I finished off the bourbon and tossed the bottle to the far side of the greenhouse. The satisfying crash of glass was the perfect backdrop to opening my next bottle of Pappy. The lid dropped to the ground, and I took a long draw.

Her plants grew around me, and I wondered how long it would take for the vines and leaves to cover me over, bury me in the green she loved so much. Her touch colored everything in here, from the pots and plants to the mortar and pestle she’d used to create my poison.

I knew physical pain. That was an easy sensation to clock. But it was nothing like the excruciating agony of losing her. Everything seemed to stop, and there was nothing in the world that could get it started again. Except her. So, instead of waiting for something that would never happen, I decided to drink. Seemed logical.

Was the pain worse because I’d never felt anything like it? I didn’t know, but I wanted it to stop. Therein lay the problem. The only thing that would fix it was a woman who ran from me the first chance she got. I took another swig from the fresh bottle, barely even tasting the amber liquid as it slid down my throat.

“Sir?” Timothy stood next to me. Where’d he come from?

“Yeah.” I offered the bottle.

He shook his head. “All her things have been delivered.”

“When?” I squinted at the cloudy sky.

“Late this morning.”

“What time is it?”

“Five in the afternoon.”

I’d been here for almost a day, but I hadn’t realized it. All I could think of was her, the blue of her eyes, the softness of her skin, the cute way her nose would wrinkle, the sounds she made when she came. I could drown myself in good bourbon and thoughts of her for the rest of my life. It would be more fulfilling than trying to function without her. I took another swig.

“Sir?”

“Still here.” I lay down on the center table as the mister overhead kicked on. The cool water felt good on my hot skin. As I got settled, a few more pots crashed to the ground, but I didn’t care. She wasn’t going to come back and see the mess I’d made.

“What are your plans?” I hated the pinched sound of his voice. Worrying about me was dumb.

“I plan on drinking all the bottles of Pappy van Winkle in my possession, then I’ll move along to the cheaper stuff.” I closed my eyes as water droplets collected on my face and drained away, tickling my ears. “What did she look like?”

He took the bottle from me and took a drink before sputtering and handing it back. “Blonde when I got there, back to brown when I left.”

“Was she happy?”

Please say no. Say no. Say. No.

“Not at all.”

I smiled and swallowed another gulp.

“I think she’s sort of, I don’t know, shell-shocked. And she gave me a vicious stink-eye when I removed all the cameras and microphones.”

“Did she say anything about me?”

“No. She was quiet.”

“Silence. Fuck.” I needed to know more, to peel her apart until I understood everything going on inside her, but that chance had passed. I’d have to ask Timothy. “Do you…”

“What?” He reached up and angled a mister away from my face.

“Do you think she misses me?”

He coughed into his hand as the hiss of the misters began to die off.

“Fine.” I scowled.

“I think she will. She needs time to sort through it all.”

“How is it that I, a fucking psychopath, feel more for her than she feels for me?” Just saying it out loud sent a spike of pain through me.

“I don’t know if that’s true. She has feelings for you. They just aren’t—”

“Was she drinking?”

“No.”

“Being a little bitch like me?”

“No.”

“See?”

He leaned against the opposite table. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“No. She has a multitude of feelings. Far more than you can conceive of. You used to have none. Since you’ve met her, you’ve had exactly two. Love and despair. When you flip the switch on despair, that’s all there is. When she’s sad, or despairing, or unhappy, there’s an entire cocktail of other emotions mixed in with that feeling. It’s not as transparent as yours.”

“Nuance.” The fucking bane of my existence.

“Exactly.”

I drank more.

“You’re going to kill yourself.”

I chuckled. “One can hope.”

“If you’re dead, how are you going to get her back?”

I laughed, the sound hoarse and ugly in the beautiful space. “She’s never coming back.”

“She will.” Dad’s voice joined Timothy’s.

“What are you doing here?” I craned my head to search for him through the leaves.

“You invited me for Christmas dinner. Remember?” He took the bottle from me and sipped it. “I’m disappointed. Seems like you would’ve opened the Hirsch first.”

“I think Pappy is a little smoother.” I shrugged and knocked another pot to the ground.

“Son.” He shook his head as I reached for the bottle. “This isn’t the way.”

I stared into his eyes, despite the fact there were two of him. “Dad, it hurts.”

“I know.” He sighed. “I’ve been down this road.”

“So you kidnapped Mom, then let her go, then had to suffer the consequences of your mistakes, all the while not knowing if the mistake was (a) kidnapping her in the first place or (b) letting her go?”

“No.” He took a bigger swig from the bottle, no sputtering this time. “I know what it’s like to lose the one you love. But you have a chance to get her back. Don’t you see?”

I flailed for the bottle, but he backed away.

“Letting her go was the smartest move you could have made.”

“Tell that to this.” I pointed at my chest in the general vicinity of where it felt like Mt. Vesuvius had erupted.

“Heartache.” His eyes, all four of them, had a sparkle I hadn’t seen in quite some time. “It’s good for you, reminds you of what you’ve got to lose.”

“It’s already lost.”

“Listen to me.” He grabbed my shirt, and with more strength than I knew he possessed, yanked me until I was in a sitting position, my long legs dangling over the side of the table. “I didn’t spend years teaching you how to fit in, how to be a good person, how to be successful for you to throw it all away right when you’re about to get the life I’ve always wanted for you.” He shook me. “Get ahold of yourself, and get her back!”

“How?”

“We need a plan, but we can’t do a damn thing until you sober up.” He grabbed under one of my arms and motioned for Timothy to get the other. Together, they helped me out of the greenhouse, down the back hallway, and then dumped me onto the couch in the library.

Dad grabbed a throw blanket and tossed it over me. “Sober up. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Give me the bottle.” I reached for it, but apparently swiped at my father’s double and came back with nothing but air in my palm.

“Not a chance. Come on, Timothy, let’s have a chat.” Dad walked out with Timothy at his heels and killed the lights.

The low fire sent shadows dancing all over the room. Everything reminded me of her. A book still open on the table where she’d left it next to her journal, her fleeting scent in the air, the chair she favored. Every detail built on the last. She was everywhere and nowhere. More stabbing pain, more overwhelming emotion that I wished would stop.

I clenched my eyes shut. She appeared behind my lids, her eyes glittering as she laughed and turned to run. I chased her. Would never stop chasing her.