Page 133 of Forever, Maybe
“What do you want?” barked a bartender—a wiry young guy with a bolt through his left eyebrow and a dark-red goatee hugging his chin.
“Pint o’ Stella,” Mark said, already drifting away in search of a table.
Daniel watched as he zigzagged through the crowd, clearly altering course the moment he spotted a group of women working their way through several bottles of white wine.
“And whatever non-alcoholic beer you’ve got,” Daniel said. The bartender grunted and turned to grab a bottle.
For the weeks after the split, he’d drowned himself in booze, but oblivion only postponed the misery. It didn’t erase it. So he was back to teetotalism—no fanfare, no lectures, just a quiet decision.
By the time he waded through the crush of bodies, Mark had secured a table—strategically placed so he faced the group of women. He’d taken out his phone, peering at the screen with exaggerated focus before setting it down and flashing a guileless smile at one of them.
Daniel dropped into the chair opposite, setting down his bottle of BrewDog Nanny State. If he had to drink in a chain pub, at least he could have a Scottish-brewed alcohol-free craft beer.
He clinked his bottle against Mark’s glass. “Cheers. Happy birthday.”
Mark tried to meet his eyes, but his attention kept drifting. At the neighbouring table, a blonde with hair cascading to her waist was failing—rather obviously—to not look at him.
And Mark, of course, was failing just as obviously to not look back.
“Did you know Ryan’s working for me?” Daniel asked, watching Mark carefully as he reluctantly tore his attention away from the blonde.
“No.” His brother’s glare was instant. “If this is you being all Mr Big Man, throwing money at the kid ’cause you think I can’t afford to—”
Daniel shook his head. “I’m notbeingMr Big Man. Ryan applied before I even knew who he was. Turns out he’s a hard wee worker, so I kept him on.”
What he didn’t add—and where, perhaps, Mark’s accusation had some merit—was that he’d spent time with Ryan this past week. Talked to him. Liked him. The lad shrugged off questions about his future, but Daniel knew from experience that there was no better education than hands-on work. Still, Glasgow Caledonian University offered a part-time business management degree. If he liked the idea, he could put Ryan through college.
Best to wait before mentioning that, though. Who knew what his own finances would look like in a few months?
“So, what’s the story wi’ Ryan’s mum?” he asked, eyes still on Mark, who groaned but refocused.
“I was at school wi’ her. We shagged. She said she was on the pill. She got pregnant. She telt me after she’d had the wean. I wouldnae ha’ wanted her to have it.”
Spat out like a Twitter bio. One hundred and forty characters or fewer.
As Mark’s gaze drifted again, Daniel reached out and grabbed his chin. “That’s it? Seriously?”
Mark jerked away. “Aye. Fucking seriously.” His voice was sharp now.
At the next table, the blonde and her friend were staring, one nudging the other with her elbow.
“That’sit,” Mark repeated.
“But what about Ryan? Don’t you think—”
Mark’s eyes, which had once again wandered past Daniel’s shoulder, snapped back to him. Hard. Uncompromising.
Daniel exhaled.
Right.
“Oh, what? I should’ve been aproperdad? Giving money to a woman who lied to me? Taking the wean to McDonald’s or that stupid safari park in Blair Drummond every Sunday? What’s this about? That wee slag refusing to gie you kids?”
Daniel’s fury surged, white-hot. It roiled in his stomach, rising through his chest, burning his throat. The most satisfying thing—the most natural thing—would be to knock the little fuck into the middle of next week.
He exhaled slowly. Pictured Joe beside him.
Aye, keep the heid. Keep the heid.
