Goodnight Beautiful(57)

“May I do the honors?” Sam asks. “Nothing like the first whiff of Johnnie Walker Blue.”

Albert hands Sam the bottle, and he pauses to stroke the smooth glass, appreciating its weight. “This was my mom’s drink,” Sam says, turning the cap and leaning in for the scent. “Kept a bottle in the cabinet. After my dad left, she poured herself a glass every year on her wedding anniversary.”

“That’s sad.”

“Sure is.” Sam takes the glass tumbler Albert hands him. “Most bartenders believe a pour is one and a half ounces,” he says, watching the whisky stream slowly into the glass. “But I find that amount is inadequate, especially for a first drink.”

“Not too much,” Albert says, holding up his hands. “I’ve never had scotch before.”

Sam pours a drink for himself and then sets the bottle on the bedside table as Albert sits in Sam’s chair. “To a return to happy hour,” Sam says, raising his glass.

“That’s exactly what I was going to say,” Albert says, red-faced. “To happy hour.”

Sam raises his glass to his lips and then lowers it quickly. “Wait. Stop. This isn’t right.”

“What’s wrong?”

“The ice cube.”

“What ice cube?”

“For the drinks. It’s key,” Sam says. “A slight chill enhances the flavor.”

“You know so much about everything,” Albert says. “Hang on.” He sets his glass on the bedside table and walks out of the room.

Game time.

Sam pulls out the square of paper towel holding the pills and gently unfolds it. Beads of sweat sprout on his forehead as he crushes two pills over Albert’s glass.

“How many?” Albert calls from the kitchen.

“One ice cube for each of us,” Sam says, watching the powder dissolve in the copper liquid, leaving a chalky film that rises to the top of the glass. “Medium ones.” Sam drops the last four pills in and swirls the glass, his hand trembling so badly he fears he’s going to drop it. He replaces the glass on the table and picks up his own just as Albert walks into the room, an ice cube in each palm.

“Perfect,” Sam says, the sweat pooling on his lower back, as Albert drips a cube into his glass. “Thank you.”

Albert sits down. “One more time,” he says. “Cheers.”

Sam watches as Albert takes the tiniest sip. “Good lord. It tastes like lighter fluid.”

“Whisky is an acquired taste,” Sam says. “But trust me, it’s worth it.” He lifts his glass, allowing himself one swallow. The whisky warms him immediately, and he has to hold himself back from drinking it all in one satisfying gulp. There will be plenty of time to sip whisky at home, with Annie, and he needs a clear head.

Albert brings the glass to his lips again, barely wetting them. “Yum,” he says, grimacing. “So—” He takes a deep breath, eyes wide. “What do you want to talk about?”

“What do you mean, what do I want to talk about?” Sam says, his gaze on Albert’s drink. “We’re two dudes having a drink at the end of the day. I want to talk about either girls or sports.”

“Oh!” Albert laughs, blushes. “Well I don’t have much to say about either one of those things.”

“Course you do.” Take a drink, Albert. “Who was your first crush?”

Albert winces. “Kathleen Callahan,” he says right away. “We worked together at the 7-Eleven.” He shifts the glass to his other thigh. “She was intimidating. Girls like her never paid attention to me.”

“What’d she look like?” Take a fucking drink, Al.

“Brown curly hair. Eyeglasses.”

“You two talk?” Sam asks.

“A couple times. She let me listen to some songs on her headphones. The music she liked was loud.”

“Metal chicks are the best,” Sam says. He takes another sip, hoping Albert will follow suit, but he just recrosses his legs.

“And then my dad showed up to buy cigarettes.” Albert grimaces. “I hated the way he looked at her. Brought her up at the dinner table that night; told me I should ask her out. His exact words: ‘What about it, Al? You man enough to get some of that?’”

“Your dad sounds like a serious prick,” Sam says, unable to help himself.

“It gets worse,” Albert says. “He came back a few days later and told Kathleen I had a thing for her. Said that I’d been jerking off to her, if the state of my bedsheets meant anything.”

“God, Al,” Sam says. “That’s awful.” Tragic really, like every story you have, so please, brother, take a drink and end this thing. “What did you do?”

“I waited for my dad to drive away, and then I left. Never went back to the job. Everyone heard about it at school. It was mortifying.”

Albert’s expression is pained, and Sam can’t help but feel for the guy. “I’m sorry, Albert,” he says.

Albert shrugs. “I googled her recently. She married a Mormon.”

“You want my professional opinion?” Sam asks. “How to make yourself feel better about the whole thing?”

Albert looks up, hopeful. Sam lifts his glass and points to the whisky. “A whole bunch of this stuff. It’s exactly those types of experiences this is manufactured to forget.”