Page 2 of Catching Fyre

This seedy little pub has one sole purpose—to make as much money from its clientele as it can before they pass out in their own puke. Which, from the smell in here, they don’t always succeed in cleaning at the end of the night. Most of the orders are communicated with raised fingers, a nod of the head. And the person pouring the drinks is usually on standby, bottle in hand.

“One for the road,” Matthew says, handing me a last shot.

I’m swaying. My feet rooted in spot. I frown at Matthew, at the glass of clear liquid. Tequila isn’t my favorite. It reminds me too much of when I was young and irresponsible. I have a family at home. What the hell am I doing here?

Matthew gives me a big, broad smile. “You’re a swell guy, Gideon.” He peels a finger from his shot glass, using it to point at me. “We should take the ball-and-chains to the Hamptons this summer. Steff and Emily will get along like a house on fire, I just know it. And if little Lizzy is anything like my Blair, she’ll wear a whole through her swim suit.”

Little Lizzy.

She’s waiting for me. That stupid bear is waiting for me. The chocolate Lab I rescued is waiting for me. The love of my life is waiting for me.

But there’s something off, and my stubborn mind has latched onto it like a fucking parasite.

Lizzy.

“Never tole you her name,” I mumble, the hand I’d been reaching for the shot glass for curling into a fist.

Matthew laughs, tosses back his drink. “Sure you did. Right after you told me how she loves reading, and boy bands, and riding horses, and all the shit girls her age like.”

There’s a light in Matthew’s eyes, and it can’t be from the pub’s failing fluorescents. It’s too manic, too eager. I swipe a hand over my face. I must have told him. Fuck, he knows about Amber and Brittany, whywouldn’tI tell him about my family?

Fuck Matthew.

Fuck his uncle.

Fuck the Hamptons.

I need to get home.

I’ve been empathic since birth, and I’ve never really handled it well. My father used to call me out on it, telling me I was a fucking sissy. That I had to keep a stiff upper lip if I was to get anywhere in this world. He died of a heart attack when I was fifteen.

Everyone said it was too early, but I was surprised he’d lasted so long. Years of drinking, smoking, eating whatever the fuck he wanted. He lived off disability, his leg and left hip wrecked in an accident at the construction company he’d worked at for over three decades.

He became addicted to his pain medication. Then alcohol. Then me and my mother’s misery. At least, that’s how it felt. We watched his slow demise, and I know I’m not the only one who willed him into that early grave. We knew it would end the hate-filled words he threw our way when we displeased him. The mental manipulation he put us through every goddamn day.

Mom cried at his funeral. I kept a stiff upper lip. By then I’d learned how to deal with the constant barrage of emotions I picked up from other people.

But sometimes my defenses slip. Like now, with Matthew. I stagger away from the bar, flicking my hands to try to rid myself of his oily, clinging energy. How did I manage not to feel this before?

Little Lizzy.

My mind runs back through our conversation. I did speak about Elizabeth, but never once did I mention her name. At work, then?

Going back further makes my head spin. No, wait, that’s the tequila.

Fuck. I need to get home.

My chest grows tight. Breath hot. My hands ache how I’ve got them gripped into fists. I get a cab, and fall into the back seat, mumble out my address. I’m hit with a sudden wave of sentimentality by the sound of those familiar words strung together. Alcohol does that sometimes when I’m not controlling my emotions. Memories flicker through my mind as my eyes drift closed.

Emily calling me over to her laptop to view the listing she’d found for the brownstone. How she’d gushed about it, a hand draped over her swollen belly as she painted a picture of Lizzy’s nursery, my study, her art room.

The night of our first fight in the new home, how Emily’s sobs had spilled through the walls into my study after I’d slammed the door on her. A shitty week spent deflecting everyone else’s shitty moods, then coming home to a screaming baby and an exhausted wife who yelled at me for forgetting to buy diapers.

Me coming home with a shivering, dirty Arrow wrapped in my suit jacket, and the look a five-year-old Lizzy had given the bedraggled thing, like she’d never known what love was until that very moment. How she’d taken the terrified puppy from my arms, so gentle, and bathed it, fed it, tended its cuts and scrapes. How she’d announced she was going to become a vet, because there were other Arrows out there that needed her help.

Fuck, my heart is threatening to burst out of my chest. Too much fucking emotion trapped inside, kept tamped down so I can keep a stiff upper lip, so no one can use these feelings against me.

“You okay there, friend?”

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