Mr. Duncan, the handyman, super and parking garage attendant, stared at me like he’d seen me for the first time when I marched toward the Subaru I hadn’t touched in three years.
“Can I be of any help, Mrs. Brighton?” he wheezed as he shuffled his big, old body in my direction, his beady eyes wary.
“Thanks, Mr. Duncan. I’m just…going for a ride. Can you please remove the cover?”
His eyes wandered between me and the car. “How about I drive you and save you the trouble, dear? It’s late, and you must be tired after the ceremony.”
I swallowed. “I’m not tired, but thanks for the offer.”
His thin lips twitched with a nervous smile. “The Subaru isn’t clean. I missed washing it last week. Forgive my old age. I promise I’ll get it ready for you first thing in the morning. Let’s take my car. I can drive you anywhere you want, Mrs. Brighton, for as long as you want.”
I bet my car was shining spotless under that cover. He might be old, but he took care of that car as if it were his own child.
“C’mon, dear. Make an old man happy thinking he did something nice to you. Besides, I can use the company.”
Dammit. I couldn’t say no to him. Mr. Duncan was really old, as old as this building. I hated to be rude to him. And he lived here alone, never had a family. His job had become his everything. Just like me.
I should have called a Lyft. Now, I had no choice but to let him drive me to the liquor store. Would he judge me? Try to stop me? To save me like he was doing now? He knew just like I did I was nowhere near ready to drive again after my trauma that turned into a phobia, let alone do it in my state of mind, when I was planning on drinking myself to oblivion.
I didn’t give a shit, though. I took him up on his offer.
After a short drive, I walked into the store with my chin high in my poop jacket.Look at me, people. After a long hiatus, Proud Braless Poop is back.
Awesome. I’d turned into one of those women that shopped at Walmart in their pajamas without their bras. An achievement every woman should accomplish at least once in a lifetime.
The sucker for punishment in me collected the liquors needed to make a Negroni, Jack’s favorite drink. Before we went to Italy, he wouldn’t have touched gin, but after he’d tasted the local cocktail, it quickly became his favorite. He had it almost daily.
I wondered if Fabio liked Negroni, too.
Why the hell would I think about his favorite drink? I didn’t care if he drank Negroni or battery acid. It wasn’t like he cared about anything related to me. I was certain I wouldn’t be crossing his mind any time soon. He was probably stuffing his pants with bills in an orgy somewhere.
I returned the bottles, deciding against anything Italian, not even wine. I eyed the tequila shelf. Nope. The Mexicans and the Italians looked an awful lot like each other. I didn’t need the slightest reminder of the asshole with the big…thongs.
Vodka it is.I puckered my lips, clawing my hands, mimicking a tough Russian, picturing the blondest Slavic man I could ever imagine.
With the same poop pride, I climbed back into the car, waiting for a lecture from Mr. Duncan either in words or in his little, wrinkly eyes.C’mon, let’s hear it, old man. I deserve it all.
But he didn’t even shoot me a dirty look. He just smiled at me with his evergreen kindness and asked me where I’d like to go next.
Shit. My sleeping conscience was enjoying the rest while I depended on the old man to stop me from my stupidity.
I stared at the clinking bag, desperate to return to my place and recreate my pain in the form of a nasty hangover. But my cranky conscience wouldn’t let me rest since its nap was cut short.
With a sigh, I said, “Zoey’s place.” If Mr. Duncan wouldn’t rescue me, she would. Or drink with me. Either way, it was better than waking up in a pool of my own vomit alone.
I looked through the window as he started the trip to Astoria, the urge to take a sip of vodka to stop my head from roaming where it shouldn’t nagging. The twenty minutes it took us to arrive seemed like twenty hours, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop thinking about tonight. About Fabio. About the kiss that might have started as an act of panic but ended as real as he thought it was.
“The poop jacket?” Zoey’s sleepy eyes bulged awake the second she saw me at the door. I felt awful waking her up in the middle of the night like that. She scratched her bedroom hair. “How bad was it?”
I showed her the bag, and she hissed in response. She lifted her head and waved at Mr. Duncan. “I’ll take it from here, Mr. Duncan. Will bring her back in the morning. You have a good night.”
“You sure? Stew and the kids wouldn’t mind?” I asked.
“Get in, Gabi. Don’t be silly. Besides, Stew took the kids to sleep over at their grandma’s. Their cousins are visiting.”
“Is Stew staying over, too?” I asked cautiously as I stepped inside.
“Not that I know of.” She sighed. “But since he hasn’t come home yet, I guess he is andforgotto tell me.”
