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“Ok,” I agree. “What do you have in mind?”
“How about the Crow’s Nest? Seven o’clock?”
“I’ll be there.”
My body screams at me, and I decide I’d better take a fucking nap to rest up. I medicate myself first, then sleep for three peaceful hours.
* * *
“Don’t do it,” Gabe warns, his dark eyebrow raised. I examine the full shot glass of whiskey in front of me. “You haven’t had anything to drink in forever. Plus, you’re on pain meds. You’re gonna regret it in the morning.”
He’s probably right, but I’m sure as hell not going to admit it.
“I am not one to shirk from a challenge,” I announce, and the room is only slightly wobbly. My leg slips off the bar-stool and I put it back, hoping Gabe doesn’t notice.
He does.
And he smirks.
“Whatever, Tate,” he drawls, knocking back his own shot. “It’s eight to eight. Are we going to make it to ten?”
“What are we celebrating, again?” I ask, shooting the tequila, then wiping my mouth. The bitter taste slides down my throat, and it’s almost foreign. I don’t drink much nowadays.
Gabe grins. “Your upcoming new baby.”
“Oh,
yeah,” I pretend to remember. “My baby.”
He rolls his eyes.
“Mila is going to kill me for bringing you home drunk,” he says. “I can’t remember the last time we did this.”
“It’s been too long,” I agree. “It’s good. We needed it.” Plus, being drunk, it makes my body hurt less. I can barely feel it right now. That’s got to be a plus.
Gabe is hesitant though, and glances at my empty glass. “You good, though?”
I know what he is asking. A few years ago, I slid deep into the hole of using alcohol and drugs as a way of dealing with life. But I’m not in that place now. I dealt with my shit, and while I don’t usually drink anymore, I’m ok to celebrate once in a while.
“I’m good,” I assure him. “Trust me.”
“Okay.” His answer is simple and immediate. He and I hadn’t gotten off on the best of terms when he started dating my wife’s sister, mainly because Gabe had his own demons to fight. But he’d fought them and won, and he’s as good a man as I’ve ever known.
“Pool?” I gesture toward the empty table, and we slide off our barstools.
Gabe cocks an eyebrow. “You up for that, dude?” He’s doubtful, and I know if I were sober, it would hurt too damn much to play. But I’m not sober.
“Bite me.”
“Twenty bucks?” Gabe glances at me, his giant bicep flexing as he moves. I’m pretty sure he’s trying to intimidate me.
“Sure.” We grab sticks and chalk, and Gabe racks the balls. “And winner buys the next round.”
“I hope you brought your wallet.”
We chuckle together and I break, and the game is on.
He goes, then I go, and we’re neck in neck.
