Jesus. Will the rain ever fucking stop?
Hustling down Second Avenue, with little reprieve from the endless downpour, I try to pull my heavy canvas jacket closed, my flannel shirt and black jeans are practically plastered to my body. Water sloshes into my work boots as I try to navigate glistening puddles pooling on the sidewalk.
I’m soaked to the bone.
Like most native Seattleites, I don’t own a fucking umbrella.
Stubbornly stupid.
Ah, fuck it. I deserve to be wet and uncomfortable. After the day I’ve had, I might as well get the flu on top of it.
Finally, I spy the green awning up ahead despite the darkened skies. A few more steps and I push through door of the Metropolitan Grill, a Seattle steakhouse institution. Veering left to avoid the hostess, I take a seat at the bar in all my damp glory.
Settling onto my usual stool with embarrassingly practiced ease, I’m self-aware enough to realize it’s an act of defiance against my wicked cravings. My eyes, inadvertently—or advertently, who the fuck knows—drift to the rows of amber bottles gleaming against the under light of the glass shelving.
Particularly to the whiskey. Lord, what I’d give for a fucking taste. How I’d savor it. Vanilla and smoky oak. Sweet notes of caramel and honey. A hint of fruit, either orange zest or a slice of crisp apple. I shut my eyes and practically feel the warmth enveloping me in a comforting glow, radiating through every vein and easing the burdens of my mind. Soothing the aches of my soul. Wrapping around me like a soft, fluffy blanket on a shitty Seattle night.
It’s been over a year since I’ve had a sip. Even though every day is a battle, I haven’t been tempted in months. Today, though, the fight feels harder. The liquor more alluring.
Freddy, the bartender whom I’ve known for years, sets down a tonic water with lime in front of me. I grip the cool, clear glass tightly, hoping the lime’s sharp scent will override the memory of peat and warmth. The guy in a suit two seats down orders a Red Breast neat. My jaw clenches with envy. The liquid gold catches the light as Freddy pours it with an easy flick of the wrist.
Mesmerizing.
Tamping down the old, familiar ache, I turn away. Focus on the clink of glasses and the murmur of conversations around me—anything to drown out the noise in my head. It’s a silent struggle, unseen by the laughing customers in the busy restaurant.
I take a sip of my tonic, the fizz biting at my tongue. It’s a pale imitation of what I truly crave, but at least it’s safe. Necessary. I’m fully aware of the consequences if I were to give in to my demons. I’ve lived and breathed them and won’t live one more day with regret coiling in my gut. Still, I need something…more.
“Hey, man. Can I get a hot coffee?” I tap the polished wood with my finger to get Freddy’s attention. “I’m soaking wet and fucking freezing.”
“Sure.” Seconds later he hands me a steaming mug. “Cream or sugar?”
“Both.” I slide a twenty toward him. Coffee is no substitute for the nectar of the gods, but at least it will warm me up and keep me sober.
Hell, it’s no small feat considering what happened today. Suddenly, I’m on the brink of losing my shit and I have no one to blame but myself.
Well, maybe my stupid, inherited addiction genes. Memories of my da’s spiral into alcoholism invade my thoughts. Barely a teenager when he crashed and burned. I was instrumental in helping him rebuild the business he founded once he got sober. A decade ago, I took over as CEO and now McGloughlin Construction, is the biggest game in town. For what?
A terrible mistake I made three years ago coming back to haunt me and destroy all my hard work?
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