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I’m pathetic. I bet Larson isn’t even crying right now.
I quickly ignore the thought.
The best thing I can do right now is wait for Clara to come home so I can ask her to go out drinking with me again. Perhaps the alcohol is the only thing keeping me sane.
It may sound counterintuitive, but at least I don’t feel so fucking depressed with alcohol. Momentarily, but still.
I click the remote repeatedly and only stop doing so when I feel my thumb start to hurt a little. Then, I check the time; Clara would be home within an hour. So, I put on a semi-clean hoodie, pants, and white sneakers.
I wait for Clara to come home so we can go get drinks again.
When she arrives, I act like a golden retriever who’s overly excited to see her owner come home. If I had a tail, it’d be wagging at her right now.
Clara groans as she takes off her block heels; working for a fashion magazine is both a blessing and a curse, especially when she has to dress up almost every day just to live up to certain societal expectations.
“You’re home,” I beam at her, my lips cracking slightly with dehydration. “I was thinking we could go get drinks at the bar again—”
“Estelle,” Clara cuts me off as she walks into the apartment barefoot and then throws herself on the couch. “I’m really tired right now. Plus, we’ve been drinking for the last six days. I think we should at least take a break. Maybe we can eat popcorn and watch sad movies. What do you say?”
I blink at Clara in feigned innocence.
I mean, yes, we’ve been on a drinking binge for six days straight, but I’m in the middle of the worst break-up in history. The last thing I want to do is eat stale popcorn and watch sad movies when my life is already staler and sadder.
So, I reply, “I really need a drink right now, Clara. It’s just, you know, with Larson…”
“And I get it,” she answers understandingly but with a hint of exhaustion this time. “But at this point, you’re not going to move on from Larson. You’re just going to be… an alcoholic.”
Maybe I’m just emotional, but Clara is getting on my nerves.
I’m already heartbroken enough. And I’ve been waiting for her to come home all day, but not so she can preach to me about what I should and shouldn’t do to handle my pain. She’s my best friend, but she can’t really understand what I’m going through.
Letting out a frustrated sigh, I challenge her, “If you’re not coming with me, I’m going out alone.”
Clara takes a moment to consider what I just said. Then, she starts removing her earrings. “Estelle, I love you, and I know you’re going through something major, but you can’t really drown yourself in alcohol and hope it goes away.”
Not wanting to get into an argument with her, I dismiss her. “I’ll take that as a sign that you’re not coming with me.”
With that, I take my keys and wallet and head for the door.
Chapter Two
I’mnotlettingClaraalso get under my skin. In fact, I’m being kind and understanding by letting her off the hook. Instead of picking a fight with her, I step out of the apartment to avoid any more conflict.
If I wanted to argue, I’d drive to Larson’s place and burn it to the ground.
So, instead of thinking about Clara’s suggestion that I’m becoming an alcoholic, I choose to be the bigger person. Instead of convincing her to share my sorrows with me, I try calling some of my friends and my former co-workers in case they want to join me for a drink at the last minute.
Of course, so far, I’ve kept my mouth shut about my wedding getting canceled—I haven’t done anything to cancel it at all. But I didn’t want to break the news just yet to everybody. I don’t have the mental capacity to receive pities and apologies. I don’t exactly want to be the topic over anyone’s brunch or afternoon tea time.
I will strangle myself if I have to explain myself to any of my sponsors or guests.
In the meantime, I call up three of my bridesmaids, two of my former co-workers, and five other people I can think of who might like to drink with me—including a mutual friend I once clicked with at some random party.
Yes, it may seem like I’m desperate for company, but there’s just no sugar-coating it: I’m lonely. And ‘lonely’ is a loose term. Underrated. I’m beyond saving, and I need someone to keep me afloat.
I’m either ten seconds away from flipping out or one hour away from faking my death and flying across the country with a new identity. What I need right now is not ‘alone time’; it’s someone I can trust withme.
But as I drop the call with the last person, it becomes apparent that I have no one else to call.
