Talk To Me

Chapter Four

May tenth

Oliver finished work and leaned against the window, staring at the darkening street below. The office felt heavier at night, the glow from the streetlights casting extended, frenzied shadows across the room. He let out a deep sigh.

Tonight was supposed to be different. He had planned to drive out to the forest, to clear his head, but those plans were long gone. Instead, he pulled open his desk drawer, fingers brushing against the cool glass of a half-empty whiskey bottle. He unscrewed the cap, pouring himself a generous amount before downing it in one go.

The burn scorched his throat, settling like fire in his stomach. Outside, people moved in blurs, cars rolling by as the last traces of sunlight disappeared behind the old bookstore across the street. He took another sip.

And another.

Until the bottle was empty, and the silence of the office pressed in on him.

Eventually, he pushed himself up, heading toward the restaurant. The place was deserted, the others long gone for the night. Only Emma remained, wiping down the bar's glossy surface. She glanced up when he walked in, her dark eyes flickering with recognition.

Oliver slid onto a stool, elbows resting on the counter as he looked at her. "Whiskey." His voice was rough, the words slightly slurred.

Emma arched an eyebrow. "Maybe you've had enough."

He let out a breathy laugh, running a hand through his hair. "Give me a break, Em. I'm grieving." The words slipped out, raw and unfiltered.

Something in her softened. Without another word, she poured him a drink and set the glass in front of him. Oliver studied her as she worked, the way the dim bar light made her eyes seem almost golden.

He smirked. "Join me."

Emma hesitated but then nodded, pouring herself a glass. She lifted it slightly in a silent toast. "I've known you for a year now, and this is the first time I've seen you drink," she mused.

"First time for everything," Oliver muttered before taking another burning sip. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, eyes unfocused. "Tell me about yourself."

Emma blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

"You said we've known each other for a year," he said, tilting his head. "But I barely know anything about you."

She let out a quiet laugh. "You never asked."

"I'm asking now." He studied her, his gaze heavier than usual. "That counts, right?"

"Maybe." She smirked, resting an elbow on the counter. "My mom and I moved here after my dad passed away." She took a sip, her expression unreadable.

Oliver frowned slightly. "I'm sorry."

Emma shrugged. "He was sick for a long time. It's been years already. Sadness changes with time."

Oliver nodded slowly, watching her. He wasn't sure if that kind of sadness ever really changed. It just sat there, waiting for quiet moments to creep back in.

The night dragged on, whiskey flowing freely between them. Oliver kept drinking, his thoughts growing looser, words slipping easier from his mouth. Emma, however, stopped after two glasses, watching as he slouched slightly, his usual sharpness dulled by alcohol.

Eventually, he suggested moving to his office—"More comfortable," he had said with a lazy smirk.

She didn't argue.

They took the bottle with them, along with two glasses. The office was barely lit, the single lamp casting a yellow glow. Oliver slumped onto the couch, taking the left side, closest to the desk. Emma hesitated before sitting on the right, closer to the door. For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then Oliver exhaled, head tilting back against the couch.