Ophelia and Diego are both standing on the furniture, Ophelia with a bottle of champagne in hand and Diego’s glass sloshing over and spilling wine all over the rug as they screech out the lyrics to Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now.”
“That’s why they call me Mr. Fahren-hay-yaaaa—Ely, you’re home!” Ophelia jumps off the sofa and hurtles toward me like an incoming missile. She collides with me hard enough that I rock back on my heels, both arms lifting to wrap around her reflexively.
“Wow, I feel special,” I say. “What’s going on?”
“Ophelia has good news,” Diego says with an eyebrow waggle.
“Reallygood news,” Ophelia says, and she finally breaks the hug to look me in the eye. She’s smiling so wide it looks like her face might crack in half. I haven’t seen her like this in…well, ever. Her happiness is like a lantern illuminating her from the inside out. She looks even more beautiful than before.
“Okay,” I say, “well, don’t keep me in suspense—”
“They liked it!” Ophelia exclaims, answered by a whoop from Diego. “The gin people! They liked it! They actually liked my shitty sample pictures!”
Her joy is contagious. I find myself grinning just as wide as she is, and before I can stop myself I’ve flung my arms around her again, squeezing tight. “That’s the best news,” I tell her. “I’m so freaking happy for you. Oh my god!”
“Thank you,” she says, her fingers digging into my shoulders briefly before we separate again. “I seriously didn’t think it was going to happen. I thought they’d take one look and be like,Ugh, this shit,but they really— I’m going to be instores. People are gonna have my art in their houses!”
“You deserve it,” I say. “More than anyone. You’ve earned this.”
She laughs and wipes the heel of one hand over her cheek—there’s glittery eye shadow streaked down her face, presumably from crying. “Thanks. I can’t believe it. I keep waiting for them to email and take it back.”
“Absolutely not. They would never. They know what a good thing they’ve got.”
Diego bounces on the sofa again, waving the champagne bottle in the air. “Okay, you two, stop crying and come celebrate! This is a party, dammit!”
“Didyoujust tellusto stop crying?” Ophelia says, but she goes and I trail after her, dumping my camera bag on one of the armchairs.
Diego scrounges up an empty water glass and dumps a solid eight ounces of champagne in there, then shoves it into my hand. “Bottoms up,” he says. “We’re toasting the next Banksy here!”
Ophelia’s gaze catches mine before I can even start thinking of a response. I can see the worry in her eyes—like she thinks I’d throw my sobriety away on a whim.
The thing is…The thing is, I’ve been clean for four years. That’s a long time. That’s two black chips in a row. And the goal isn’t always abstinence; sometimes the goal is to approach normalcy. It’s moderation.
Maybe it’s been long enough. Maybe I should let myself breathe a little.
One sip won’t hurt me.
I hesitate, my palm gone damp against the glass. But Opheliahas already looked away, practically wriggling out of her skin with excitement, and Diego’s eyes are big and glassy with pride, and I’m not gonna be that person. I’m not gonna be an asshole.
I’m gonna be normal.
So I drink.
18
I wake up the next morning curled up in the center of my bed like a cat, the covers kicked down to the foot of the mattress and my arms draped over my face to block out the sunlight. My phone alarm keeps beeping in my ear like it thinks I haven’t heard it already, and I groan, fumbling to press the Mute button.
It’s been a long time since the last time I had anything to drink. Four years, five months, and sixteen days, to be precise. And it’s not like I got drunk last night or anything—I just had a glass. No big deal. But my mouth still tastes like something crawled in there and died.
Ifeel like a part of me died.
I’m such an idiot. I can’t believe I deluded myself into thinking a few sips was no big deal. Of course it’s a big deal—I literally went four whole years without breaking my streak. And it was so goddamn easy to let the whole glass castle shatter around me. And for what? Because I thought I could make myself normal for a night?
I’ve never been normal.
I push myself upright and lean against the wall, swiping open my phone to scroll through my latest notifications.
The top one is from Wyatt, a text I’d missed last night.
