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Her mind reeled with confusion. Video games?
“Oh, I can definitely see it,” Harry said. “I bet you’re quite the zombie slayer, am I right?”
“There’s no way,” Tiffany said. “If she was up late, it was because she got held up at the quilting bee, right?” She let out a high-pitched peel and then looked around the small group, expecting others to join her mirth. With the exception of a few charity chuckles, no one did.
Samantha looked down at her music, and Harry took her cue. She didn’t want to talk.
“Okay, let’s take it from the top,” Harry said.
As Samantha started to play the familiar song, she tried to relax. But the music made her headache worse.
Good thing she’d thrown up.
When the song ended, she was grateful for a reprieve, and even more grateful when Tiffany prattled on and on about some note she was having trouble hitting.
She had trouble hitting them all.
Is that what they think of me? Video games and quilting bees?
They didn’t know her at all.
Whose fault is that, an accusing voice in her mind whispered.
It was her fault, of course. She didn’t let anyone get to know her.
Everything was her fault. Her whole life was her fault.
If anyone smelled alcohol on her breath that morning, they did a good job of pretending they didn’t. Samantha tried not to get too close to anyone and then worked to get out of the building the second the service was over.
Cindy Harrington stopped her by the door and gave her a big hug.
Samantha held her breath.
“How are you doing, Samantha?” Her sincerity was unnerving.
“Good.” She tried not to exhale.
“Good?” Cindy raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
Samantha didn’t have the time, the energy, or the sobriety to convince Cindy that she was good. “Yeah.” She pushed past her and toward the door, exhaling as soon as she was clear of the crowd.
She hurried home and then collapsed into her recliner and tried to get her bearings.
What a miserable morning.
But she’d survived it. And she didn’t think she’d been caught.
Well, by anyone other than Jake. Not that it would be the end of the world if she did get caught by someone else. But it would be mightily embarrassing. For her and for God.I’m sorry for how much I embarrass you.
She opened her eyes a little. She needed to eat something. Her attention drifted toward that cupboard. Or a drink would make her feel better. Maybe both, then, some toast and some wine.
She got up from her chair, wincing at a stabbing pain in her lower back, and headed for the bag of bread on the counter.
Her phone chimed behind her, and only then did she remember the weird gift card. She stopped, the bread bag unwinding in her hand. Had that been real? Or had she dreamed it?
She got the bread into the toaster and then checked her email.
It had been real. And it had included two lines of weird poetry that didn’t make sense.
