It was, Nathan had discovered, entirely possible to be drunk for a week. His goal was to keep going until his liver gave out or the town ran out of alcohol, whichever came first. It was far, far better than being sober, than being so aware of everything that'd happened.
He hadn't been into his shop since Jim had ended things. Hadn't picked up a tool, hadn't answered his phone. His agent had called so many times that Nathan vaguely wondered if he'd just set up his phone to redial him over and over. Griffen had called, too, but that was something he couldn't deal with now. That whole thing was too complicated, too real and deep, and right then all Nathan could handle was the immediacy of the next drink.
The bottle in his motel room had run out, so Nathan was faced with hitting the liquor store again or going to the bar. The bar would pour the drinks for him, though, and he didn't want the clerk at the store to give him that look again. Besides, they had a better beer selection at the bar.
He stumbled in, scruffy and eyes bloodshot, looking very much as if he'd barely eaten, barely slept, barely done anything but drink for quite a few days. Sitting down at the bar, he ordered a pint and three shots. That'd do to start.