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Save for her narrowed chin, and button nose, and long wild hair…if I had any doubt before this wasn’t his daughter Abby, I don’t anymore.
It’s her.
And that’s her mom, Mel.
Mel…Nolan’s ex-wife.
So he said…
I shake my head and the little girl cocks her head. She looks like she’s about to say something, so I whirl around, duck my head, and bolt back the way I came, disappearing as fast as I humanly can around the corner.
I’m barely aware of bypassing my car, unable to stomach the thought of sitting still right now. Though a part of me knows the quiet, small space would be good for me.
I need to decompress.
I need to process this.
Maybe it’s a misunderstanding?
No, no, he kissed her cheek. Like he kissed mine. They’re together with their daughter…
Their daughter.
I’m an idiot.
It’s been so long since I’ve had an episode like this, thanks to the med cocktail I was put on after Black Diamond—a combination of Risperidone and Abilify to treat my emotional dysregulation, so when I do get overwhelmed and out of sorts, I can better get a grip over myself.
No, it’s not perfect. I’m not cured. There is no cure.
But it’s manageable—so much more manageable than it used to be, that it still pisses me off sometimes that it tookyearsto finally get answers that were apparently there all along. Supports that were there all along. But the research—the science—the awareness was just…not, and I fell through the cracks.
And I’m far from the confused, lost boy I was that morning Nolan left the island.
I have myself.
I’m barely aware of where I’m going as I count my breaths and work my way through the coping mechanisms I learned so long ago. Ideally, I’d still be in therapy, but I save money where I can—where I have to.
And soon you won’t even have your meds…
“Fuck,” I grit out, slamming my hands to my ears.
My steps quicken right along with my breaths, and I glance up, looking around, praying no one else is around. I’m in some back alleyway, and ahead there’s a dumpster and a few cars parked diagonally in a row. Across from it, the back of a brick building. Above the solid, black door,Lola’sis printed in thick red, retro script across a white oval sign. Next to it, along the red brick siding, there’s a LED sign shaped like a mug, and resting against it another LED sign shaped like a girl with skinny heels and long wavy hair falling down her back.
I blink a couple times, my steps slowing.
A drink. A drink sounds good.
I don’t really know where the thought comes from, seeing as I’ve yet to touch a drop of alcohol since the vodka I chased down with Xanax three years ago. I turned twenty-one a couple weeks ago, and I still haven’t had a drink.
What better time than now?
Dropping my hands to my sides in fists, I stride toward the door, and throw it open.
It’s the scent that hits me first when I enter—floral and sweet, like a perfume.
Then it’s the dim lighting combined with the low, gritty rock music I register next, and for some reason that has me lifting my head, blinking as my eyes quickly adjust, finally snapping out of my daze.
Oh shit.
