“I drank for a lot of reasons,” I admitted. “But mostly, I drank because it was easier than admitting I was failing. I thought if I stayed blurry, I wouldn’t have to feel anything.”
“You got out. You put yourself first. She never did.”
I guess he was right.
I mean, I had. That should matter, shouldn’t it? That I’d stopped. That I’d clawed my way out of that pit and kept myself from falling back in. That I’d kept showing up to meetings even when they’d felt like punishment. Even when I’d sat there biting my tongue while Steve talked about “reclaiming joy” for the seventh week in a row.
I didn’t drink anymore. Not even when it was easy. Not even when it would feel like breathing again. When it would make the silence feel softer and the shame less harsh.
That had to mean something.
Right?
Sometimes I still didn’t feel proud. I felt like someone trying on borrowed clothes, faking it. I’d wake up and brush my teeth and drink my coffee and go through the motions like a person who had their life together, but deep down, I was still waiting to be caught. Like eventually, someone would call me out. Tap me on the shoulder and say, “Hey, you don’t belong here. You’re still the same screwup who used to fall asleep with wine in her hand and pretend she had everything under control.”
But Marco didn’t look at me like that.
I was starting to believe him. Starting to believe I could be more than the mistakes I’d made. More than what I’d inherited. More than what I’d survived.
“You’re nothing like her,” he said.
And the part of me that always doubted—that always whispered,Maybe you are—quieted just a little.
Because I’d made choices she hadn’t. I’d said no to things she’d said yes to. I’d stepped away before it had swallowed me whole.
I looked over at Marco, who was still sitting quietly, his arm draped across the back of the couch like he wasn’t afraid of any of this—of my past, of my flaws, of the version of me that still hadn’t figured everything out. I realized he didn’t need me to be perfect. He didn’t even want that. He just wanted me honest.
Which was maybe the scariest part of all.
Because being honest meant admitting I wanted this. I wanted him. I wanted to believe I deserved something more than just surviving.
I let myself lean into him again, just a little, because if this version of me—the one who chose quiet over chaos, who didn’t run, who stayed—was real, then maybe I was finally becoming someone I could be proud of.
Maybe I already was.
On Saturday morning, I was halfway through the dishes when Marco came home and threw his keys on the counter.
“I’m going golfing tomorrow,” he announced.
I stared at him. “Golf,” I repeated dryly. “You?”
“Remy invited me. Apparently, it’s a family thing. Wants me there to make him look better.”
I laughed. “That’s smart. Even I’ve never seen you swing anything around besides your ego.”
Marco arched a brow. “Funny.”
“You, in plaid shorts and a polo shirt?” I teased.
“Are you done?”
“No, but continue.”
He ignored that. “I want you to come with me.”
I blinked. “Oh, thank you, but I don’t golf,” I said, scrambling for an excuse, my pulse quickening a bit.
“I’m not asking, Valentina.”
