Page 38 of On the Breakaway

I try to imagine walking up to someone tonight and letting them take me home. Instead, all I can think about is how badly I want to crawl out of my own skin.

My phone buzzes again. I look down to see that it’s from Dad.

Dad: Heard your mother stopped by for dinner. Glad she actually made time to see you. I’ll come to town soon to spend some real time with you.

I click away from the screen, not bothering to respond.

Another margarita appears in front of me, and I start drinking it while opening a random app to scroll. I spend a few minutes mindlessly reading random headlines, until one stops me in my tracks.

Damon’s face is bright on my phone screen, and he looks just as angry as I remember him being. There’s a woman on his arm that I don’t recognize. She looks small next to him, and if I hadn’t been in her shoes already, then maybe I’d be jealous. But while the photo looks glamorous, the headline is anything but.

New York Hockey Captain Accused of Domestic Violence: What Does This Mean for the Yeti?

I feel nauseous, every single drink threatening to make a reappearance. I scan the article with shaking hands.

Maybe people will finally realize how awful he is.

His ex’s story mirrors mine almost exactly, except where mine ended with shattered phones and stolen keys, hers ended with bruises and a black eye. The article spends more time worrying about the Yeti’s playoff chances than the woman he hurt, and the comments call her a liar while praising Damon for being “such a good guy.”

My heart beats faster, roaring in my ears as guilt crawls up my spine. He’d never crossed a line I could report, but now, with this article, I can’t help but wonder if he would’ve eventually. If I might’ve been her.

My stomach turns, and I order another shot, downing it the second it hits the table. Time blurs together as I drink faster, trying to ignore the guilt sitting behind my ribs as if I’m responsible for a grown man’s actions. The more I drink, the fuzzier everything gets. My parents. Damon. The gnawing panic in my chest.

After enough alcohol, I can almost convince myself I’m just a normal girl alone at a bar looking for fun instead of someone trying to drink herself numb enough to feel functional again.

A guy near the dartboards catches me looking and smiles immediately, all confidence and cologne and broad shoulders. Normally, I’d smile back. Tonight, the thought of him touching me makes my skin prickle unpleasantly.

So instead, I look away fast and drain the rest of my glass.

I don’t even want sex. That’s the pathetic part.

I just want proof I’m okay.

But the longer I sit here alone, the clearer it becomes that okay people probably don’t spiral in a bar on a Tuesday night trying to force themselves into a one-night stand out of spite.

My breaths are too shallow, and my thoughts are moving too fast.

So naturally, I order another tequila shot.

Maybe I should become a nun. At least nuns don’t have to pretend to have healthy relationships with men.

I snort into my drink and drunkenly Google how to become a nun just as someone slides onto the stool beside me.

“Do you want to dance?” A blond guy asks.

He’s cute enough. Tall. Safe-looking.

I almost say no because beneath the alcohol and forced bravado, I know exactly what I’m doing to myself tonight. But the alternative is sitting here alone with my own thoughts, and suddenly that feels unbearable.

So I smile and stand up.

“Sure.”

When I stand, the room tilts slightly beneath me. His hand catches my waist to steady me, warm and unfamiliar.

See?

I’m fine.