His eyes told me no.
I could feel desperation clawing at my throat.
I wasn’t proud of my nicotine and wine habit, but I wasn’t in the mood for moral lectures, and I knew José was going to give me one.
“You know how this works. No one’s going to sell to you.”
Still, I tried. “I’ve practically worn through the leather on my heels trying to find a sip,” I mumbled, tracing a worn groove on the counter, with a pout that felt utterly pathetic even to me.
His expression softened for a moment. Then he glanced at my scuffed-up heels and raised an eyebrow.
“I’ll pay double,” I offered, because desperation sounded better if you threw imaginary money at it. “Triple.”
“Honestly, if I knew you had the money to pay me back, I’d let you. But you don’t. You haven’t paid me back in weeks.” He shook his head with something that looked an awful lot like,dare I say, disappointment. “You wear desperation like a perfume. And itstinks.”
I forced a laugh—a laugh as dry as the Sahara. “But it brings out my eyes, don’t you think?”
José didn’t laugh. “Go home,” he said. “Get some rest. Drink some water.” His face didn’t budge. “Maybe go to a meeting.”
Asshole.
“Oh, I’ll go,” I said sarcastically.
We both knew it was a lie, because, let’s be honest, lying wasmucheasier than admitting I couldn’t even get through the door of one of those places without feeling like I was choking on my own failure.
With a quick, dismissive wave, I turned on my heel and trudged toward the door. My heels scuffed the linoleum in a way that grated on my nerves.
The second I pushed open the door to the bodega, the cold outdoor air hit my hands. Quickly, I shoved them into my coat pockets. One pocket had a hole so big my fingers brushed against my thigh. I’d told myself I’d fix that weeks ago. I hadn’t.
As I sat down on the steps, my jacket slipped off one shoulder. I didn’t bother to fix it. What was the point? I was shaking too much anyway.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out my body was rebelling. I vaguely remembered the warning signs from one of those eye-strainingly bad AA pamphlets—the kind with graphics so poor they’d be right at home in a low-budget nineties infomercial. The main takeaway? Quitting cold turkey was aterribleidea.“Severe withdrawal can lead to very real physical dangers,” it had droned on, as if I needed another reason to dread the process.
I’d scoffed at the time, tossing the pamphlet on some dusty shelf. Who needed advice from a piece of paper anyway?
They made quitting sound so noble, so brave, but they never mentioned how one day you were in control, and the next you weren’t. One minute you had money and a semblance of free will, and the next you were broke, holding an empty bottle, and bargaining with your own shadow for a few more drops.
Behind me, the bodega bell rang into the stillness. My shoulders stiffened instinctively. I expected José to come outand deliver another sermon about my life choices, but the footsteps that followed were different.Heavier.
I glanced back.
A man stepped out, tall and broad-shouldered, in a black suit. The tie was loosened slightly, as if the tightness had been bothering him.
He must’ve heard every word of my argument with José, must’ve painted me exactly as I appeared: like a spoiled brat guilt-tripping a bodega clerk into giving her one more bottle, one more fix.
He looked directly down at me like I wasn’t worth a second glance. Worse, he looked at me as if he’d been expecting me—as if he’d already decided exactly what I was worth and was just waiting patiently for me to realize it too.
In his hand, dangling loosely, was a freshly opened pack of Marlboros.
Red.
My eyes caught on the shine of foil as he peeled back the edge.
He didn’t say a word.
What the hell did he want? Was he here to gloat? To play some sick joke on the pathetic woman sitting on the bodega steps like the poster child for bad life choices?
If so, he should’ve known better. Angry alcoholics in withdrawal weren’t exactly known for their composure. I was one misplaced comment away from being tomorrow’s headline.
