Page 10 of Hot Buttered Kisses

I order another whiskey. And another. I keep waiting for the booze to fill up the emptiness inside me.

I’m halfway through the third when I start seeing her everywhere. There’s a girl in the back booth with a cascade of wild, caramel hair, arguing with her boyfriend over a basket of onion rings. She’s not Dee, but the way she gestures, the tilt of her head, is so similar it hurts. A group of college kids cluster around the pool table, but the loudest one—the one who calls the shots—she’s got the same restless energy, the same fuck-you attitude in the way she throws back her drink. I wonder if any of them will ever love so fiercely that they’d tear themselves apart for someone who can’t even see them.

I’m not a man who gets sentimental. But four glasses in, I start composing a eulogy for a life I’m not ready to let go of. I picture all the tiny, stupid things I’ll miss: the way Dee snorts when she laughs, the way she flips me off every time I hand her a closing checklist, the way her eyes go soft when she thinks nobody’s watching.

I knock back another double. The bartender arches a brow but doesn’t say shit. The little voice in the back of my mind starts asking questions. Why can’t you be the one who gives Dee the life she deserves? Why do you have to let her go?

I can give her that life. I argue back. I don’t have to let her go. Fuck. It gets easier after that. The pain fades to a low, persistent ache as an idea takes form. I drink, and drink, and drink until I feel half-human again, or at least, numb enough to fake it. I don’t need to give up Dee. I can’t. Now, I just have to convince her to take a chance on a moron like me.

Before the next round, the bartender leans in close, all business. “You want to talk about it?”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I’ve spent years building a fortress of silence around myself, and I have no idea how to even start. So, I just shake my head.

He shrugs and pours me a water. “Last call. You need a ride, or you gonna walk it off?”

I debate the question, but every cell in my body is screaming at me to move. To go to her. Fix this shit before it’s too late. I toss a handful of bills on the bar and stand, the floor shifting under my feet like a ship at sea.

Outside, the night is colder, lonelier. I text for an Uber and pace the length of the parking lot while I wait. My head is full of static, but underneath, a single thought pulses, relentless—I have to stop her before she leaves me.

My chest tightens. I punch the side of the building, knuckles splitting on the brick. The pain is clean, real. It’s the first true thing I’ve felt all night.

The Uber arrives, a shiny black Prius. I collapse into the back seat, and the driver takes one look at me and peels out, radio blaring some old 90s song about heartbreak. The whole drive, I replay every word I didn’t say, every time I held back, every second I wasted pretending I was immune.

Two miles down the road, I realize it wasn’t my address I put in the app. It was hers. Oh well, there’s no time like the present to face this. By the time we reach her place, it’s almost dawn. I hop out of the Prius and give the driver a cash tip, then stumble over to the front door of the building.

I hesitate, just for a second. Then I press the buzzer to her apartment, hard. Once. Twice.

I’m done running. Tonight, I’m going to lay my heart on the line.

She answers the door in a sleep-rumpled T-shirt and a pair of ancient boxer shorts, her hair in total disarray, like she’s just stuck a finger in a light socket. She blinks once, twice, and I swear, for a second, she thinks she’s still dreaming.

“Eamon?” Her voice is sandpaper and surprise, the syllables slurred with sleep and something softer. “What the hell—do you know what time it is?”

I do. But I don’t fucking care. The last three whiskeys scrambled my internal clock, and I’m running on muscle memory and reckless need. I lean against the frame, one hand braced on the peeling paint, the other clenching and unclenching at my side.

“I know this is too late. Way the fuck too goddamn late.” I let her hear the truth in my voice. I’m done fucking hiding. “You can’t leave me.” I jerk my chin past her. Inside, her living room is all cardboard boxes, open bins, piles of books and clothes half-sorted. Her life, collapsing in real time.

She hesitates in the doorway, then steps aside. “Come in. You’re going to wake my neighbors.”

I shoulder past her and plant myself dead center in the living room, soaking in every detail. The whole apartment feels like her—colorful, chaotic, messy in the best way.

Deirdre follows me, bare feet on hardwood, and I can’t look at her without feeling like my fucking chest is being hollowed out with a spoon.

I take her by the shoulders, not rough, but firm. The smell of her cracks my control all over again. “Why are you leaving me?” I ask, and this time I can’t hide the tremor.

She looks up at me, eyes suddenly huge and vulnerable. “I’m not leaving you, Eamon. I’m leaving Midnight Mischief.”

“You’re leaving me.” I press my forehead to hers, eyes squeezed shut. “Don’t lie. Not to me.”

She exhales, and I feel the shudder all the way to my bones.

“Why do you care?” she whispers, and for the first time in years, I don’t have a clever answer.

So, I tell her the truth.

“Because I’m in love with you, you fucking idiot,” I say, and as soon as the words are out, I know there’s no taking them back.

Deirdre’s mouth falls open, then snaps shut. I brace for a punch, a laugh, or an insult, but she just stares at me, all the sarcasm and snark burned off in the wake of what I’ve said.