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I loosen my hold on her and swerve my focus to the doorway. Anything to avoid her gaze.
"Hey." Emery snaps her fingers to regain my attention. "You haven't told me what you think of my dress, or whether I look pretty today."
"Well—I—The dress is fine. Rather flattering."
"Gee, don't gush like that. It's embarrassing."
I cough and stare at her shoulder. "You look pretty today."
"If you're resorting to repeating what I said near verbatim, something is definitely up with you. Spill, Rory. That means talk to me."
My gaze flits here, there, and everywhere as I struggle to come up with an excuse she might believe. But my movements begin to seem frantic even to me, until I spot my salvation—the wet bar. "I need a drink. Excuse me."
I push away from Emery so fast that she stumbles half a step, then I bolt for the wet bar where Lachlan and Aidan are sipping whisky and blethering. My brothers gossip almost as much as their wives do.
Emery gapes at me as I bark orders at the bartender. The man seems confused by my tone of voice, but he brings me a glass filled with two fingers of Ben Nevis.
I swig the contents in one mouthful and demand another, tossing it back in a single swallow.
Aye, whisky is the answer. If I drink too much, at least I won't need to engage in any more conversations with my wife about why I am the way I am, though she claims that she already knows the answer.
I see you.
Whatever Emery meant by that, I donnae care anymore. The whisky has made me feel looser, but not enough that I can stop thinking. I slap my glass down on the bar and shout, "Another."
The bartender gives me an odd look, but he pours two more fingers of whisky into my glass.
"More," I say.
His brows draw together, but he adds another measure to my glass.
My gaze wanders around the makeshift dance floor, where I see my wife taking a stroll or a twirl or whatever the fuck people call it when they dance. My cousin Iain is enjoying the company of my wife as they shuffle their feet across the floor. No, Iain shuffles. Emery floats like an angel.
I see you.
Why do I keep hearing her voice repeating that silly statement? Of course she can see me. Everyone can. I'm not invisible.
My glass is empty again, so I flap my hand at the bartender. He wears a pinched expression when he approaches me. "Ah, Mr. MacTaggart, sir, your brother said I shouldn't serve you anymore."
"This is my house, and I will drink whatever I want."
"Aye, but—" The lad swallows hard enough it shows in his throat. "Your brother said—"
"Which one? Aidan or Lachie?"
"Uh, that one." He points toward Lachie.
"Fine, do what he says." I lean over the bar to grab the bottle of Ben Nevis. "I'll serve myself."
If I want to get buckled, it's my business, not Lachie's.
While I watch my wife cavorting with every MacTaggart on earth, and probably some who flew in from Mars, I guzzle whisky straight from the bottle. Aye, I'm feeling much more relaxed now. Emery can't see me, I'm sure, since I can't see her either. She disappeared into the crowd of dancing puppets with my cousin Evan. Or maybe it was Jack.
Puppets? They're people, ye eejit.
I lift the bottle to my lips.
And someone snatches it away from me.
