He stared at rows of bottles, shining in the light—clear, claret, amber, dusty green—and realized he had tried almost every liquor in the place. He was struck by an almost physical ennui. He was so bored, tired of everything, his life settled now and his fate sealed. He had chosen this; he couldn’t go back. And when he saw this bottle of whiskey, he remembered the first night that he and Jack had danced until sunrise.

He bought it.

And at every milestone he’d downed a glass. That night, the betrothal. The wedding ceremony and reception, elegant and sophisticated and passionless, all of the right people invited, their approval returned. An extra shot before he made love to her, and another glass when she got pregnant.

A double measure, when Jack was married, and another when Theo saw the first birth announcement in the paper.

The flavor—peat, smoke, herbs—was full of intensity, all those years ago, because as he sipped it his mind was taken over by that night. Jack’s smell, Jack’s taste. Records playing. A soft rain. But as the years progressed, the whiskey started to taste like his life, now, with all the bitterness and numbness. He measured out his life in glasses of whiskey, and Jack’s life, too, and by now the flavor was dry as ash.

He picked up the glass, settled into a wingback chair in front of the fire.

To Jasper, he thought, warmth blooming in his chest. The best thing he’d ever done.

He took another swallow.

To Jack Gardner. And his small copy, forgotten jacket and all. And to Margaret, whom he had always loathed, and her cheerful family, of whom he was so horribly, sourly jealous.

He had learned not to be nasty, at least out loud. But here in his home, with his father hidden away behind black curtains, he felt an agonizing wrenching in his stomach, and he hated them all.

“Theo.” His mother stood in the door, all soft fabric and sharp angles and silver-blond hair. She could still walk into a room and make the world stop breathing, her beauty as cold as steel.

“Mother.” He put down the glass, moving to stand in front of the empty bottle like a little boy with a secret.

“Sit down and don’t bother.” She perched on the chair opposite, her affect so perfect that he could almost forget it was practiced over a lifetime of silence. “I’ve known about that whiskey for quite some time.”

Disappointed. He felt that she was always so disappointed in him.

“Yes, well,” he settled into his chair, took another swallow, “We all have our vices, don’t we?”

“Indeed.” Her voice sounded careless. Her pleasantries meaningless.

How did his mother still make him feel so small?

“I know you’re not happy with me, Mother.”