“Whatever you’re having,” I said. I draped my coat over the couch and sat, my fingers fidgeting on the damask fabric.
“Single malt, then. The Quest was a gift.” Nate smiled and poured a small amount of alcohol into two tulip-shaped glasses. “Did you know I have friends in Denver? Old college friends. I’ve had a chance to visit with them this week.” He brought the glass to me and sat near the arm of the couch, putting a few feet between us.
I tried not to frown at the tiny amount of booze. I wanted to get drunk. Seriously drunk. I wanted to turn off my brain and stop picturing Matt and Melanie and wondering what the hell I should do about Matt’s latest lie. Or lies. What else was Matt hiding? Were Melanie and Matt in cahoots, publishing Night Owl together? Were they fucking? Had he even sent her away?
I shuddered.
I wanted to shoot my drink, but I glanced at Nate and followed his lead. He gave his glass a swirl, gazed at the film of scotch, and then brought it to his nose and inhaled. I did the same.
Nate lowered the glass, lifted it again, smelled the booze. I sighed and copied him. The second whiff of whiskey was lighter. A complex, peaty aroma filled my nostrils. “Tastes even better,” Nate murmured. I flinched. He was grinning at me.
“Ugh. Nate, I have no idea what I’m doing.”
He chuckled. “I can tell. What do you smell?”
“Wood…” I sniffed at my glass again. “Smoke? A little … fruitiness.”
“Very good. Have a taste.”
We sipped our scotch. The mellow flavor filled my mouth and went down like silk.
“And enjoy the finish,” Nate said. He smiled and leaned into his corner of the couch. He watched me with obvious enjoyment. “This visit with you has been by far my most pleasant in Denver.” When he took another sip, I took another sip.
I didn’t have the guts to tell Nate that I wanted to get drunk off his expensive scotch, but he refilled our glasses twice, and by my third glass I was feeling good. Thoughts of Matt and Melanie drifted off on an amber river. I felt happy and warm in Nate’s company, and he was all good-natured smiles and easy conversation.
Owen wandered out of the bedroom to announce that he was watching The Crow. Nate, obviously ignorant of the dark cult classic, said, “Fine, just keep the volume down.”
Nate moved constantly when he spoke. He leaned back with his laughter and motioned as he explained things, his animated body so graceful. I watched him in a daze. Early afternoon turned to midafternoon, and mid to late. We each had a fourth glass of scotch.
That day reminded me vividly of my early days with Matt—when he took me to a restaurant in Boulder, and when he visited my family on the Fourth of July. Matt, like Nate, was a natural gentleman in public. I missed that side of him. He denied me that side of him—any side of him—with his insistence on anonymity, his lies, his obsession with writing.
Nate’s voice broke into my reverie.
“Being with you reminds me of Matt,” he said.
I looked up into Nate’s face.
“That’s funny. Being with you reminds me of him, too. I was just thinking of him.”
“Were you?” Nate tilted his head. Black hair flopped across his brow and his dark eyes roamed my face. “About what in particular?”
“About how he loved to write,” I said. “How he loved to write more than anything.”
“He loved you, Hannah. He loved you more than anything. Don’t you know that?”
“No,” I said, “I don’t know that.”
“You must know that, though. He loved you. Are you falling out of love with him now that he’s gone? You can’t do that.” Nate touched my arm. “You can’t be angry with him for leaving. He’s the golden boy, you see? We always forgive him.”
Forgive him?
The cold finger of presentiment ran up my spine.
“You know,” I whispered.
Nate held my gaze without flinching.