‘A soda.’
He turns back to me so I’m left to smile at the bar guy and offer a word of thanks.
‘Have a seat.’ He gestures behind me, to a stool. I pull it nearer, planting my bottom onto it. Holden shifts his seat even closer, so his legs still surround me, his whole body like a frame of warmth and wants.
‘What happened?’
He quirks a brow, silent.
‘Your face. It’s changed colour.’
He shifts his hand, his long fingers running over his cheekbone, his lips a gash, a frown chiselled deep on his face.
‘Holden?’
‘Nothing. A stupid fight.’
‘With whom?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ He reaches for his Scotch, putting the glass between us and closing his eyes as he throws it back. He holds the empty glass, looking at it a moment.
‘I think it does.’ I lift a hand, curling it over his cheek, my thumb gentle on his flesh. ‘Whoever it was punched you.’
He lifts his gaze to my face; something in his eyes sends a chill along my spine. ‘It was a fight. I punched him, he punched me. End of story.’
‘I don’t think so.’ I take his empty glass and put it on the bar, then rest my hand on his. ‘I’ve seen the security you have around you. So this wasn’t just some random guy on the street, right? It’s someone you know?’
A muscle throbs at the base of his jaw and his eyes are the stormiest shade of grey I’ve ever seen. ‘I said it doesn’t matter.’
A fresh Scotch is placed in front of him without Holden needing to ask. I look at it, frown, wondering how often that’s happened tonight. He doesn’t seem drunk, but he’s a big guy; presumably he can handle his liquor.
He had alcohol on his breath when he came to my place this afternoon. Has he been drinking non-stop since then?
‘I think it does.’
There’s wariness in his expression, like he’s a trapped animal and I’m his pursuer, and I don’t want him to look at me like that. Even worse, I don’t want him to push me away, and I have a strange feeling that if I go too hard at him, ask too many questions, he’ll get up and leave. He’s leaving anyway, a little voice reminds me—unnecessarily. There are only four nights until he’s due to fly out of Sydney, and the idea no longer fills me with a sense of relief, like this will come to an end. It fills me with panic.
I try not to show that in my voice. ‘We don’t have to talk about it.’
He reaches for the Scotch as though he knew it would be there, as though he needs it, and I feel a great welling of sadness.
Inexplicable and absolute.
I’ve seen compulsive drinking before. I know how to recognise it, and now I recognise it absolutely in Holden. Pain lashes me. Pain at the memories of my father, pain at the idea of Holden—dynamic, intelligent, compelling Holden—being held captive to alcohol.
It’s a sadness that almost makes me lose my metaphorical footing. I stare at him, realisation spreading through me, and I’m the one who wants to run away. I want to get up and turn my back on him, because what I absolutely refuse to do is let someone into my life who’s battling the same demons that killed my father. I’ve been so careful on this front, so suspicious of alcohol, so studious to avoid parties and events where alcohol is the main theme. And somehow I let Holden into my life—my soul?—without noticing that he’s almost always drinking. He’s so overwhelming, that’s all. He drowned all my senses from that very first meeting so I couldn’t think clearly. He’s like a frequency jammer. And now? I’m seeing clearly and doing nothing.
Panic makes it hard to breathe.
‘It was Jagger.’
It takes me a second to connect the random threads of information. ‘Jagger? Your brother? He hit you?’
He lifts a hand to his cheek. ‘Not very well. Fatherhood’s made him soft.’ His smile lacks humour.
‘Why did he hit you?’
‘We argued.’