So I sit there, Bettye LaVette on the radio and chambray shirt rolled to my elbows, preparing to ink my latest plate. But just as I’m about to get started, I notice an indentation in the plate. Once it was just a nick in the wax, but now it’s a reservoir for ink, a blotch waiting to happen.

Some prints look good—even better—with a bit of random “noise.” Not this one. I swear under my breath and prepare to study the plate closer. Sometimes you can fix something like this; sometimes you have to start over.

Although there are several different etching techniques, and I’ve experimented with most of them, every method of etching involves the same fundamental process. You always start with a metal plate; you coat that plate with a waxy, acid-resistant material; you carve the design or picture you want to make into the wax, all the way down to the metal; and then you pour the acid. The acid bites into the metal, cutting your lines into it permanently. Then, when you ink the plate, you reveal a pattern you can print over and over—each piece of art identical and yet genuine, never faded by repetition.

But when you make a mistake, the error lives on and on. The ink catches it every time. No matter how many more prints you make, the blot will always be there, replicated a hundredfold.

Sometimes I think my life is the metal plate. Anthony carved the lines into me. But my toxic relationship with my family—and now the way Jonah turned on me—that’s the acid.

And the same stains, the same errors, repeat themselves every time.

Disquieted, I step away from my work. A minute’s break might be a good idea. I go to the water cooler and get a drink in a tiny paper cup, then recall that I haven’t turned my phone back on since midafternoon. Might as well see what’s going on.

As it powers up, I tell myself, You will not expect a text from Jonah. You won’t. It’s not happening.

This proves to be true. He didn’t text me, but Geordie did. Five times.

OMG Viv I’m so sorry is your dad okay?

Carmen says he’s all right but jesus you must be freaked out want to meet up for a drink bet you could use one

Hey I’m at Freddy’s Place if you feel like coming out

Theiyre beng total shitheads Viv fuck this place

If you know the owner of this phone, can you come pick him up? He is not allowed to remain on the premises.—Management

The time stamp on that last one is only ten minutes ago. I groan and grab my purse.

Most people think of Freddy’s Place as “the one next to the Mexican restaurant that turned out to be a front for the largest drug-running enterprise in town.” (No offense to Freddy’s, which is awesome. But when they busted the Mexican restaurant, it was pretty big news.) The food at Freddy’s is good, but when I come here, it’s usually for a drink or dessert after a movie, sometimes both. I love their courtyard, strung with lights, filled with laughter, and always visited by a few dogs dozing under their masters’ tables.

The person I’ve come here with most often is Geordie, and as I see him slumped on the porch, I wonder if we’ll ever be allowed on the premises again.

“Viv!” Geordie holds both hands in the air, like he just scored a winning soccer goal. “I told you she’d come!”

The manager standing next to him, arms crossed, scowls even more deeply. “You know this one?”

“Yeah, sure thing.” Oh, my God, Geordie’s so drunk. It’s not like I haven’t seen him messed up before, but it’s weird to see him this trashed this early in the day, especially when he’s out on his own. “I’ll take him home. Has he paid his tab?”

Geordie laughs. “O’ course I paid! Whadya think I am, luv?”

That much Scots accent means bad news. “Sorry,” I mutter to the manager as I scoop one of Geordie’s arms around my shoulders.

The guy shrugs. “He can’t keep doing this. That’s all I can say.”

“What do you mean, ‘keep doing this’?”

This wins me a disbelieving snort. “He shows up here at least once a week. We told him a while ago we weren’t going to allow him to drive away—so most of the time he takes taxis. Today he drove here, though, and I can’t allow him to leave. We could get sued for millions if he had a crash, and frankly, it’s just a matter of time.”

“I’m not tryin’ to drive!” Geordie bellows. “If you’d let me order some more food I’d be fine.”

The manager doesn’t even glance at him. “If he ever comes here alone again, we won’t even serve him. Maybe remind him of that tomorrow. That way he might actually remember it.”

With that, the manager walks away, leaving me standing there with Geordie’s weight heavy against my side. He smells like rum. “Thanks, Viv,” he murmurs, giving me his goofiest, most endearing smile.

“Just get in the car.” I can see his Fiat in the parking lot. Tomorrow morning someone will have to bring him back here to pick it up; probably that’s going to be me.

As I head toward his apartment complex, Geordie says, “He’s exaggeratin’, you know he is. Two times I’ve been there. Maybe three.”

“But you were going to drive like this, Geordie. You can’t do that.”

“I didn’t want to drive like this. I wanted to eat and wait another couple of hours! I’d’ve been fine then, y’know I would.”

Maybe he would have been. Maybe the manager was in a shitty mood. And Geordie’s always partied hard without it screwing up his life.

Yet I can’t help thinking over the last few times I’ve hung out with Geordie. He drank heavily every single time. Halloween, he even lost consciousness at Arturo and Shay’s. We’re not eighteen-year-olds experimenting with alcohol for the first time; Geordie is thirty. He should be past that by now.

“You Americans.” Geordie leans back in my passenger seat. The city lights flicker behind his handsome profile. “You’re Puritans, every one of ye. In Scotland, they’d call me a teetotaler.”

I went to Edinburgh one summer when I was eighteen, on one of those “if it’s Friday it must be Belgium” lightning tours of Europe. Plus I watched the fishermen at that inn where Jonah and I stayed on the Isle of Skye. Geordie’s not lying about the way they drink. Every pub fills at five P.M. with Scots from all walks of life. Over there, the day isn’t complete without a pint or two.

You’re overthinking this, I tell myself. This is basically a cultural difference. Besides, Geordie’s been working so hard on his LLM. You know the pressure he’s under. Why shouldn’t he knock back with a drink once in a while? So he got carried away one time. It happens.

I’ve said things like this to myself before. But tonight is the first time I realize what I sound like.

I sound like my mom. I sound like Chloe.

I sound like someone working very hard to deny the truth.

We get to Geordie’s apartment complex. As I put the car in park, he says, “Thanks, luv. Sure you won’t come up? Oh, no, that’s right, it’s all Jonah now, isn’t it?”

Jonah’s name feels like a lash against my skin. Yet I stay focused. “Geordie?”

“Yeah?”

I take a deep breath. “You drink too much.”

He laughs. “I told you—”

“I know what you told me. But you’ve been drinking harder the past few months than you ever did before. You’ve been drinking alone—and not, like, a glass of wine with dinner. Drinking hard.”

Geordie groans. “Ah, Christ, the morality police.”

“Listen to me,” I plead. “Geordie, we may not be in love anymore, but you know I still love you as a friend. I care about you, and I want good things for you, always. So I have to say this.”

“Say what?”

Telling the truth is terrifying. It’s a leap off a cliff. I’m going to hit the ground hard. All I can hope is that afterward, Geordie will think over what I’ve said and listen.