I take the second glass to my lips—but stop again.
Because another truth hits me, softer this time, but somehow worse:
I don’t want to numb this.
Not really.
I want tofixit.
I want to fixher.
I want to be someone she can lean on, not someone she shrinks away from.
I set the glass down.
Hard.
The bartender raises an eyebrow.I wave her off, pushing the drink away so fast it almost spills.
“Take it,” I say.“I’m done.”
She hesitates, then nods and slips it away.
I lean forward, elbows on the bar, hands in my hair, and breathe.
Wren needs something.
Maybe space.
Maybe time.
Maybe someone who won’t crowd her.
Maybe someone who’ll sit quietly and wait.
I can be that person.
Iwantto be that person.
But for the first time in a long time, I’m scared I won’t be enough.
I stand, drop some cash on the bar, and head for the door.
The night air hits cold and sharp, sobering me instantly.
I shove my hands in my pockets, look up at the sky, and exhale.
“I’ll be better tomorrow,” I tell no one.
And I mean it.
God, I hope I mean it.
