Whiskey Drowns

He'd had the cab let him off at the lights because waiting through more of the awkward silence with the smell of curry and body odor wasn't appealing in the least - mid-week, mid-afternoon and the traffic was already snarled up. He sidestepped a bicycle messenger, closing his eyes for a moment as he pressed against the side of the cab, reaching back in to grab the strap of the battered army duffel that used to belong to his father. Slinging it diagonally across his body, he waved off the cabbie's broken English, flipping up the collar of the inadequate beige trench coat. He'd forgotten it was winter in America and that lapse bothered him more than he wanted to let on. All of his sweaters and warmer clothes were packed in boxes, making their slow way back via Federal Express. Maybe they'd arrive before the end of February, if he was lucky.

Sighing, Luke Fancher slid his hands into the pockets of his jacket, keeping the bag tucked under his arm. Two blocks up and around the corner. Past the Asian convenience store with its cheap wares on display - no - the windows were soaped up and there was a FOR LEASE sign in the window. He felt that pressure in his temples again, that slow and steady build that had been coming since he'd seen Sam Amos reappear on Twitter. He'd known even before Vivian had walked into the room, even before she'd softly said his name.

Lukas, you're a good man.

The words echoed in his mind, twisting deep into him, eviscerating him further with each step but he kept his feet moving, ignoring the biting cold. When the first flakes started to fly, he was almost there and they stung his cheeks, whipped by the wind. The little prickles made him shiver, made that ache intensify and he wanted so badly to rant and rage and scream at the heavens. Instead he worried his chapped bottom lip between his teeth, tasting blood and letting that little stab of pain suffice for now. The keys were cold against his fingers, almost sticking to his skin as he pulled the ring out, walking around to the side door next to the shared dumpster, under the shadow of the fire escape. For a moment, he rested his forehead against the metal, overcome with the urge to curl both hands into fists and pound on the door until it was painted in his flesh and blood.

He dragged in a dozen or so ragged breaths before he felt steady enough to insert the key in the lock, grateful that Devon was lazy enough to have never changed them. The door swung open and the malty darkness was so perfect, so absolute that he felt a moment of disorientation crossing the threshold until his eyes adjusted. The Pabst sign behind the bar flickered, buzzing in the silence - should have been turned off when they closed for the night, he noted with a sad smile and a shake of the head before turning to close and lock the door behind himself. At least it was something familiar. Something he knew belonged here when he felt so woefully out of place. Now that he was inside, he could feel the ache from the cold, flexing his hands as the ring of keys dropped to the floor at his feet, the duffel following. He stepped over them, absently, moving towards the bar as though that sign was reeling him in. His fingers trailed across the tops of the stools, feeling the wear in each one. They were familiar yet strange, changed just enough that he felt out of sorts and then he was around the end of the bar, reaching for the closest bottle. He pulled the spigot out, tilting it to his lips, taking a long, greedy swallow of the astringent liquor. The spigot fell from his hand, bouncing off the rubber mat and he staggered back a few steps, If the backs of his knees hadn't bumped the end stool, he might have fallen under the tidal wave of emotion. Of course he'd chosen cheap whiskey, the medicinal reek so much like his father's sickroom in those last few weeks that it all came crashing back. Finally, half a world away, the tears came and he let his head hang, letting them fall in silence, in the dark with the bottle clenched so tight in his fist it felt like his only lifeline to sanity. He'd given up everything this time. Before, he always had the bar to throw himself into, the work to occupy his mind and monopolize his time so that the emptiness wouldn't come calling. Now this belonged to someone else. His sister was off on a permanent vacation with a man named Fletch. His parents were dead. He had nothing and no one.

He froze at a shift in the air, the soft intake of breath betraying someone else and he lifted his head, his voice coming out raspy as he swiped one-handed at his wet eyes. "Hello, Lara."

"Hey, Lukas." She hugged him from behind without waiting for a response and then slipped around to his side. Her big blue eyes looked at him curiously, without pity. "I'm happy you're home."

Home. He lifted the bottle to his lips, watching her warily with those bloodshot eyes, "I wish I could say I am happy to be, but I feel rather…." he made an uncharacteristic rude sound, shaking his head. "Thank you. For the welcome, I mean."

