Whisky, For God’s Sake, Whisky

Danny stared at the package and Ian stared at him, chewing on the inner lining of his cheek.

Danny didn’t move. Speak. Hell, the only sign that he was even still breathing was that he remained staring at the damn package.

Ian understood quiet Danny. He understood angry Danny. But he had no idea what to do with still-as-the-dead Danny. He cleared his throat. “So, should I start a bonfire?”

Danny’s head snapped up. “Huh?”

Ian hated to remind him of why they both stared at his desk, but pointed and said, “What are you going to do with it?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Like let it sit there and burn a hole? Or nothing, you’re going to throw it away.”

“Nothing, I’m busy.” He shoved out of his seat.

A slow smile spread over Ian’s face, following Danny to the door. “Of course you’re busy. We’re both busy. What are we busy doing?”

“Cleaning.”

Ian ballooned his cheeks and blew out a puff of air. “Right. Cleaning.”

Unlike some people who exercised to blow off steam, Danny cleaned. He’d once told Ian that when he was upset, his eyesight became hypersensitive. Specks of dirt appeared that would otherwise be invisible. And with what he just went through, Ian had no doubt this clean-fest would probably kill him.

Danny wiped his feet before stepping out of the office. Ian did the same, wiping stupid Jessica away through the bottom of his shoes. “Okay, Mr. Scrub, where do we start?”

Danny pointed up and Ian slowly followed his finger. “How many years has it been since those were washed?”

“The flags?” Ian said. “Aren’t you afraid they’ll fall apart if you wash them? They have to be what? Fifty years old? Also, isn’t it wrong to wash—”

“Not the flags, the beams.”

“Beams? Like those wooden poles holding the upstairs floor, covered in years’ worth of great conversation and pipe smoke?”

“Dirt. They’re covered in dirt. But you’re right about the flags, they shouldn’t be washed. They need a good airing, though. We’ll hang them outside while we clean.”

He can’t be serious. Ian may even take opening Jessica’s package over this. Danny walked back into the office.

“Thank God.” He wasn’t serious, but Ian decided to give him a minute before going in to make sure he wasn’t alone when opening it. He checked his watch and nodded. It was time.

A metal plate bulldozed him. “What the—”

“Out of the way, Ian.”

Ian stumbled back as the top of a ladder came through the doorway, followed by Danny with a long line of metal rungs trailing behind him. “What’s that, like a hundred feet? Where did you find it?”

“Twenty, and it’s kept in the shed out back.”

Ah, the shed. The same shed he got to by going through the office, into the storeroom, and out the back door. Sneaky bastard. “But why do you have it now?”

Danny stopped and stared at him as if he was the crazy one. “To reach the beams,” he said slowly.

Of course. Of course he was absolutely—why would he be anything else—serious. Ian resigned with a long sigh. “Toss me the flags.”

“I have to admit.” Ian took a long drink from his pint and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “She shines, Danny Boy.”

Not only were the beams scoured and the flags respectfully aired, but every table had been turned upside down to fix every wobble. The hanging crests and dull blades were polished, and even the floors got a more than usual thorough mopping. All the old, frayed rugs were hauled out and replaced with plush new ones.

Danny looked around him with a critical eye and pulled his own pint. He sipped and studied, adjusted the coasters, straightened the napkins, aligned the bottles of liquor so all the labels lined up. Ian knew all of this was a delay. On his time, not hers, would Danny open it.

Danny unfolded a bar towel and picked up a glass, rubbing out a small imperfection. “You knew Jess wasn’t ever faithful to me, didn’t you?”

And there it was. Danny only shared what he needed, when he needed, and all Ian had to do was be there for it. He didn’t answer because Danny wasn’t asking.

“That’s what you were trying to tell me before I left, when you said to be careful.” He glanced up, and this time, Ian nodded.

Yeah, he knew and wanted to tell him everything, but she’d already driven a wedge between them at that point. She knew damn well why Ian didn’t like her, but twisted and spewed lies about his reason for it and confused Danny.

If Ian had tried to tell Danny what she’d done to him before they eloped, he’d have risked confirming those lies and lose the only friend who’d been his brother in everything but blood.

Now there was no point in telling him. Ian took a deep breath. “You were the only man she chose to marry, so I’d hoped that meant she would change.”

“She said you hated her because you were jealous of the time she had with me, but I think she was the one who was jealous of you. I should’ve seen it.” He slapped the towel on the bar. “I should have seen what she was doing.”

“Danny, don’t do this to yourself.”

“What? Be honest? Admit that I was too whipped to notice what everyone else did?”

“You were in love. Probably the only man that has ever truly shown her what real love is. Don’t make something that beautiful sound so weak.”

The glass Danny cleaned clanked against the bar, and his nostrils flared. Ian didn’t care if he broke every damn glass in this place. He wanted him angry. Angry enough to not let Jessica send him reeling every time she felt like mailing him an envelope.

With long breaths through his nose, Danny sucked the anger back in and threw down the towel. “Import, Ian. You pick.” He rolled his shoulders and marched toward the office without looking back.

Ian didn’t argue. If Danny asked for the hard-to-get-to-the-island scotch, he’d rush it to him.

“Hello, beautiful.” Ian stroked the olive-green bottle with a tinted label. “I have an important job for you.” This upcoming dreaded event needed the distraction of the ever-faithful, Lagavulin 16. He snatched it and wedged two glasses between his fingers.

When he entered the office, Danny stared down at the package. It was open, but nothing had been pulled out yet.

Good. Ian set the bottle down. Whisky first.

