"Okay," she whispered.
He went to the pantry first, though he did not let himself think about why. On the top shelf, behind the paper towels, was the bottle of Irish whiskey Mark had brought over at Christmas as a gift for the house, for guests, Mark had said, a little embarrassed, knowing. It was unopened. Eric took it down and held it. It was heavier than he remembered bottles being. He stood there in the dark pantry holding it, the label printed with a green shamrock and the words County Cork, and his thumb found the edge of the seal.
Seventeen years this past July. Seventeen years since the day he had walked into a church basement in Tempe with his hands shaking. He had a coin for every year in the top drawer of his dresser, and the first one, the forty-day chip, the one he had shown her on Jenna's porch, he still carried in his wallet. The reason. This is the reason.
He put the bottle down on the counter. He took out his phone and scrolled to a name and pressed it before he could change his mind. It rang four times.
"Eric." Ray's voice was thick with sleep. He was seventy-one now, living in Prescott with his second wife and a pair of ill-tempered donkeys. "It's late, kid. Talk to me."
"Ray," Eric said, and then, for the first time that night, for the first time in longer than he could remember, his voice failed him entirely, and he stood in his kitchen with the whiskey bottle on the counter and wept, and on the other end of the phone, two hours north, the old man said nothing at all, just stayed on the line and breathed, and waited, the way he had waited seventeen years ago, for as long as it took.
When Eric could talk again, Ray made him pour the bottle down the sink while he listened. Eric did. The kitchen filled with the smell of it, sweet and smoky and terrible.