I slid the glass back toward her, picked up mine and raised it. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” she said, clinking her glass against mine, fighting to keep the smugness from her smile.

We both finished the rest of our drinks in four deep gulps. I slammed my glass down, and the room turned fuzzy. My tolerance was not what it used to be. Was it really wise to get hammered while in this hellhole? Couldn’t get any worse, I figured. This was one experience I’d be happy to black out.

I raised a finger to request another drink, which wasn’t necessary. Razz was already making the next round. Here was seven years of sobriety going up in smoke. Fuck it, I thought. Might as well burn it to the ground.

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen

“On the house,” Razz said, placing a fresh drink in front of me. It was mostly liquor with just a scrim of melting ice at the top.

“You’re a good man, Roxy,” I said, my words beginning to slur.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” he said, taking away our empties. Leaving just the one.

Malia leaned close. “Is that your girl?” she said.

“Huh?”

She pried open my hand and pointed. “Rox. You just called Razz Roxy.”

“Oh. Nuh-uh.” I shook my head, and had to grip the bar for balance. Stifled a burp. “My boy.”

“As in, boyfriend?”

Shaking my head was making me dizzy so I stopped. “No, my boy. My son.”

“Ah.…” she said, like she’d just found a puzzle piece that had slipped under the rug. I expected more, but she returned to her drink.

“Ah…?” I said sarcastically. “What’s ‘Ah…’ mean? You figure some shit out or something?”

She pushed her bottom lip out in a pout. Like I was being mean. Like she hadn’t fucking choked me and slammed my head against a table an hour or so ago. “Just another connective thread.”

I could feel my body swaying. Maybe another sip would straighten things out. “What, you got a son named Rox, too?”

She shook her head. Nice and steady, unlike mine. This girl was putting me to shame. “Never reached full term. Miscarriage. It was a boy, though. Or would have been. I bet you can guess when.”

I felt like the intellectual equivalent of Einstein, but my brain was sharp as a ball of soggy wool. “I give up,” I said.

“Love Week,” she said. “Fitting, right?”

It dawned on me then. “You mean one of the minister dudes?”

She nodded, eyes glistening. Whether from tears or triple-distilled vodka, I couldn’t tell. “Yep, I guess you can say he filled me with the Holy Spirit. I gave birth to a ghost.”