But my heart ached for her so fiercely, I couldn’t deny it.
— Where are you? I’m coming to pick you up. —
My stomach rolled as I sent the text, and I threw my phone on the bed, trying not to look at it again until it buzzed with her reply.
— I’m with Ethan doing campaign stuff. Rain check? —
I cursed.
The part of me who was more mature, more respectful, told me to leave it alone.
But just seeing his name made the part of me that was so damn possessive of her win out.
— Aren’t you almost done for the day? I can wait. Just take a drive with me. —
I saw the little bubbles bouncing that indicated she was typing something. They appeared and disappeared several times before they were gone all together.
She was ignoring me.
Take it as a sign, Jamie. Leave her alone. She doesn’t want to see you.
I tried putting on a movie. I tried studying. I even debated texting one of the dozens of numbers I had in my phone for girls I knew wouldn’t ignore my request for attention.
But I couldn’t shake the thought of being with B, of having her in my passenger seat and telling her what was going on. I didn’t know if she had any more cat stories up her sleeve, but I knew one thing for sure:
If I was whiskey, then she was the barrel that held me, that helped me age, that made me better.
I needed her.
And nothing else would do.
I picked up my phone before I could overthink it, calling her. She didn’t answer, so I called again, and again, and again.
