I don’t give a reason for my departure, I simply walk away from her and toward the bar.
If I’m going to get through tonight, I need a drink, or two, or three. I don’t have access to anything stronger here, and I doubt Damian is willing to procure what I’m desiring.
I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t need this, or anything to get through this… but alas, I do.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asks with a warm and friendly smile.
I tap my fingers on the bar anxiously. I can feel the well of emotions building up in my chest. I need to move, I need to do something, I need to…drink. I need to smoke. I can’t do the second thing in here. I can only do the first.
So, I will.
“Triple of your oldest whiskey,” I tell him.
“You got it.”
He has to search for a moment, and that moment is long enough that my breath gets heavy. My chest feels like it’s being squeezed in a vice. All I can do is grip the bar with my fingers digging into the shiny polished resin.
For a minute I can’t imagine not feeling this way. As far as my brain is concerned, it’s all I’ve ever felt and I cannot remember what it was like to not feel this way.
My drink is poured. Too slow. Seconds feel like hours.
I find myself bouncing one of my knees while I lean against the bar. I don’t care who is watching me, looking at me, I can hardly focus on staying upright, much less worry about being watched in my poor state.
“Alessio,” Rosalie’s voice comes from behind me, along with the clicking of her heels. Angry clacking on the marble tile. “What are you doing?”
Finally, my drink is done and slid over to me. I grab it and turn to Rosalie out of instinct as I down it in all its strong caramel-colored glory.
I feel the burn down my throat, but most of all as it fills my stomach from first to last drop, I feel relief wash over me almost immediately.
I can understand now how Carmine got into the state he was in after our father died. How he wound up a drunken reckless mess.
It’s this feeling.
I suck in a deep breath with my eyes closed while my heart is starting to settle in my chest.
“Getting a drink,” I tell her.
“You walked away in the middle of an interview. They were expecting you to answer questions and get more photos of us,” she huffs at me.
“They weren’t going to get anything out of me, trust me,” I say.
Rosalie’s hair bounces as she moves her head in frustration.
“What is wrong with you?” she asks under her breath.
Grit my teeth. “Oh, I don’t know,” I hiss back at her. “Perhaps it’s difficult to be married to someone who simply glances at me in the morning before she gets her coffee, and then simply tolerates me during the day, before disappearing into her bedroom without so much as agoodnightorget bent.”
Rosalie’s expression shifts from anger to surprise. Her brows knit. “Alessio I…” she shakes her head. “Now isn’t the time for this.”
“No? When is the time?”
She takes a deep breath and looks around us. “Look, whatever you’re dealing with, I’m dealing with shit too, but I’m not making you look bad. Don’t embarrass me again.”
My jaw tightens further. I’m just barely feeling the alcohol set in, but that tiny buzz makes it just a little easier not to snap at Rosalie.
I know the bartender is behind us listening. If he knows what’s good for himself, he’ll keep quiet.
Both to and about us.
