two-bit whiskey didn’t cost a day’s wage,” I snapped back, picking up the drink to return it, but instead it crept closer to my lips. I don’t know how—maybe it was a reflex—but it crept close enough that I could’ve thrown it back. And part of me wanted to, yet a bigger part didn’t, because despite now having the right music and a ball game and the blondie and some banter, I realized only one piece could actually make things feel complete: my disease.
Officially disgusted, I set the drink down. Pushed it away. I’d come for the girl; I’d come for a good reason. And I had this fuzzy notion that I’d ignored something important here, overlooked something obvious. I swiveled my stool to face the card-playing men. Their table had a tiny forest of beer bottles in the center, and on the outskirts they’d dealt cards for three players.
And their plus-one appeared as if on cue, exiting the women’s restroom. She stopped midstride at the end of the short hallway when she saw me, looking about half as big as before. Too young, too small, too drunk.
One of the men beckoned. “Come on, beautiful. I ordered us some more drinks.” He winked at his friend, though it lacked playfulness.
“What are you doing here?” Josie asked.
The men turned to me. I motioned to her, but the gesture fell away when her eyes landed on my drink.
“Oh, look at you.” She came closer, taking measured steps, careful to walk a straight line. “Centennial doesn’t do field trips here too, does it?”
“No, I—”
“How did you get here? You didn’t walk, did you? I mean, you couldn’t have. You’re . . . you’re . . .”
“I’m what?”
“One hundred.” She turned to the bartender. “He shouldn’t be here. He’s, like . . . ancient. He lives in a nursing home—”
“Assisted living.”
“I mean, he’s a total liability. He could keel over right here.” Her dilated eyes were on me, green and glassy. In them, I saw myself looking like fifty measly yards of bad road.
I said, “For your information, I came for you. To bring you back home.”
The corner of Josie’s mouth ticked up. “You mean nursing home.”
I grimaced, which apparently amused her. She tossed her head back and made a sound meant to be a laugh, but it came out so undone it sounded like a sob. It took me aback. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, waiting for it to end. In this state, she was going to be hard to get outside, let alone into Centennial.
When she finally dipped her chin and met my eyes, her brow furrowed. “What’s going on with you, old man? You’re sweating.”
I touched my forehead, surprised to find it wet. “Nothing. I’m fine—”
“You don’t look fine.”
My ticker skipped a couple of beats as she said this, and I coughed to get it back on track. The dull, searing pain that followed was probably psychosomatic, after all her talk of me dying here and now, and I refused to let it get to me. Instead, I wanted it to get to her. Guilt could be a powerful tool.
I squared my shoulders, even though it hurt. “Maybe I’m not fine. Maybe coming here to save you is killing me.”
“Save me?” She clicked her tongue in disapproval. “Bad choice, old man. Bad choice.”
I mopped my brow with a paper cocktail napkin, trying to think of a better angle, during which time she managed to grab my drink. “Hold on now—” I said.
But before I finished my warning, she consumed every last drop of whiskey with the quickest flick of her wrist. Her tiny Adam’s apple bobbed up, then down, and just like that—gone.
I gawked at the empty glass she set down, disbelieving, before yelling, “Goddammit, Josie.” How the hell were we going to get out of here now that I had a bill? I swiveled on the bartender and spat, “We’re not paying for that.”
One of the flannel men stood, his chair clattering back. The other rose too, slowly.
I didn’t care, though.