After we finish our alterations, we stroll out into the autumn air and on to our next destination, the Denver Bazaar. Music echoes down the streets, still blocks away, but the notes are like a beacon signaling our destination. The others are still chatting and giggling about their dresses, but I’m lost in my thoughts, still stewing over my reaction to Tristen.
I let out a pent-up sigh and tuck my hands in the front of my jeans pockets.
Once again, I let my emotions get the better of me. Just because the man knows how to press my buttons doesn’t mean I need to give him the satisfaction of reacting to him. Especially if Tristen is going to be around more because of the wedding. My temper is another problem area in my life that I know needs improvement. Before, I blamed my faults on the alcohol, but now I have no excuse for my actions.
Oh man... I’m going to have to apologize to him, aren’t I?
It’s Step Five of the twelve steps for my Alcoholics Anonymous program. When I commit a wrong, I must promptlyadmit it. And boy, have I had to apologize to this man and a ton of others in the last eighteen months. I mentally remind myself to text him as soon as I get back to Rocosa. For now, I want to enjoy this crisp, sunny afternoon with someone other than my cankerous boss I spend six days a week with.
We cross another intersection, and I speed up to match the others, trying not to disappear in the crowd heading toward the roped-off street. I slip in next to Lola, knowing I have one more apology to make.
“Hey,” I say, catching her attention. “I’m sorry about what I said before... about your glasses. That was rude of me.”
Lola bumps my shoulder playfully and grins. “Don’t even sweat it. You know we were just joking back at the boutique, right?”
“Yeah. Of course . . . of course.”
“Though I’m beginning to wonder if you might need glasses for not being attracted to that hottie. If you’re not interested, maybe you can put in a good word for me.” She laughs and bumps me again.
My eyebrows shoot up.Tristen and Lola?Together?
“If you want, I will,” I say, my voice high-pitched and overly bright.
My lips pull tight when I try to smile, dry and rough even when I brush my tongue over them. The parched feeling is like a jack-in-the-box, springing open and reminding me of all the horrific memories of those first weeks in withdrawal. Memories permanently burned into my mind. I dig in my purse for my watermelon lip gloss and swipe it on for instant relief.
“Thanks, Reese.”
“Of course.”
A sluggish sensation twists in my stomach. Something isn’t sitting right. Perhaps the egg salad sandwiches from our luncheon had gone bad?
As we head under the entrance banner, the music increasesto blaring decibels. A local DJ jams in his booth, headphones on and shaking his head along with the bass thumping through the speakers scattered throughout the event. Pennant flags are strung above us, multicolored and bright, dancing to the beat in the breeze. Even though the event is almost over, the streets are packed with shoppers. We twist through the maze of people, their arms full of shopping bags or drinks from pop-up vendors as they leisurely wander from booth to booth.
Normally, the delicious aromas from food trucks and bakeries would have enticed me over, but I frown, still not feeling like myself.
“Oh, those sandwiches look so good.” Julia gestures to Club Sandwich. The food truck’s disco ball flashes lights over their picnic benches and menu signs. “Anyone else still hungry? Their tuna tango is calling my name.”
My stomach revolts at the suggestion, and I shake my head.
“I’m still full from earlier,” Nia replies.
Mia pats her flat Pilates stomach. “I’m watching my carbs.”
Lola lifts a shoulder, jostling her multicolored boho scarf. “Maybe in a bit. Those sandwiches did look delish.”
“There’s another place you—” Nia’s sentence ends with a shriek when a small chihuahua darts out from behind an artist stall beside us, barking furiously at a passerby’s fur-lined boots. Surprised, the woman leaps back from the commotion, knocking into a retractable banner from a local honey vendor. The owner dives to catch the falling banner in time but ends up launching it forward and into the couple sipping wine at the booth closest to us. One minute the glass is on the table, the next it is airborne, sailing in slow motion toward me like a heat-seeking missile. The chilled liquid splatters across myblouse with mind-boggling accuracy, stealing my breath away and invading my nostrils like an old friend.
“Reese,” the others whisper in horror.
“Don’t move.” Maya is already in motion, running to gather a stack of napkins from a nearby table, then dabs furiously at the darkening stain. “Someone bring us a water.”
“No, no. I’m okay.” Or at least I think I am.
While wine wasn’t my drink of choice, the irresistible scent grips me around my throat, tight tendril fingers I haven’t felt this strongly in months. It’s what I not-so-affectionately call a monster craving. Those spring on me when I least expect it, whispering dark promises of “just one sip” that drive a person to insanity.
But just like any craving I have had, I only need to wait it out.
“It’s Nova’s shirt anyway.” I laugh, anything to break the tension building in my chest. I’m wobbling between the desperate need to be normal again and wanting to inhale the scent from my shirt like a parched man in the desert. My stubbornness rears up, my usual tactic for avoiding a relapse, and I begin repeating one of my favorite mantras under my breath until my heartbeat slows.
