Page 94 of Only Be Mine

Not because I didn’t want the wedding - because I did. Or at least, I wanted the version of it that didn’t require me to amputate a decade of grief to make room for vows.

I opened the cabinet I’d been avoiding for months - the back corner of the top shelf, where I’d shoved everything I didn’t trust myself around.

The whiskey was still there.

A squat bottle with a label that had started to peel, like it had been waiting long enough to get bored.

“Hello, old friend,” I whispered, and the sound of my own voice in the empty house made my throat tighten.

I found a glass, one of the cheap ones I hadn’t bothered replacing because I barely used it, and poured a generous splash. I stared at it for half a second as if I might change my mind, then tipped it back.

The burn hit first. Then warmth. Then a looseness that had nothing to do with comfort and everything to do with surrender.

I poured another.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I heard Amy’s voice, Don’t. Not tonight. And Trevor’s, Cate, please, just come home. And then my own, It’s one night. Let me have one night.

I drank the second one faster.

I should’ve gone to bed. Should’ve washed my face. Should’ve been the woman who cared about weddings.

Instead, I stood in the middle of my kitchen with my hand wrapped around a glass and felt the edges of myself blur.

I poured a third and carried it to the living room, then stopped halfway there because something flickered in my peripheral vision, a dull pulse from my purse.

I blinked, annoyed. Confused.

Then I remembered…

My phone was off; it couldn’t be doing anything.

Unless…

I went back to the counter and dug my phone out, fingers clumsy. My thumb hovered over the power button for a beat, my stomach tightening like I already knew what I’d see on the other side.

I pressed it and the screen lit up.

For a second, it was just the boot logo. Innocent. Neutral.

Then it loaded, and everything I was avoiding came rushing in.

Missed calls stacked like a staircase.

Voicemail notifications.

Texts.

My chest tightened so fast it felt like my ribs were closing.

I should’ve set it down. I should’ve turned it off again. I should’ve let morning deal with it.

But the little voicemail icon sat there like a blinking wound.

I stared at the screen, breathing shallow, and told myself they were wedding things. Catering. The florist. Someone confirming seating charts I didn’t care about.

My finger moved anyway.

I pressed play.