Page 113 of When Ben Loved Jace

“Taking the edge off.” I nod at the glass in her hand. Allison looks surprised to see it. I don’t think she even realized that she picked it up again while snapping at me. “Just as a mental exercise, if a patient told you that they drink every day to deal with stress, what would your response be?”

Allison sets down the glass again. “God damn it.”

“Sorry. It’s just… Alcoholism runs in families, right? And with your dad’s history…”

“Give me a second!” she says, raising a palm. “I’m mentally putting myself on my own couch.”

Her forehead creases as she concentrates. I hold my breath, hoping that she won’t talk herself out of this, because she gets drunk way too often. Sure, she never becomes violent, like her dad used to, but shehasdriven home while intoxicated on occasion. And her most recent relationship was especially toxic when they’d both been drinking. He’s history now, but that did nothing to change her habits.

Allison’s gaze flicks to mine. She glares, grabs both glasses off the table, and tosses the contents into the sink. I pick up the bottle and join her.

“I hate it when you’re right,” she says, watching whiskey pour down the drain. Then she leans against me briefly. “Thank you. I’ll do exactly what my dad did and join a group. I’ll also tell him what I’m going through, so you won’t have to bear this burden alone.”

“Don’t worry about me,” I say dismissively.

She shakes her head. “This is what we do. We worry about each other. Don’t you ever stop. I sure won’t!”

I set aside the bottle and give her a hug. “I’m going to miss you.”

“We’ll still see each other all the time. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But it won’t be the same.”

“No. I guess not.” Her arms tighten around me. “I’m so glad we’re friends.”

“Me too,” I reply with a heavy heart.

Allison takes a step back while dabbing at her eyes. “Okay, it’s fine that we’re not getting blitzed, but we’ve gotta celebrate somehow.”

“Burgers and milkshakes?” I suggest.

“Cheesecake and steak,” she counters. “I’ll take you somewhere fancy. Don’t worry, I’m paying. By the time we’re done stuffing ourselves, we’ll be just as groggy as a couple of drunks.”

“And just as loud and obnoxious while we eat?”

She nods in approval. “Always.”

— — —

I wish it was possible for me and Jace to have a biological child, but the new house is the next best thing. Now that everything has been moved in, we can finally see what we look like when combined. I’m biased, but in my opinion, the end result is beautiful. The living room especially. His books have joined mine on the shelves that fill a wall, any gaps occupied by souvenirs he picked up on his travels and a fake grammy that Allison gave me for my twenty-first birthday. She also let me take the couch we had shared since moving in together. The coffee table between it and my old TV came from Jace’s trailer. Squaring all of this in is an end table we found at a thrift store and my favorite reading chair, which Samson has claimed as his own. He's lounging there now, grooming himself while pausing on occasion to watch us deliberate.

Today we’re decorating the walls. A vintage French advertising poster for champagne has already found its place in the kitchen. We hung a concert poster in our bedroom over my stereo system and the shelf that contains my vinyl record collection. Framed photos of our favorite memories have been arranged in a cluster above our bed. I’m glad we didn’t get a bigger place. We barely had enough furniture to fill each room and the walls are no different.

“We either need something big,” I say while eyeing an empty space above the couch, “or a bunch of little things that go together.”

“Got it,” Jace says, leaving the room. When he returns, I’m not sure how to react, because he’s carrying Tim’s painting. “I almost forgot you had this. I haven’t seen it in a while.”

I tear my eyes away from the canvas. “I meant to send that home with my parents, so they could store it for me.”

“Up to you,” Jace says, lifting it up and holding it over the empty spot. “But it is the right color.”

The walls are burgundy. The couch fabric is goldenrod. The painting is all warm colors, so it does fit, but… “Wouldn’t that be weird?”

Jace considers me. “For you?”

I shrug. “I like it but… You know who painted that.”

Jace lowers his voice, whispering in conspiring tones. “You mean Tim? The guy who almost wrecked our relationship?” He chuckles. “I don’t find that threatening. In fact…”