I sat on the curb outside, not caring if it made me look pathetic. New York didn’t blink at girls like me anymore. Girls with smeared eyeliner, cracked knuckles, too many keys on their ring, and not enough places to call home.
I popped open the Cheetos and ate three just to give my hands something to do.
The truth was, I was scared. Not of drinking again, but of how easy it still was to want to. How quickly it all came back. The craving. The permission. The ability to justify anything if I made it sound logical enough.Just one. Just tonight. Just to shut your brain up for five seconds.
But I didn’t do it.
I sat on the curb and let it suck. Let it be cold. Let it be uncomfortable.
Because that was part of it too.
Letting it suck without numbing it.
Letting it pass.
And maybe that was growth. Or maybe I’d just gotten better at surviving the craving.
Either way, I was still here.
Still sober.
Still hungry.
Still angry.
Still me.
And for tonight, that was enough.
When I got back home, my body felt like it had run a marathon—or fought one hell of a losing battle against my cravings. I was exhausted.
Withdrawal was a bitch.
I tossed my bag onto the kitchen counter and headed straight to the shower, hoping the hot water might wash away the mental gymnastics I’d done all day just to avoid buying a bottle. Maybe tomorrow would be easier. Maybe I’d wake up and finally stop bargaining with myself about something so stupidly simple as not drinking.
I stepped into the shower, turned the water scalding-hot, and let it burn away at least some of the anxiety clinging to my skin.
Then a crash echoed through the apartment.
I froze, panic slamming in my chest.
My body decided to move without consulting my brain first, which admittedly wasn’t new. Panic kicked in on pure instinct—the kind of panic that had been hardwired into me way before I became someone who had to consider the moral implications of walking into a liquor store. My heart jumped straight intomy throat, lodging itself there as I yanked the shower door open and stepped onto freezing-cold tile. My towel was near strangling me, hair dripping uncomfortably onto my shoulders, but priorities, right?
Because clearly, I wasn’t alone.
I grabbed the first thing I could find: a can of dry shampoo. Not ideal. Not even slightly threatening. But it was heavy and metallic and vaguely weapon-shaped, so it would have to do. I’d fought off worse with less. Emotionally, at least.
My legs were still wet, feet slipping slightly on the tile as I padded out of the bathroom, towel knotted tight at my chest, every nerve in my body on full alert.
Someone’s in the apartment.
And yeah, maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was Marco.
Because if itwasn’thim?
Then I was half-naked, unarmed, and ready to defend my life with a can of fucking Batiste.
I crept toward the hallway, heart pounding, breath shallow, trying not to think about how bad it would look if I died like this. Wet hair. Cheeks flushed. No clothes.
