I took in a deep breath. “He’s really tall. Has these really blue eyes. Gringo. Obviously. The kind that says ‘ma’am’ to waiters.”
“I like him already.”
That was all she needed. A “ma’am” and some blue eyes.
I didn’t say anything else about him. I could’ve. Could’ve told her about how he never left the apartment without checking every single lock twice, or how he made coffee in the exact same way every morning like it was part of his DNA. Could’ve told her he didn’t speak unless it mattered, and sometimes that drove me insane, but other times it made me listen closer. Could’ve told her living with him felt like being examined through a microscope that never blinked.
But I didn’t.
Instead I peeled another slice of mango and stayed a little while longer.
On the way home, I passed, like, six bodegas advertising vodka. One of them had a little chalkboard sign that read“coldest in town”as if that were supposed to be charming. Another had the kind of handwritten poster that looked like it’d been there since 2003. Faded letters and half a corner missing. They were everywhere.
And all I could think was,it’d be so easy.
Just one stop. One bottle. One lie.
The past few years had been a blur, honestly—one big, vodka-fueled coping mechanism. Only because I’d thought it was totally fine to be a mess if your mom was sick. Sympathy made people blind—even yourself.
Cillian hadn’t minded. Hell, he’d practically sponsored my downward spiral. It was easy to see why now. A tipsy wife waseasy to manipulate, easy to control. Easier to convince her to look the other way.
But now? Four weeks sober, and holy shit, was I feeling every second of it.
Four weeks without a drink should’ve felt like a victory. Instead it felt like waiting for a bomb to go off. Because I knew myself. I knew how easily I’d slip back into old habits. One drink, and I’d be right back to square one, looking for answers at the bottom of a bottle.
Which was probably why I was now standing outside José’s bodega like a complete psycho, bargaining with myself not to walk straight in and grab the nearest bottle.
The door jingled loudly as I stepped inside, and warm air hit me, dragging memories with it—the smell of stale coffee, cheap snacks, and overpriced regrets. José looked up from behind the counter, utterly unfazed.
“Ah,mi amor, you’re still alive,” he said dryly.
I smirked. “Disappointed?”
“Not yet.”
I moved toward the counter, avoiding the liquor shelves. Instead I asked for cigarettes. If I was going to regress into old habits, I could at least skip the alcohol this time.
“That it?”
“No,” I said, grabbing a bag of Cheetos off the shelf, because if I was making questionable choices tonight, I might as well go all in. Then I pulled out a wad of cash I’d withdrawn from the card Marco had given me and dropped it dramatically in front of him. “For this”—I gestured to the cigarettes and snacks—“and the rest.”
José stared at the money, counting silently. Three stacks, heavy with debts I’d avoided repaying for far too long. He raised an eyebrow. “You finally paying up?”
I shrugged. “Figured it was overdue.”
He sighed, stuffing the cash into the register. “Never thought I’d live to see the day.”
I smirked, taking the bag. “Well, life’s full of surprises.”
I stepped back outside into the cold with the cigarette pack tucked under my arm. I hadn’t smoked in weeks either, but tonight wasn’t about rules. Tonight was about not walking out with a bottle of vodka and a lie I’d hate myself for in the morning.
Small victories.
I didn’t light one. I just stood there with the bag of Cheetos crinkling in my hand and the plastic-wrapped box of nicotine burning a hole in my conscience.
Four weeks sober. Thirty days and some change. And yet here I was, back in front of José’s as if muscle memory had dragged me here. As if my body hadn’t caught up with my brain, or maybe it was the other way around.
I used to come here at two in the morning, in flip-flops and a hoodie, swiping whatever cash I had and hoping José wouldn’t ask questions. He never did. He didn’t need to. He’d just hand me the bottle, throw in some gum, and say,“Don’t die, yeah?” I’d tell him that wasn’t in the plans. But we both knew I didn’t plan that far ahead.
