We pass Henry’s bachelor party on the way out. He is now nearing catatonia, head sloped over, wobbling dangerously on the uneven cobblestone.
“Goodbye!” I call out to the group, waving. Now that I’m drunk, we’re like kindred spirits.
“What’re you doing?” Theo hisses.
“They’re my friends.” I scowl again. “Hi, friends!” They wave back. “See? I have other friends besides you.”
On the drive home, we settle into silence. I open all of the windows so the wind smacks my face. The air is sobering. It hurts but in a good way, like a hard-learned lesson, like the muscle ache after a long workout.
It’s been a long day. It’s been a long summer. I think about my morning with my dad and realize how stupid it was to get drunk after a conversation like that. My dad confides in me about his sobriety journey, and I immediately head to a brewery? Of course, I didn’t plan it like that, but the irony isn’t lost on me.
“I’m an idiot,” I say aloud, laughing at myself. “It’s just hilarious how I can fail at so many things at once, you know? At work, in relationships, even my friendships. My art.” My laugh is somewhere between a scoff and a bark. “Art! I’m an idiot. Who do I think I am?”
We pull up to the cottage driveway. The car stalls. With the alcohol, my life feels distant. It’s like I can take a bird’s-eye view of the entire summer, see all my mistakes lined up: rows of dominoes about to fall. I remember the email I sent to Clive this morning.
“Oh God,” I groan against the leather console.
“Go inside, Lily,” Theo says. “Drink some water.”
“You know,” I say, staring at the blue stains on my white denim. There’s something pretty about the pattern. “I really liked you. I just thought you should know since you’re leaving.”
He doesn’t say anything back, and if it weren’t for the numbing effect of the alcohol, I’m sure his silence would have hurt. A lot. Instead, it falls on me like the fog that is beginning to form outside the window in thick, slow swirls, alarming but harmless.
When I’m halfway out the door, another thought occurs to me. “Wait! How are you going to get home?”
“I’ll take the bus.”
I stumble onto the green grass of our lawn.
Theo gets out of the driver’s seat and hands me the keys, placing them in the palm of my hand and closing my fingers around them.
“Get some sleep,” is all he says before walking away, head down.
Chapter Twenty-EightLily
In the bright, liminal space of my profound drunkenness, the garden is spectacular.
All of the colors look brighter, more animated. The universe is off its axis, but everything makes better sense at this angle. The sky just starting to darken into evening.
The hydrangeas are as purple blue as the blueberry lemonades I drank. The sunflowers as high as my thighs. Everything lush, alive, the full spectrum of color like a candy store. Growing season, Lottie always called this time of year, everything in full bloom.
There’s a ladybug crawling on the edge of Lottie’s bench. I place my hand down so it can climb onto me. I examine its spots while it marches across my hand. I count eleven in total.
“Hello, little guy,” I whisper.
“Hi,” a voice responds.
I’m so startled, I jump in the air. “Jesus,” I say, turning to where Thomas is standing by the rosebushes. I suppress a hiccup, which turns into a small burp.
“Sorry to startle you,” he says, approaching me slowly. The ladybug has fallen back onto the bench, and it looks so still, I worry it’s dead. Did I accidentally kill it? Tears well at the thought.
“I—I wanted to talk to you about that actually,” says Thomas.
“About startling me?” I’m still staring at the ladybug, praying for it to move.
“You saw me with Josie the other week,” he says. “I need to explain.”
The ladybug begins to crawl again, its small, determined legs moving. I feel an enormous sense of relief. I’ve screwed up this summer, but at least this small, innocent creature won’t suffer at my hands. That has to count for something, right?
