#nate 002

He hadn’t even been back for a month, but he had already attended four charity gala’s, two brunches and six different dinner parties. Thanks, mom. He’d forgotten how much responsibility came with being in the city, and how much it could take its toll on him. 

He’d first thought of it when he was at the Coates’ for a dinner party, and he’d figured that just one sip wouldn’t hurt. Even that thought alone scared him, though, so he’d excused himself early and gone home to go to bed. He’d felt better in the morning.

The second time had been more troublesome, because he’d been over to his sister’s and had wondered if she kept any alcohol in the house - and if so, where that could be. That, in itself, isn’t terrible, but then telling her he was going to the bathroom but instead checking out the different rooms in the house that might hold liquor, was. After he’d left, he’d gone straight to the gym to take his mind off it. He just needed to adjust to city life, is all.

A little less than a week later, as he spent yet another twenty minutes in the bathroom of a five-star hotel to escape the tedious row of speeches given after dinner, he looked at himself in the mirror and thought that if he could just have a single glass of whiskey, he’d feel better and he wouldn’t be tempted anymore. Unlike the previous two times, that thought didn’t scare him, and it was only when Chuck came to look for him that he dismissed the thought and went back inside.

And then, that Sunday during brunch, where unlike what his mom had promised, the closest person of Eric’s age was eleven, and the next one was 48, he’d suffered through two and a half hours of ‘who’s who’ and ‘who’s doing who’ before he’d had enough and gone out to the balcony to get some fresh air when a well-meaning server had offered him the last flute of champagne on the tray. Instinctively, he’d thanked her and picked it up before she went back inside, then stared at the glass for a solid ten minutes before he poured it out over the plants. The problem with that was that he didn’t pour it out because he knew he shouldn’t drink it, but because champagne would just not cut it.

And so, by the time he’d entered his previous favorite watering hole (and had, shamefully, been greeted like an old acquaintance), it was a little after two PM, although the blacked out windows had always given the bar a very ‘night clubby’ vibe. Surprisingly, the worst part wasn’t that he’d ordered whiskey. No, the worst part was that the barman had set down a glass and bottle in front of him after he’d ordered. Just like when he was seventeen. And just like when he was seventeen, he was glad he was all the way up in Harlem, where no other Upper East Sider would come if they didn’t absolutely have to.

And then, he looked at what was in front of him and his chest tightened. He reached for the sobriety chip in his wallet and put it down right next to the glass, as if to torture himself even more. Nine years, the chip said. Even more, he thought, because he’d had that chip since February. He was coming up on ten years. He’d lasted for ten years. And yet, he thought, if he could just have that one glass. Just the taste. It’d be enough, he thought, lying to himself. 

At that point, his phone pinged and he took it out to see that Serena had texted him to confirm dinner plans. And then all he could think of was Serena. He’d promised her that he’d never make her go through it again, that she wouldn’t ever have to worry because he’d tell her if things were difficult. But if he had to call her now, she’d be disappointed. She’d try to hide it, but she was his sister. He’d know. And that was a thought that Eric couldn’t bear to even think about.

Instead, before he could change his mind, he searched for another number and called it, not sure if he was hoping that Nate would or wouldn’t answer. And then, right after the guy on the other side of the line had greeted him, he simply said “can you come get me? I’m at the bar on East 116th,” before ending the call, lacking the mental strength to explain more over the phone.