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Alcohol won’t change your reality.
I’m not looking to change it, but rather cope with it. Yet no matter how many deep breaths I take or what I tell myself, Isabelle’s words poison my chances of making it through my meal without drinking.
She was fading away before our very eyes.
The acid in my belly bubbles with each reminder of how much Lana struggled after I left. How she struggled to live because of me.
Did you really expect her to move on from one day to the next?
No, but I wanted more for her than me and my issues.
I pull the flask out and take a swig before tucking it back into my pocket.
My phone vibrates.
Iris
Hey! How was your day?
About as good as I expected. What are you up to?
Her text comes back a minute later after Isabelle stops by to take my order.
Iris
Watching Declan cook dinner.
At least one of us is having a home-cooked meal tonight.
You sound jealous.
Maybe because I am. Not of Iris and Declan per se, but of how my situation compares to theirs. I know it’s not right. It makes me feel sick to be anything but happy for them. But there is this part of me—one I rarely like to acknowledge—that wishes I had what they had.
I want to be happy. I try so damn hard, yet no matter how big I smile or how loud I laugh, I always feel empty. It’s a cold, creeping feeling that consumes me late into the night, until I’m forced to welcome my old frenemy.
Addiction.
My phone buzzes from an incoming text.
Iris
He just burned himself taking the bread out of the oven and then proceeded to curse in five different languages.
My sadness dissipates with a laugh.
Shouldn’t you be helping him?
Iris
We’re a modern couple, Cal. He cooks. I watch. He cleans. I also watch.
Is that the key to a successful marriage?
Iris:
That and a big dick.
I choke on my sudden inhale of air.
