After being told I was too drunk to remember the events of that night, buying alcohol is probably the worst possible idea, but right now it feels like the only thing standing between me and a full-scale breakdown in the middle of Main Street.
So here I am.
My hands shake as I move down the aisle, scanning shelves without actually reading anything. The labels blur together in a riot of serif fonts, pastoral vineyards, and promises of notes of cherry or oak or whatever the hell else people pretend to taste when they drink wine.
Fuck it. What does it matter? I just want a drink.
The twisted part is, I’m not much of a drinker anymore. A glass of wine here or there, maybe a cocktail at an event, but that’s about it. The gala was a true outlier event, a chance to cut loose a bit. Look how that turned out.
Right now, though, I don’t care if it tastes like paint thinner. I need something to take the edge off before I come completely unglued.
I snatch the first bottle within reach and head for the register.
By the time I get in line, my card is already out, every inch of me primed to bolt.
But luck is not my friend today.
“You’d think she’d move.” The voice comes from somewhere behind me. Female. Mid-fifties, maybe. The kind ofvoice that has probably spent years weaponizing church bake sales and whispered gossip.
Another woman makes a low, disgusted sound. “Wish she would. Can’t stand to look at her.”
For one wild, blistering second, violence surges through me so hard it nearly blacks out my vision. I imagine turning around and swinging the bottle in my hand straight at their heads. Glass shattering. Red wine, blood, and righteous fury all over the cheap linoleum floor.
Bet they’d shut up then.
“Ma’am?” The cashier’s voice cuts through the haze and I jerk my head up.
She’s wearing a gentle expression as she points toward the card reader. “You have to swipe your card.”
“Oh.” My fingers won’t cooperate. I swipe it once and miss the reader entirely. Try again and nearly drop the damn thing. “Sorry. I?—”
“Here, let me get that.”
Maybe it’s the look on my face. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m shaking so hard I can barely remain upright. Whatever the reason, she doesn’t say another word—which somehow makes me want to cry even more.
As soon as the receipt prints, I grab the bottle and rush for the door, running smack into someone on the way out.
I don’t apologize, which seems rude and awful, but what’s the point? They’re going to hate me regardless.
I make it to my car and fumble for my keys, my vision blurring so badly I can barely find the lock. Of course the damn key won’t go in.
Give me a fucking break.
“Kiki?”
My whole body goes stock still, every muscle locking up. I cannot handle another round today. I can’t survive one morewhispered insult, one more sneer, one more person acting like my existence is a public offense.
“Kiki?”
This time the voice is closer. Familiar.
Turning, I see Eddie standing a few yards away on the sidewalk, a sporting goods bag hanging from one hand. Beside him, Theo absently swings a hockey stick like a flag, but the second he sees me, he goes quiet.
Even at six, he knows something is wrong.
Chapter 14
Goodbye Miss Kiki
