“Rule number one: feel free to tell me to shut up whenever you feel it’s necessary.”
Silence stretches between us, and I look over again to find Juliet now staring at me, a glimmer of hope in her sweet, dark eyes.
“Zoey?”
“Yeah?”
“Would you mind shutting up?”
“Not in the slightest.”
We spend the next half hour drinking beer and throwing rocks.The only sounds are the tiny splashes in the water, crickets chirping, branches rustling in the wind, and my big, lazy dog snoring.
And I ignore the sensation of eyes watching me.
16
ZOEY
Around noon,I finally stop sobbing.
There wasn’t just one thing that set me off.A bunch of little things did.
Stubbing my toe on a rock.Missing my family.Thoughts of Minnie.Dropping Juliet off because our friend date was done.
But the real culprit was beer.
I knew, even as I was cracking open my fifth can of Coors, that I was making an unhealthy choice.When I’d first started on my antidepressants, I was lucky enough to discover that one drink had no noticeable effect on my mental health.But there’s a threshold, and when I pass it, I roll dice with misery.
Now, after spending a night getting to know Juliet, I know she wouldn’t have judged me or made me feel bad about needing to stay sober.But at the start of our little camping trip, she’d shown up with a cooler full of beer, proudly declaring we were going to get wasted in the wilderness.
The idea soundedso fun.I convinced myself the repercussions weren’t as bad as I remembered.
Mistake.
I barely made it halfway home when the wretchedness crashed over me.Not thetruedarkness that arrives slowly and drags me under the surface.This is a malfunction with my meds and hopefully short-lived.
I parked on the side of the road as the tears fell in rivers.Eventually, I calmed long enough to drive again, but only made it as far as the front porch before I collapsed on a rocking chair and wallowed in my unexplainable sadness.
Well, there is an explanation, just not a satisfying one.My brain sometimes decides to be unhappy without cause.
When the misery subsides, I’m left with itchy eyes, a sore throat, and an aching head.All of these lend a sharp edge to my voice as I search for my dog.
“Bruce!”The screen door opens with a creak as I move to the back porch, calling out for the furry brute.“Bruce!Dinnertime!”
The sun hasn’t set, but the day seems almost done as charcoal clouds gather in the sky.A rumble of thunder warns of a coming storm.
If I had Wi-Fi at this goddamn cabin, then I would’ve been able to check the weather.And if I had checked the weather, I never would have let Bruce out to wander freely when there’s about to be rain.Trying to dry off a dog that weighs almost twice as much as I do is not a tango I want to dance today.
Only solution: get him back inside before the rain comes.
“Bruce!Don’t make me come looking for you!”
I let him out when I stumbled inside a while back, still in the midst of my sobbing haze.Honestly, I’m surprised he didn’t scratch at the door hours ago.As another minute or so passes with no sign of the mastiff, I accept that I can’t just linger on the porch.
Grumbling about poorly trained dogs that don’t listen to commands, I pull on my sneakers and grab his leash.I start my search by circling the yard, looking to see if he just fell asleep and was too passed out to hear me calling.
No sign of a giant tan mound of fur—and Bruce is not an easy target to hide.
