My Life in Shambles(17)
“It’s the same idea,” he says, pouring the clear liquid into the tiny cups. “It’s Maotai, a type of sorghum-based alcohol.”
“What does it taste like?” I ask, bringing the tiny cup under my nose. It immediately makes my eyes water. It smells like burning.
Padraig chuckles. “I think ye have an idea already,” he says. “Make this another thing ye have to say yes to.” He raises his glass to mine and we say “sláinte” again (though I feel like I keep butchering it).
The drink is painful. Like, enough so that I almost spit it back up. It’s spicy and a whole bunch of things I can’t really describe.
“How do you always order this?” I ask him, coughing into my arm. “Jeez.”
He gives me a small, amused smile that makes a dimple appear on one side. God, he’s so damn handsome. Really. Truly. Just…
And that’s when it hits me. The booze, that is. Suddenly I’m an extra level of relaxed, like I’d just lowered myself into a warm bath.
“See,” he says, nodding at me. “That’s why I drink it. It tastes better when ye know how it makes ye feel.”
“I get it now,” I tell him. “And I’m going to assume by the time you get to the bottom of the bottle, you feel pretty good.”
He nods, has a sip, and winces slightly, folding his hands in front of him. “I had some bad news today,” he says.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I tell him quickly, feeling flustered that I said anything earlier.
He clears his throat, eyes focusing on his drink. “I didn’t have plans for tonight anyway. I would have just stayed at home. One of my mates, Hemi, was supposed to be in town but it fell through. And after the news, I didn’t feel like being alone. I didn’t want to talk to anyone but I didn’t want to be alone either.”
I more than understand. A lot of people are scared of being alone, and while it’s still something I’ve been working to get over, sometimes I wish I could be around people and be by myself at the same time. I’m not sure if I’m brave enough to go to a bar alone, but if I were, I could see myself doing that. Just to feel like I still exist.
“What was the bad news?” I ask after a beat, even though I know it’s inappropriate to pry further. But, damn, this man makes me want to keep prying.
He takes my question in stride. “My father has prostate cancer. He’s had it for less than a year. He and my nan insisted that it was fine. I should have looked into it, I should have visited him to make sure. I should have known that they’re stubborn Irish just like anyone else and that they’d pretend everything is fine. It’s not fine. The cancer has gotten worse and I’m not sure how much longer he has to live.”
My heart absolutely breaks for him and I wish there was something I could do. “I’m so sorry.”
He sighs, long and hard, eyes roaming over the restaurant. “It’s a lot to process. I’m supposed to go see him in Shambles—that’s where I was born, a little town, and honestly, I’m terrified.” His eyes swing over to mine and hold me in place, so dark and deep it’s like I’m looking into something I shouldn’t, something hidden. “We don’t have the best relationship…” He trails off and I watch him swallow, his Adam’s apple moving in his thick neck.
“But it sounds like you’re doing the right thing by going,” I tell him softly. “Otherwise you’d regret it.”
“Yeah. I would. So if ye were thinking I looked a little broken, well, there ye have it. I guess I am.”
I wince internally. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“I’m glad you did,” he says, pouring us another glass. “It feels good to talk about it. Just knowing someone else knows.”
“Even though I’m just a stranger?”
He pauses and glances at me, his lips curling into a small smile. “You don’t feel like much of a stranger anymore.”
The intensity in his eyes flares again, a pull I feel deep inside me, in places I thought had been wiped clean, left to dust. It’s a yearning and a longing and a wanting for him, for the idea of him, for this moment, for more than this moment. The longer I stare into his eyes, the more this feeling burns until I feel I might just go up in flames.
I wonder if I should blame it on the liquor.
The waitress comes by just then as if she was waiting in the wings for a lull in our conversation. I tell Padraig he can order whatever food for me since I don’t understand a thing on the menu, as long as it’s nothing too weird, like chicken feet.
As we wait for the food, we sip our gasoline-inspired drinks and the conversation swings away from the heavier topics and settles on rugby. I ask him a lot of questions about the game, how to play, his schedule, the different teams and competitions. He’s patient as he explains, and while he’s obviously knowledgeable, he doesn’t sound as passionate about the game as I expected. Maybe his injury has taken him out for too long. Maybe he’s just plain tired.
“So tell me about your writing,” he says. “Tell me about the job you were laid off from.”
Oh right. It’s still all so new that I’d forgotten for a moment that my life had gone to shit. He’d made me forget.
“I’m going to need another drink,” I tell him. The bottle of the crazy stuff is empty. He orders over some more, this time a yellow-ish rice wine, also served in tiny cups. It’s sweeter and more palatable, so I know it’s going to be trouble.