Page 51 of Unsuitable

I snort-giggle.

Then, I put my chin in the palm of my hand. It’s steadier.

Is it just me, or is the room starting to spin?

“’Tis the best idea I’ve had in a long time.” I give him a big smile.

God, my lips feel weird. Numb.

But numb is good!

Numb means no pain.

Cute Bartender smiles at me. “How about I get you a coffee instead?”

“Um…” I screw my face up. “Will the coffee be Irish?”

He chuckles and shakes his head.

“Then, no siree. I want the alcohol. Lots of alcohol!” I sweep my arms out.

“I think the last thing you need is more alcohol.”

“Alcohol is the only thing I need.”

“Why?” He smiles, bemused.

“Because”—I smile big—“alcohol equals happy.”

“And why aren’t you happy?”

“Who said I wasn’t happy?”

“When a pretty girl like you tells me that alcohol equals happy, then she’s telling me that she’s not happy when she’s sober.”

Oh.

My smiles slips, and then my alcohol-induced loose lips just start yapping, “So, maybe I’m not happy when I’m sober. That doesn’t mean anything. Lots of people need alcohol to feel happy. Sure, they’re probably alcoholics, but I’m thinking I should try that out because nothing else is working for me. I try so hard, and I still manage to fuck everything up. My brother hates me. Actually really hates me.” I press my hand to the pain in my chest that’s trying to force its way back. “He wishes I were dead,” I whisper that last part.

“I’m sure he doesn’t wish you were dead.”

I look him in the eye. “Oh, he does. He told me so himself, like an hour ago. But the thing is, I don’t blame him. I kinda hate me. I mean, I let him down. The only person in the world who truly matters to me, and I failed him. He’s right to hate me. I’m a fucking fuckup. I mean, even my boss hates me. And whose boss actually hates them?”

“I’m pretty sure my boss doesn’t like me.” Cute Bartender chuckles.

“Ah, see?” I point at him, like he just told me the cure for cancer. “You said your boss doesn’t like you. My boss effing hates me! I mean, like can’t-stand-the-sight-of-me hates me. And, sure, he’s a massive dickhead. But he does think I’m hot, so there is that. I mean, he thinks I’m hot, but he hates me. How fucking weird is that? And, really, what does that say about me? Hot but annoying as fuck—that’s what that says. Everyone hates me. Well, except for Cece, but she has to like me by default because we’ve known each other forever. Honestly, I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve her as a friend because I think I deserve to be hated. I’m an idiot. An actual twatting idiot.”

I feel wetness on my cheeks, and I realize I’m crying. I press the heels of my hands to my cheeks.

“Hey now, I don’t think you’re a twatting idiot.” Cute Bartender hands me a napkin.

“You don’t know me.” I sniffle, drying my eyes. “Trust me, if you did, you’d think I was a twatting idiot.”

“Well, how about I get you a coffee? We can sober you up, and then I can get to know the sober you.”

“Okay.” I give him a grateful nod, wiping my eyes because those damn tears keep coming.

“You stay right there, and I’ll be back with that coffee,” Cute Bartender tells me.