Chapter 5
I didn't drink it. I told myself I was just looking.
The glass sat in both my hands like it weighed more than it should have. The amber inside wasn't bright like whiskey in a commercial. It was darker, almost brown at the center and gold at the edges where the ceiling spots hit it. When I tilted it a fraction of an inch, the liquid moved slow. Too slow. It coated the inside of the glass and slid back down thick, leaving a faint film. Not water. Not tea. I could see tiny strands in it, like dust caught in honey, hanging suspended and not settling.
He was still standing to my right. He hadn't moved since he'd handed it to me. His hands were empty now, folded loosely in front of him, and he watched me the way a host watches a guest he's trying to make comfortable. Patient. Polite.
"You don't have to hold it like that," he said. His voice was soft. "It's just a little bourbon. House welcome. I pour one for everyone who sits there."
I breathed in without meaning to. Up close the smell hit me. At first it was sweet and oaky, like he'd said, bourbon. But underneath there was something else. Something flat and metallic, like pennies, and a sour note I recognized from the back room of my mom's salon when I was a kid — perm solution and burned hair. It turned my stomach. I had to stop myself from pulling my face back too fast.
"Bourbon," I said. My voice came out smaller than I wanted.
He smiled. It didn't reach his eyes but it was the kind of smile you'd call kind if you weren't paying attention. "Aged twelve years. My father kept it on the top shelf. People always say it smells stronger than it tastes. Try it. It'll warm you up. You looked cold when you came in."
Behind the beige armchair, the air moved. I didn't turn my head all the way. I didn't need to. In my peripheral vision the four women in white were still there, in their line, shoulders almost touching. One of them made a sound. Not a word. A sharp inhale through her teeth, the kind you make when you see someone about to touch a hot stove.
I kept my eyes on the glass. The surface was perfectly still except for my hands shaking a little.
One of the ghosts stepped forward. Just six inches. Her dirty white dress brushed the back of the chair. Her pale gray face was empty and then it wasn't — her nose wrinkled. Her lips pulled back just enough to show her teeth. She wasn't looking at me. She was looking at the glass like it stank, like the smell I was smelling was ten times worse for her.
"Don't," she whispered. Not loud. Not the warning from before. Just that one word, and her dark eyes flicked to me.
He didn't hear her. Or pretended not to. "Is the smell too much?" he asked me. "Some folks aren't bourbon people. I have water, I have tea. But bourbon's tradition in this house. My grandmother said a guest who doesn't share a drink never really arrived."
That was the lie. That was the soft trap. It sounded so reasonable, so normal, that for a second I felt rude for not sipping. That's how he wanted me to feel. I could feel the county road manners kicking in, the part of me that was taught to say yes and smile when a host offers you something in his living room.
I lifted the glass a inch closer to my nose again, pretending to consider it. The metallic smell got stronger. The viscosity was wrong for bourbon. Bourbon didn't coat glass like syrup. I thought about cough syrup at the gas station checkout, the thick amber bottles my cousin used to steal.
"I appreciate it," I said. "I'm just not much of a drinker."
"It's not really drinking," he said, still calm. "It's just a sip. For warmth."
Behind me, another ghost shook her head slowly, just once. Her long straight black hair didn't move with it, like it was too heavy. Her hands were at her sides, fists closed.
I lowered the glass back to my lap. I didn't set it down on the side table. I held it. If I set it down he'd push it back toward me. If I held it I could control it.
"I'll hold it for now," I said. "Thank you."
His smile tightened, just at the corners. He didn't press again right away. He glanced toward the dark wood door behind the paneling like he was checking time.
"I'll give you a minute to settle," he said. "Sometimes people need to breathe."
May you like
He took one step back, but he didn't leave the room. He stayed where he could see the glass in my hands.
I looked down again at that slow amber liquid. I knew now it wasn't what he said it was. Whatever it was, it was made to keep me still, to keep me there like them. And I knew I couldn't keep holding it forever. I had to find a place to put it where he wouldn't see it go.
