My chest constricts, and suddenly it’s hard to breathe. Lungs seizing, throat closing, I mutter the words, “I need to go” before stumbling out of my best friend’s house, offering no other explanation.
My vision tunnels as I climb into my truck, and I hardly make it home before that darkness swallows me completely.
7
VICE
“MAKING THE BED” - OLIVIA RODRIGO
Well,fuck.
I stare at the bottles sprawled across the counter in front of me. The liquor I’ve been hoarding for months, thinking nobody would notice.
It’s not like I drink all the time. Just whenever a spiral takes me down a particularly dark path. Or before I meet up with a stranger from the internet because I’m craving human connection—and that’s usually paired with guilt-drinking, since my family doesn’t know about my online hook-ups. They think I joined a writer’s group that I meet with at the library once a week.
The lying makes me sick to my stomach, so I take a shot or two to dull the nausea.
So, I don’t drink all the time, only when I really need to, which might be damn near every day. But it’s not like I’m getting shit-faced. If I were that bad, it wouldn’t have taken so long for anyone to notice…right?
The look on my brothers’ faces tells me they won’t believe my excuses.
“How long, Lena?” Leo asks.
“The drinking or the fucking strangers?”
My twin tilts his head back, groaning.
Honestly, I don’t know why I fell back into these habits.
In New York, it was so easy. I met a few fellow writers through recommendations from my agent, and when I went out drinking with them six days a week, I found it incredibly easy to forget the way my life crashed down around me, what a terrible person I am, and how achingly lonely I was. I missed every deadline, I lost all of my deals, and my savings plummeted. I’m fairly certain I spent an entire year without being sober for a single moment.
Once I hit that rock bottom, I figured it best to just stay there. It made the most sense—it felt like what I deserved. I lived off credit cards and moved from my cute Washington Square apartment to a shoebox in Greenpoint, barely scraping by. At that point, the depression wasn’t from trauma, wasn’t from the horrible things I’d done to the people I loved, or the guilt that ate me alive day-by-day. By then, I was depressed because I was unemployed, poor, and drunk.
That’s a lot harder to do in a small town. A hometown where everyone knows you, knows your past and your mistakes and your tragedies. At first, I didn’t have the urge to drink or fuck strangers, but it was like I wasn’t just sad because I’m pathetic; I was sad because I was grieving again. I couldn’t carry the weight of both at once, and I feel lighter when my head is buzzed and my body is touched.
“Around the holidays, I guess,” I finally answer.
The timeline is somewhat accurate, though the trigger may not be, but I’m not ready to address that with myself, let alone with Leo.
Late afternoon casts a shadow over the house, but I’m having my first coffee of the day. I tried my hardest to avoid the conversation I knew I’d have to have with Everett after lastnight. I think I’ll avoid thinking about last night for the rest of my life.
I don’t want to think about Elliot, about how stupid I am. I used to be careful. Met up only in public places, always took the guy back to my apartment so I could maintain control. I used to trust my intuition and would bail on anyone who gave me cause for concern.
Elliot was a walking red flag, but I’d already been drinking, and I didn’t want to go home, so I pushed past the discomfort. When he slipped his hand between my legs, every alarm bell in my mind set off.
If he was willing to do that in public without my consent, how far would he go in private?
I’d braced my hand on his arm, attempting to push him away, and he pinched my thigh, gritting his teeth and snapping that I was a tease, and that I should’ve been expecting it. There was a fury in his eyes, and I think it’s written into the biology of all women to recognize that look of fury when they see it in a man. I don’t know why I clammed up or why I froze. I used to have teeth too. I used to consider myself a predator when it came to men like him.
Instead, I cowered. I pretended I was fine, convinced him I was just cold and preferred to wait until we were alone. He wasn’t happy with my response, but it got his hand out from between my legs. Though, that doesn’t change the fact that I can still feel his touch there, even now.
I don’t know why I didn’t text one of my brothers or call my parents. I guess I hoped I’d be able to get out of the situation unscathed, that they’d never find out, though I should’ve prioritized my safety over my humiliation. I don’t know why I walked into Boardwalk Tattoo when I saw the lights were still on. I didn’t even know if August would be there, but it was likesome sense of knowing or guiding wind told me to step inside, told me I’d be safe there.
Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the fear, but facing him was the aspect of the evening I’d been least prepared for. After we got off the Ferris wheel and began down the pier and back toward the boardwalk, my skin was buzzing with need to escape—to seek safety. At first, I wasn’t sure what I was searching for. I was only driven by the compulsion to get away from Elliott, but when I spotted Boardwalk Tattoo, it felt like a light clicked on. A beacon.
Even without confirmation of his presence, when I saw the illuminated sign of his shop, an aching familiarity surged in the pit of my stomach. The same feeling I can still recall from my youth—when I’d seek him out in the halls at school or sneak into his room after a fight with Zach. It’s something settling, the casual intimacy of his eyes meeting mine, the soft smile of deep understanding, the warm touch of comfort. I hadn’t felt it in years. I don’t know if it was hope or fear or some innate sense of knowing when he’s near, but my feet led me straight to him. For all the familiarity my body seemed to feel, there was so much about him that was anything but.
It’s like…I know what he looks like. I spent the best days of my life staring at his face. I’ve spent hours cataloging his features: emerald eyes, roman nose, pillow-like lips, the faintest hint of freckles that dot his cheeks—only visible if you stare closely enough. I’ve soaked in his touch and slept on his skin. I’ve loved him so deeply and fiercely, that description of the sensation doesn’t exist, because nobody’s ever garnered words for it.
