You know you want to.
I slow without meaning to, my eyes fix on the wooden door, and I hear all the promises it has tucked behind it.
We have exactly what you need.
Something to quiet that noise.
Something to blur those edges.
Something to make all that pain go away.
My chest tightens as I remember the last time I let that door close behind me and how easy it was to slide onto a stool, trading my thoughts for a bottle.
I drive past it, making it only halfway down the block before turning around. The SUV rolls to the curb, like it’s being pulled by a rope. I park crooked and kill the engine before staring blindly at the neon glow reflecting off my windshield.
You don’t have to feel like this.
The door creaks when I pull it open, the sound swallowed almost immediately by low country music and the quiet hum of conversation. Each step deliberate and measured, I head straight for the bar. I saddle up to the first empty seat at the bar, and the vinyl squeaks under myweight.
The bartenderwith a graying beard and tired eyes glances over. “What’ll it be?”
“Whiskey.” My throat feels like sandpaper, the word scratching all the way up. “Whatever you’ve got.”
He nods once, and then he reappears with a bottle seconds later. The amber liquid catches the light as he pours it into a shot glass, the smoky, spicy smell hitting me before he even finishes. He slides it across the counter, stopping inches from my hand.
I stare at it. It looks harmless, innocent even. Just a drink.Just one.I can almost feel it, the burn and warmth spreading through my chest, temporarily dulling everything sharp inside me. My hands move before my brain fully catches up, and I wrap my fingers around the glass. It’s cool against my skin. I lift it slowly, and the far-too-familiar scent curls into my nostrils. My lips part, and the rim of the glass hovers just short of touching them.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes, and in the darkness behind my eyelids, I see them: Rosie and Teagan. This is not how I honor the too-short life Rosie got to live. The man Teagan fell in love with didn’t hide at the bottom of a bottle.
They would both be so disappointed in me…
I slam the shot glass onto the counter as a breathy sob tears out of me before I can stop it. It shudders through my chest, raw and humiliating. The sound cracks, sharp and loud, through the low hum of the bar, and the untouched amber liquid sloshes over the rim, spilling across my knuckles and dripping onto the wood.
“Fuck…” The word breathily trembles out of me as I drag a hand down my face, smearing tears and spilled liquor together.
I could still drink it. It’s right there. All I have to do is lift the glass. But if I do, I know exactly what happens next.
One becomes two.
Two becomes the bottom of the bottle.
And tomorrow morning, I wake up having lost myself.
Again.
“You okay?” the bartender asks with genuine concern.
I let go of the glass, and my voice unsure, I mutter, “I’m good.” He studies me for a second before reaching forward and quietly taking the shot away. He replaces it with a napkin, sliding it toward my damp hand.
“Long night?”
“You could say that.” I let out a hollow laugh. I pull a few bills—more than enough to cover a drink I didn’t take—from my wallet and set them on the counter.
I walk out into the cold Montana air with my chest aching and eyes burning. The neon sign flickers above me, begging for my return. But it’s not going to fool me with its empty promises. Not tonight.
Dear Rosie,
I don’t have anything figured out. I wish I did. I wish I were writing to you with clarity instead of this dull ache that won’t loosen its grip on my chest.
