A Love Letter to Whiskey
Page 57

Three, and perhaps the most difficult conclusion I came to was this: I had been blind. I thought I knew what Jamie and I were, what had developed between us — and in a way, I did — but in a larger way, I didn’t. What I did know, I shied away from, afraid of consequences. Afraid of burning. You see, I realized that I loved him, I realized that he loved me, but that wasn’t enough. Because what I didn’t realize was that Jamie bruised my heart that first day we met, when he literally ran into me, and every time I’d seen him since then, it had been like jabbing that bruise with granite fingers. A self-inflicted wound. I liked the way it hurt with him, the way it stung, the way it wasn’t perfect — and so did he. But I was done hurting myself. I was done hurting him, too.
I wasn’t sober for even a single minute of my three-day bender, yet I emerged with a clear head and clean spirit.
That was, until the next round of threes hit.
It took three months for Jamie to try to call me. When he did, I ignored him twice, but my curiosity got the best of me on the third call and I picked up.
“B?”
That’s all it took, him asking my name on a breath of desperation.
“I’m here, Jamie.”
He breathed, either with a sigh of relief or uncertainty. “I am so, so sorry. God, I was such a fucking dick to you. I was monstrous. And you didn’t deserve any of that.”
“You’re damn straight I didn’t.”
“I didn’t know what to do when you showed up, okay? I was already drunk, I was confused, I was blindsided.” He paused, and I lifted the wine to my lips. I was going to wait. I was going to let him talk. “B, I can’t… I don’t know how to live in a life where you’re not a part of it.”
I gulped my wine a little too hard, fighting the urge to choke as I sat up straighter on my sofa. My eyes blurred with tears from the liquid going down the wrong pipe and I took a moment to gather myself, which left more time for Jamie to talk.
“I know things are different between us… I guess I was holding onto what we could have been at Alder or something, I don’t know. I never meant to pressure you and I never meant to lose my shit on you, either. Sometimes you really do drive me crazy,” he said with a chuckle and I smiled at that, because I knew the feeling. All too well. “But I need you, as a friend, B. I have to have you as a friend.”
Friends.
My mind flashed back to the times we’d agreed on that very sentiment — and failed. Jamie Shaw and I couldn’t be just friends — we didn’t know how. Still, my stomach was tightening and curling in on itself as I sat on the phone with him. I missed him — so much — and here he was apologizing and asking me to stay in his life. I wanted him in mine. I knew it wasn’t smart, I think I would have bet money right then and there that it would blow up in our faces, but I didn’t care. Once again, even after my stint in rehab, I chose being selfish over being careful.
I sighed. “You never lost me, Jamie. You never could.”
And it was true. I couldn’t think of one scenario where he would lose me forever, because a piece of my soul was tied to that boy — and I had already lost so much of myself at that age, I refused to let go of what little I still held onto.
We talked on the phone for another three hours, and it took me all three to tell him I was sorry, too.
Three weeks after that, Mom and Wayne eloped. Then, they bought a boat, sold everything else, and decided to live on it. She told me all this over a nine-minute video chat, her and Wayne laughing like kids the entire time as they told me how crazy but right it felt. I couldn’t have been happier for them, but it reminded me in a place far in the back of my mind just how lonely I was.
And so, I threw myself back into work and managed to finish out my online master’s degree, but I made sure I scheduled in fun. I went out with the crew after work, happy hours and Pirate games whenever I could. I explored more of my city, even taking the time to go up on the Deumont Incline to see it from the best view. Jenna flew in for one week in March and it snowed, so we went sledding for the first time in our lives at a park just outside of the city. I still talked to Mom whenever I could — whenever she wasn’t busy traveling with Wayne — which was rare, but I took any chance I could.
Three people were promoted before me, and in August, almost a year to the day since my first promotion, I made Literary Agent.
I already had an impressive list of clients, and they started growing rapidly once I had the official title and the means to get things done my own way without jumping through as many hoops. Commission was steadily building, changing my income in ways I wasn’t expecting, and Randall knew me by name, which I couldn’t say for everyone in our office. It seemed I had made just as many friends as I had enemies — which meant I was doing something right.
Everything was looking up. Jamie and I were actually succeeding at being friends. We didn’t talk all the time, but we texted when we could, and called each other from time to time. That familiar ache and burn was still there when we talked, especially when he brought up Angel, but it wasn’t as loud, and I was busy enough not to let myself dwell on it. Everything was fine.
Everything was just fine.
The phone rang three times on September 3rd, on a gray, cool day in the city. I watched the drizzle settle like fog over Market Square out my window as I answered.
He said only three words, but it was everything he didn’t say that I heard loudest. Because you see, I was waiting for him to tell me why. How. I was waiting for him to tell me he was kidding, or that I’d misheard him. I was waiting for him to take it back, to rewind time, to let me figure out how I hadn’t seen it coming. But he didn’t say any of that. He said only three words.
“I’m getting married.”
I ended up in a bar that night — the bar right under my apartment building. I flipped a manicured middle finger up to the voice in my head telling me I was stronger, that Jamie Shaw rehab had worked, that I had a program I could follow to find solace. It was all bullshit. Those three words hit me over and over and over again, each time with more force, each hit reminding me just friends was just impossible. So, I self-medicated.
Three shots of Fireball.
And then River walked in.
“YOU’RE FUNNY,” I SAID, smiling as I poked River in the chest.
He quirked one brow, amused, and lifted his gin and tonic slowly to his lips. “Am I now?”