On The Run

Chapter Twenty-Nine - "Do Tell, Please"

Sarah

The Sunnyvale was, in one simple word . . . crap. I mean, staring with the creaky floors that felt like they were about to sink in, any moment, to the bed springs sticking out; it was a wonder that they were practically out of available rooms. I mean, when Mrs. Kahn, at the front desk, had said their rooms were in bad shape, I thought she was just being too down on herself. But, even that was putting it mildly.

I sat on one of the chairs around the round crooked table, and was thankful that I didn’t have my black light or I might have had a panic attack from the revelation of stains.

Jake sat on the edge of the bed, holding the ice pack to his head.

“Hey. Isn’t that melted already?” I said, walking over and sitting next to him, completely forgetting about my disgust.

He shrugged, “I stopped thinking about it the minute we walked into this dump.”

I pulled the limp bag out of his hand and peered at the back of his head, “It looks fine, but still just stay awake in case of a concussion.”

He snorted, “Concussion or not; there was no way I was going to sleep in that bed.”

I picked up the bottle of bourbon and the cups on the dresser, and handed him one, “Well, let’s make the most of it, shall we?”

He grinned, “Yes, but first, ice,” he said, getting up and heading out.

I pulled a blanket out of my overnight bag and curled up in the armchair. I had a feeling it was just as unsanitary as the rest of the room, but anything was better than the clearly stained bed.

I twisted open the bottle of bourbon and poured myself a cup, trying not to think about who could have used the cup last. I felt the buzz in my throat as I took my first gulp, and soon enough I was on my third cup.

I certainly wasn’t an alcoholic, but I was no teetotaler either; it was the one tradition my dad and I had shared, which my mom hadn’t got to participate in. Every year, on the anniversary of my mom’s death, we would sit on the balcony of the house with his most expensive whisky, and we’d drink it to the last drop, and until our pain dissipated a little. He hadn’t wanted to encourage my midnight trips to his cellar, so we’d made a compromise.

With that day looming closer, I tried not to think about it as I made a head start on things. Since I’d stopped talking to him, I’d still kept to the tradition, only on my own, and I could almost see him doing the same. And for a moment, I always felt like he was right there.

“Hey, you started without me,” Jake said, walking in, cup full of ice.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, feeling the drink starting to get to my head, as I downed my fourth cup.

“Where did you get this anyway?” Jake asked, scanning the bottle.

“I’ve had it in my car for a while,” I replied. For a year, to be precise. I’d bought it at an auction for about three thousand dollars; I always went all out with my November 12th bottles of alcohol, and apparently this one – a sixteen year old A.H. Kirsch Reserve – was the most expensive bottle of bourbon in the market, so I’d got it.

So, you see why some might mistake me for an alcoholic.

“Looks expensive,” he said, pouring a cup for himself.

“Somewhat,” I said, under my breath.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked, as I stared into space.

I looked over at him. Where would I begin?

Scotch.

My dad.