I spun on my heels, making my way back to the pearly bed where Ollie and Harry were chatting up their dates, oblivious to my presence. My best friends were terrible company when surrounded by single women. This time though, relief washed over me. I didn’t want the interrogation or pestering over my unexpected interest in a woman. I treasured my London crew, (and missed the shit out of Sal), but the lads could be a royal pain in the arse. Especially Harry, with his extravagant personality and man-whoring tendencies, although Ollie’s aloof and grumpy persona wasn't much better.
I wished my sister Lorena had come out with us. Or maybe I should have stayed home with my Caterina and our dogs. They loved me unconditionally and without judgment. But then, I would’ve never seen her.
Settling down on the plush bed with my legs crossed at the ankles, and my fingers interlaced at the back of my head, I took in the scene unravelling before me. The crowd laid strewn throughout the Supper Club. Men in suits and tuxedos, women in shiny, form-fitting dresses that created a colorful sea of skin, allure, and expensive fabric.
San Francisco was full of beautiful people of all shapes and nationalities, but the only shape I cared to see was hers. It flooded my mind. Her lean muscular body and gorgeous hair exuded confidence which made her sexy. Because confidence was a huge turn-on for me. Those big round eyes had bored into me, pushing a few of my hot buttons.
A lanky waiter sporting a man-bun approached, carrying a tray filled with desserts and placing it on the bed. I asked him for some brandy, neat. The scent of cinnamon, cream, and Amaretto swirled around me. Tiramisu. It looked delicious—it wouldn’t compare to my grandmother’s back in Italy—but there was no space in my body for dessert since it was jam-packed with curiosity and want. I watched the lads take full advantage of their flirting skills and good looks. Their companions were smiling and writhing on their groins to the rhythm of electronic music. I understood why women flocked to Harry since he was witty and extroverted. But Ollie was a brooding asshole and yet, women threw themselves at him in droves. I didn’t care to dance because I was too busy looking for her.
The waiter came back and handed me a tumbler of Vecchia Romagna Trentacinque. The best brandy I knew. I took the glass and thanked him. Reclining on the fluffy silver pillows, I held it in front of my face, taking in the tawny hue of the liquor. If people’s spirits had color, I bet hers was warm like amber.
Taking a sip, I savored the sweet oakiness, as the golden liquid glided down my throat, spreading warmth through my chest. I wished brandy were enough to fill my heart. A sudden shudder shook my body, prompting me to take another swig and wash down the unsavory memories.
What are you doing, arsehole?
I’d renounced this shit long ago and should’ve known better than to taste it again. Alcohol seldom washes troubles away. It pushes them down while destroying your life, eventually leaving you smashed and alone, the distasteful memories corroding your insides.
I could attest to it because five years ago, I’d spent six months at the bottom of a bottle. I’d been contentedly inert in my stupor until my sister and friends staged an intervention, pointing out life wasn’t worth living perpetually shitfaced, even if drinking some of the most exquisite and expensive booze on the planet. My twin, Lorena, had said I became a shell of who I used to be. Harry’s baby sister, Mignon, had told me she missed the old me, the real me. I’d been pompous and defensive through most of the meeting, rolling my eyes and scoffing at every remark. I’d tried to leave, but Ollie and Harry blocked the door. So, I’d stood there, arms crossed, disinclined to listen. I’d mocked their feelings while refusing to look their way.
I didn’t want them to see the tattered remains of my soul because that meant admitting I was in dire straits and needed all the help I could get.
Then, Lorena had held up an ultrasound picture, forcing me to look at the little bean who would be born in a few short months. She’d asked if I was willing to die and miss watching her grow up. That I was the only man in her life. Her father. I had a choice to make: stay drunk and bring sorrow to my baby and everyone else in my life, or get clean and become the best father I could be, all things considered. That moment of clarity was all I’d needed to quit because, even though I’d never seen my little girl, I already loved her more than anything else in this world, booze included.
I’d thrown the large glass of thirty-year single malt whiskey clutched in my hand against the tiled floor of my patio, watching it shatter into a million pieces through the sheen of tears clouding my eyes, my heart shattering even more. I’d crumpled to the ground and sobbed for a long time, my emotions a mountain that had saturated with rain water over time until it sloshed off, destroying everything in its path. I’d sobbed for my family and friends, for Grace and Caterina. But more than anything, I’d sobbed for the man I used to be, the man sentenced to a slow and painful death. Lorena and Mignon had kneeled, wrapping their arms around me. The shame of my behavior had stabbed me in the gut, making me want to vomit the liquid poison left in me.
I’d allowed my demons to take precedence over my child, which was unacceptable.
I’d walked to the bathroom, stuck my fingers down my throat, and puked, unwilling to let any more of the toxin I’d been consuming for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, to seep into my bloodstream. After a cold shower I’d crawled into bed, ready to sweat it out for as long as necessary. It had been humiliating but not as bad as being a loser and a drunk. A few weeks later, I emerged anew, but not the person I’d been before I became an alcohol-oozing-husk. No. The new me was wiser, stronger, I now had a clear head. One that could at least try to figure out how to be a parent. I was keen to take back the reins of everything in my life. Everything except a chance at love.
My jaw tensed and my lips pursed as I stared at the tumbler in my hand, doubt knocking on the door to my awareness. I’d smelled the Amaretto in the tiramisu and figured there was no harm in having a drink. I wasn’t an alcoholic. I’d had a bad fucking year and coped with brandy and scotch. Before then, I'd never had an issue with alcohol. Not while growing up in Italy, where everyone and their dog enjoyed a daily dose of wine, nor during my time in England, while I was in university and pub hopping with the lads every night.
No, I wasn't an alcoholic, but I was terrified of feeling alive, and liquor was the personification of emotional and spiritual death. So, when my heart started to wiggle its idle wings at the sight of the gorgeous redhead, I resorted to deadness out of a fear of living.
She drew me in, and I’d hate myself forever if I didn’t meet her, but it was purely out of physical attraction and lust. Anything more than that was out of the question. My heart beat only for my child, and that was the way it needed to stay.
I shifted my focus to Ollie and Harry, hoping they hadn’t spotted the error of my ways, relieved to find them grinding their bodies on their dates, blissfully unaware. They really were awful wingmen. I peered at the drink, trying to decide what to do with it. Two sips were more than enough, but it hurt to waste such expensive liquor. My eyes whizzed around the room, and for a split second, I considered gifting it to a stranger. I laughed at myself, realizing no one in their right mind would accept it. I sat up and set the glass on the tray, wondering how many people there were in their right mind.