Without taking his eyes off the package, Danny yanked the wood-topped cork with his teeth and spit it out.

That settled it. This bottle would be emptied.

Ian set Danny’s glass within arm’s reach and watched him pour while continuing to stare at the package. With anyone else, he’d be nervous, but Danny was the kind of bartender that could feel a good pour. He stopped at a perfect two fingers and set the bottle down.

Ian poured one finger for himself. A single shot was all he needed until he knew Danny would be okay.

Danny brought the glass to his lips, sipped, rolled it around his tongue, and swallowed with a hiss. “Nice smoke to it.”

“Just the right amount,” Ian said.

“Good caramel aftertaste.”

“My favorite part.”

Danny sipped again, repeating his swish, swirl, and swallow until he finished every last drop. He set down the glass. Ian tilted the bottle over the rim, watching him.

“Right.” Danny dove for the packet, dumping the contents in one go, and Ian fumbled the precious liquid to keep it from spilling.

Broken seashells, a cd marked, “road trip driving tunes for my wife,” an engraved silver-framed wedding photo, and a broken bottle labeled “honeymoon sand,” fell out with a round object covered in a piece of notebook paper. Danny ignored everything but the paper-wrapped object. Wiping off sand, he held it up between shaking fingers.

“What is it, bràthair?”

Danny didn’t answer, blinking fast as the shaking in his fingers spread up his arm and through his body.

Ian swallowed. Either tears were going to spill or Danny was about to blow.

And Danny didn’t cry.

He tore off the paper and a whooshing breath escaped Ian. A gold loop hung from a delicate chain with the Swedish three crowns in the middle, studded in jewels. The same necklace Danny’s great-grandfather had given to his great-grandmother on their wedding day and Danny had given to Jessica.

She’d stuffed it in a piece of notebook paper when it should’ve been in a protective case.

Ian waited for him to yell. Speak. Move. Anything but sit there shaking. Danny’s eyes darted to the paper, and he snatched it up, reading. His chair slammed into the wall as he shot up, grabbed the bottle, and marched out of the room.

Ian picked up the paper.

I’m returning this negative energy to you. These things steal my happiness every time I see them.

Ian flipped the paper looking for more and found nothing but a heart that said, Sending all my light to you.

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” He crumpled the paper. “These things he gave to show he loved you steal your happiness? More like make you feel guilty, you manipulating, lying little—”

“Ian.”

He whipped around to see Danny standing in the doorway. “I ... ” Danny scuffed his boot against the threshold. “I haven’t been upstairs to the apartment yet and—”

Ian rose without a word and went into the storage room, returning with a large black trash bag. “I already packed all her shit. Was going to use it for target practice, but didn’t want to waste the bullets.”

The side of Danny’s mouth ticked, and when their eyes met, Ian knew the thanks was there even if he wasn’t able to form the words.

“I’m thinking it’s been too long since we cleaned out the attic,” Ian said, opening the bag and swiping everything in but the necklace. “Head on up and I’ll join you when I’m done taking out the trash.”

“Don’t forget the necklace.”

“I’m not throwing away your great-grandmother’s jewelry, Danny.”

“Donate it then.”

Ian removed a handkerchief from his pants, carefully wrapped it around the necklace, and tucked it into his shirt pocket. “Yeah, no,” he whispered. “I’ll be hanging on to this until you’re ready.” He dropped the bag in the outside trash bin with a crash. “Bye, you stupid b—”

He froze, lid shaking in his hand. He had to do better, somehow, if he ever had hopes of becoming a priest.

Taking a deep breath, he glanced up to the sky and mumbled, “She’s yours, so I won’t curse her anymore.”

That’s all he could give. Maybe it was enough. Or maybe he wasn’t cut out to be a priest after all. He slammed the bin closed.

Hours later, with the attic cleared and dusted, Ian and Danny sprawled on their backs over one of the new rugs leading to the front entrance of the tavern, admiring their handiwork. On the floor next to them, the empty Lagavulin bottle sat beside two nearly empty pint glasses.

Ian couldn’t remember who’d decided this was the best place to lie, but he had a vague memory of one of them gushing about how soft it was, probably him, and that led to them deciding to sleep on it.

“I think I knew,” Danny said, without looking at him.

“Hmm?” Ian rolled to his side. “Knew what?”

“In here.” He tapped his chest. “There were signs and I ignored them. Thought I could do what no other man could. Love her enough to heal all her past shit, you know?” He spoke with surprising control, considering the amount of alcohol swimming in him. He grew quiet before adding, “But I’m not what she needs.”

“No person is, Danny, and that’s the problem.” Ian pushed up to sitting, clutched his spinning head, and flopped back down to his side again. “Instead of getting help, she ignored her issues by doing what she did to you and filled the rest with those hippie remedies she concocts.” The spinning room became too much, so he rolled onto his back. “She needs a miracle, and neither you or I operate that department.”

“Somehow, everything you just said makes sense.”

Ian snickered. “Aye, we McClellans are the most eloquent after whisky.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Danny gulped down the last of his ale and held it up. “I win.”

“Bastard. You tricked me with yer sob story.”

He chuckled and Ian grunted, belly slithering to his glass to take the last gulp. “Fine. I’ll be the one to open tomorrow.” He plopped onto his back again and groaned. “Now what? When we sober, we scrub the cedar roof?”

Danny tucked his hands under his head and let out a long breath. “Nah. I’m finished.”

Those three words weren’t about cleaning, and for the first time since everything happened, Ian felt a drop of hope for him.