Lara let out a sharp noise, taking the bottle from him. He let her, surprised when she set down a better one and two glasses. "No need to be friendly here. You're angry, annoyed and down. Been there, done that. But you are with family now." She filled both glasses. "So tell me all that needs to come out?"

The old bartender trick made him smile sadly but he shook his head. "There is not a tale here, little one. I promise you that. Nothing more than the same old story." He sidestepped the question, taking the glass and tossing it back, exhaling sharply as he thumped the glass against the bar. "She thought he was dead. We all did. And I suppose that was the first mistake, to believe that I could pin a butterfly beneath glass without killing her in the process. To believe I could be an adequate replacement." He let his head fall forward, his forehead resting against the wooden bar that smelled faintly of Murphy's Oil Soap. Both hands clasped over the back of his head, the shuddering breath escaping his lips turning into a long sigh. "But..." his voice petered out, "no. I will not speak ill of her. I will not and I would ask of you and Devon to do the same. Promise me that?"

"I will not say a word about her. I don't know her and what happened between you is not my business. What I will say though, it's her loss. You are a wonderful man despite what you think."

A wonderful man.

He was grateful she couldn't see the look on his face, the curling of his lip at those words. "What I think," he replied after a short pause, "is hardly relevant."

She took a drink, continuing as though he hadn't interrupted, "but this is not the end of the journey. And to prove that, I invite you to tag along to an event."

"Ah, yes. The wedding." He lifted his head, looking at her with an attempt to smile, "I have been invited already. By a woman named Florence Fallon whom I have met on Twitter. Her friend needed a date, apparently. I hope Devon did not dispose of the clothes I left behind in the spare bedroom closet - I shall need one of my old suits for this."

"We did not throw away anything. Plus, there is a room for you. I insist you stay with us." She filled both their glasses again. "I think this meeting will do you well. Make friends, meet people that are decent. And hang with us." There was an honest smile on her face.

"Distractions, yes." Luke nodded, tapping the edge of the glass with his finger. "You cannot tell him that you found me in here growing melancholy over lost moments - Devon, I mean, of course. I would never hear the end of it."

"What do you think of me?" She let out a little sigh. "Have a little faith - this won't leave the room."

"I am simply..." Luke shook his head, "that was my attempt at lightening the mood. I suppose I should do my best to see the brighter side of things. I got to have more than a year with her. That is more than some could say. And I will carry those parts with me forever, no matter how the broken pieces fall. So there is hope." His words seemed more for his own benefit than hers as he nodded, picking up the glass and tossing it back again. His eyes were watery as they fixed on her and he forced a smile, his perfect diction slipping just a little, letting her know that he was starting to feel the liquor. Despite that, he took hers and downed it as well. "I'll be good company at this celebration. I promise. And if I disappoint? Well, you can toss me right off the side of the George Washington Bridge."

"I will let your date do that." She reached out rubbing his hand, "things will lighten up when you least expect it."

"Brighten? Lighten? Hmmm." He cocked his head, considering her words, trying to make sense of them before letting out a hoarse chuckle. "I think I may need to take a nap. I was going to meet Miss Florence for tea or coffee or... something... I cannot for the life of me recall right now." He blinked, casting about in his memory for the conversation and coming up blank. His head was back to pounding, that pressure behind his eyes building. "I... no. I will have to reschedule." He pushed the empty glasses away gently. "My word. I haven't felt this inebriated in years."

"You do what you must; I am sure Florence won't mind." Lara moved away from him, gathering up the glasses and bottle. He watched while she put the top shelf liquor away, watched while she poured out the bottle he'd drank straight from the neck of. He mourned its loss for a few seconds even though it had tasted foul.

"I made a mess-" he began but she cut him off with a wave of her hand, putting the glasses into the dishwasher.

"Our home is your home," she paused, turning back to look at him with compassion in her eyes. "When Devon told me you were coming, I got you a room ready. You can just relax for a while."

Luke bit his lip as he struggled to force the emotions back where they belonged. "Thank you," he finally said, "for the hospitality. I know it was rather sudden and I truly do not want to impose. Appreciate this. I do. And I will find my own place as expediently as possible. Just for now, I'm grateful..." he frowned at the contraction, struggling to complete the thought, "I... am grateful to not be alone in a foreign country. That would be far, far..." his voice dropped lower, "worse."