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He’d been tall and proud.
And then a storm had come through.
He had swayed with it, but he’d still stood.
A tornado touched down.
Oh, the destruction that had followed.
He’d been nothing but rubble, dust and stone.
It wasn’t—
“All right?”
He jerked back a little, hands clammy, phone clattering onto the bar top.
Matteo was back, looking a little concerned.
Get yourself together, David scolded himself. Get yourself together, dammit.
He tried for a smile, but he thought maybe it died before it could grow. So he said, “Fine, fine. I’m fine. Just… thinking. About things.”
It was awkward. This was awkward. He’d made it awkward.
Matteo arched an eyebrow at him, something David had never been able to do. He remembered her laughing at him every time he’d tried, her fingers trailing along his face. He’d never been able to do it. Not really. Anytime he’d tried, he just looked surprised. Or constipated, she’d said.
How he loved her.
“Fine,” David said again, not sure who he was trying to convince.
“Okay,” Matteo said easily. He leaned forward, elbows on the bar, eyes sparkling. Vince Guaraldi had turned into Judy Garland now, singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” David had always thought it was the saddest song. “If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” David said, not sounding very sure. He took another drink of his bourbon, a little shocked when he got nothing but ice.
“Another?” Matteo asked, sounding amused.
And he hesitated then. He’d driven for this very reason. It wasn’t like he’d been an alcoholic, no matter what other people had thought. He hadn’t gotten drunk almost nightly for that third year because he was addicted to the taste or even liked the feeling it gave him. Quite the opposite in fact. He liked the feelings it didn’t give him. He was numb, and he could sleep, and yeah, maybe the next day he’d feel like shit, but then it’d be five o’clock somewhere, and he’d start all over again.
That had been the beginning of the end.
She would be so disappointed when she found out.
When she came back.
But what was another drink? Phillip wasn’t here yet, and he could nurse the next one, maybe have it through dinner. Two wouldn’t be so bad. He wasn’t even feeling it yet. Not that he wanted to be feeling it, but the food here was usually heavy, and it’d soak up the alcohol. He’d be fine to drive.
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, okay. Another.”
Matteo took the glass from his hands, and he must have been really working for that tip because there was some unnecessary finger contact, wasn’t there? Enough to make David’s ears feel warm. It was… uncomfortable. Nice, but uncomfortable. Sure, he was a pretty young thing, and maybe he did have a kink for men in their fifties who looked like they’d just come from teaching an Introduction to Economics course at the local community college, but hey, David wasn’t one to judge. Nothing would come of it, but maybe David would leave him a twenty for his troubles. Matteo would probably blow it later on molly while at some club where the laser lights flashed and the bass pounded through the walls, a shirtless twink rubbing up against him, sucking his jaw, leaving bruises that Matteo would need to cover up for his next shift at the bar.
Jesus.
It was now six minutes after nine, and David picked up the phone again, sliding his finger across the screen, unlocking it. It was still on the message tree from before—ok ok ok ok—and he didn’t do himself any favors by scrolling up to the previous messages. The message before I want to see you was from six weeks previous, and it had been from Phillip to him. Like it always was. David never texted first. David never called. He’d lost that right. It’d been his fault.
The previous message from Phillip said, Detective Harper called. Said you missed a Monday check-in. She tried to call you, but your phone is off. Nothing new. Just thought you wanted to know.
He hadn’t responded.
