Maybe this would work, maybe there is hope. I never knew what true hope felt like until now, and it felt fucking freeing.
7
MELANIE
Stopping at that gas station for wine last night was a terrible idea. I knew it then. But my brain, fuzzy and stubborn, made it make sense. It’s fine, I told myself. Just one drink. It’s almost 2 a.m.—so what? What the fuck was I thinking? One glass to celebrate. Just one. It felt different, drinking wine I bought with my own money. My first real paycheck. Not acting, cash tied up in a trust. Not some fake babysitting gig I never did. This was mine. Earned. Spent. My mom always said I couldn’t manage my life, let alone money. She was probably right. But last night I didn’t care. I was riding high on the idea that maybe—just maybe-I could take care of myself.
Then one glass turned into four. Then the whole bottle was gone. Party over. Now I’m wrecked.
My shift at the restaurant doesn’t start until four, but I’ve been dragging all day. Head thick, stomach sour. It’s not just a hangover—it’s something else. My skin feels tight, like it doesn’t fit right. My joints ache. My thoughts keep glitching out.
Am I dying? Is this it? Some cosmic punishment for all the garbage I’ve put into my body over the years?
“You’re up, princess.”
Nick’s voice slices through the fog in my head. I blink. Two tables have been seated. I didn’t even notice.
Shit.
“Okay,” I say, stepping forward. But he grabs my arm.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You sure?
“Is that code for ‘you look like shit’?” I pull my arm free, ready for him to snap back—but he doesn’t. Just gives me a look. Not angry. Just… tired. Disappointed. I feel it burn into the back of my neck as I walk away.
This night’s gonna suck.
“Linguini with clams and Calamari Zitti is up!” I hear one of the cooks say.
I felt sweat drip down my back from how hot it was in here. At the beginning of my shift, Nick walked me through the online process of getting my liquor license. He warned me how busy Fridays and Saturdays were, but I wasn’t expecting it to be this busy. I grabbed the plates at the same time; I felt a panic attack coming on.
Breathe, Mel, breathe.I
I take a few breaths before walking out to the main floor. Anxiety rushes through me as I try to figure out what was wrong with me. Was it all the people? Was it because I drank too much last night, again? I needed help. Abigail was right. And I didn’t even deserve to be offered any help from her since I’m already fucking up when I told her I wouldn’t drink if she let me stay a little longer at the rehab lakehouse, at least until I can put a down payment somewhere.
I silently tell my mind to shut the fuck when I approached my table with a plastered on smile. “Linguini with clams and Calamari Zitti is up!” one of the cooks shouts.
I jerk at the sound, nerves already threadbare. Sweat trails down my spine, soaking the back of my shirt. The heat in the kitchen is suffocating, like breathing through a wool blanket. Myfingers feel slippery as I grab the plates, right as the tight band around my chest starts to cinch tighter.
Panic. No, not now. Breathe, Mel. Breathe.
I force a breath in through my nose, hold it. Let it out slow. My hands are shaking. I try again. Another breath. Then another. I’m not okay, and I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the crowd. Maybe it’s the hangover crawling out of my bones. Or perhaps it’s guilt—Abigail’s voice echoing in my skull.
You promised.
And here I am. Lying again and screwing it all up, again. I glue on a smile that feels stapled to my face and walk out onto the floor.
“Linguini with clams and a calamari ziti,” I say, setting down the plates with practiced care, even though my hands are trembling.
“Looks delicious,” one of the girls says.
“I don’t know how you eat that. It’s so chewy,” the other one says, cringing like she bit into a slug. She shimmies her shoulders dramatically, and they both laugh, glittered up in their cocktail dresses, flawless makeup. On their second margarita.
I force a laugh that dies before it reaches my eyes. It’s surreal—being on this side of the table. I used to be them. Now I’m wiping crumbs off their plates. The twist of irony hits harder than the hangover.
