Heal the Heart

43.

Macallan, Blue Label, Glenfiddich. Despite narrowing it down to these three, I still had too many to choose from. Decisions, decisions. The Macallan was probably too expensive, and we didn't really have anything to celebrate. Glenfiddich... I had a bottle of my own lying around at home. Maybe the Blue Label. Not too expensive—for the owner, at least—but not too cheap either. Just right.

I swiped that off the shelf and blew a kiss at the Macallan. "I'll come for you next time, sweetheart."

One good thing about Syama's new man—well, new to me, not to him—was his fantastic booze collection. Motherfucker had everything a functioning alcoholic like me would ever want. Wine, whiskey, scotch, brandy, cognac, vodka, tequila, some five different types of high-end gin and some bottles of exquisite—the owner's words, not mine—craft beer, all at my disposal. His disposal, technically, but we weren't talking semantics. If these two ever needed a third, I had no problem playing into whatever fantasy they wanted.

Syama met me on the couch with the ice bucket in hand. I cracked the seal on my bestie for the night and poured a generous amount for the two of us before dropping in some ice.

One sip and I was in the arms of heaven embodied. "So good. Just what a hardworking man deserves." I kicked up my feet on the pricier than my year's worth of pay coffee table and settled back into the cloud-like cushions.

"I'm going to hell for encouraging this," Syama murmured, pulling his legs up to tuck them under.

"You're going to hell, regardless. Might as well enjoy the view." I clinked my lowball with his and then regretted glancing at his face. It was that pity-worried expression most around me usually had on. That always got my blood boiling, and I was in too good of a mood to blow over on this particular evening.

So, I just decided to ignore that pretty face for the remainder of my time sober. Which wouldn't be for too long, anyway.

"You're killing yourself."

This fucker was ruining my buzz. "Mmm-mmm. Wrong. Can't kill myself when my body is already doing it for me."

"It wouldn't if you took care of it. You're decreasing your longevity by your own happy self."

"Not here for a long time, just a good time." I tipped the glass back and emptied it. "Plus, one drink never hurt nobody."

"That's the problem now, isn't it?" He swirled the ice and whiskey in his glass. "It's never just one drink."

I grabbed the beautiful bottle by its neck and wiggled it in his face. "One. Drink." And then took a swig right from it.

Syama just sighed and looked down into his whiskey like that would give him the answers to why I was the way I was.

I knew I shouldn't poke the bear, but Syama seriously was ruining any sort of high I wanted to suspend myself in. "What's wrong with you? Why are you such a Debbie Downer? Am I using that correctly? It's correct, right?"

"I'm just sick and tired of watching you kill yourself."

I waved a hand right in his face, which he promptly slapped away. "Everyone's dying, Sammy. You're dying, I'm dying, that sad lucky bamboo is dy—" I took a closer look at the yellowing leaves. "No, that's already dead. How'd you two manage that? Aren't yous supposed to be like super smart or something?"

"Your point?"

"Oh right, my point." I paused. What was I even saying? "Yeah, my point is let this poor, dying man—" I vividly gestured at myself "—live a little."

Syama rubbed at his face, his forgotten drink sadly hanging in his palm. Was he going to drink that? I could unburden him of that if he wanted. I tried to be casual in retrieving it, but he snatched his hand away and shot me a nasty look.