The wine sloshes over the edge of the glass at one turn, splattering onto the counter, onto my wrist, onto the floor. I laugh—a harsh, breathy sound that doesn’t sound like me at all.
“Fuck,” I mutter, wiping my hand on my thigh before lifting the glass again.
I take another swallow.
And another.
My hair sticks to my forehead as I move, hips snapping in sharp broken motions, heart pounding too hard. The kitchenblurs to warm gold and deep shadow as I spin in place, nearly losing my balance on one turn but catching myself on the island.
My reflection stares back at me in the glossy cabinet finish.
Eyes too wide.
Pupils too large.
Lip still swollen from?—
No.
A dream.
A fucking dream.
I drain the glass and pour more.
And then—I slam the bottle down too hard.
Wine splatters across the marble.
Across my hands.
Across the locket hanging against my skin.
Mine.
I choke on a breath.
My fingers curl around the pendant like it’s burning me.
“I’m not yours,” I snap at nothing, at air, at shadows, at the ghost of his voice still clinging to the inside of my skull.
The music kicks harder.
I tip back half the glass.
“I’m not—I’m not—no?—”
My voice breaks.
My chest heaves.
I stumble backward from the counter, pressing a hand to my forehead.
My vision swims.
The room pulses.
The locket feels like a noose.
