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My boots thump against the carpeted floor as I walk down the hallway and into the elevator, deep in thought.
I’ve never been in lust orlovebefore.
Before meeting my friends in South Boston, I didn’t even know what love felt like—how could I? My mom split, my dad had no qualms about using me for his gain, and the people I associated with were only in love with the junk they injected or snorted.
But this, with Quinn, is this something like love? This all-consuming, overpowering urge to be near someone. Is that what love is?
I need a drink.Thankfully, I don’t have to look too far.
I see the hotel bar up ahead as the elevator doors slide open. Not watching where I’m going, I bump into a little old man in gray suspenders and trousers. My heart freezes when I see the silver-rimmed glasses perched on his narrow nose.
“Are you okay, child?” he asks, his kind hands bracing my upper arms to support me from falling.
My eyes descend on his hands, mesmerized by each wrinkle, each crease representing a chapter in his life. And the feeling of guilt I’ve managed to push down into the pit of my stomach comes gurgling up, threatening to spill free from my body in a wave of terror.
Remorse.
Shame.
Anger.
But most of all, utter guilt overwhelms me when I realize that Hank’s wrinkled hands will no longer add another crease or chapter to his life because he’s dead.
“Child?” he asks again when I remain catatonic.
Child…
Tears burn behind my lids, and vomit slowly rises up my throat. But I mentally slap myself, forcing my mouth to speak and my feet to move.
“I’m fine. S-sorry.”
I’m running out the front door before my brain can catch up to where I’m going.
Many hours and many shots later, I’m in some bar, wearing colorful beads and feathers in my hair.
I don’t know where I am, or how I got here. But what I do know is that I’ve buried the pain by drowning my guilt in every spirit known to humankind.
Lucky for me, New Orleans doesn’t have strict policies on checking IDs.
I’m sitting in a corner on my own, watching humans interact with one another like it doesn’t hurt to exist.I wish I knew how to do that because, at the moment, it hurts to breathe.
My run-in with the Hank look-alike has sent me into a funk that I don’t think I’ll be able to pull myself out of anytime soon. The only way to deal with this is to get drunk. Really,reallydrunk—which goes against everything I believe in. But I can’t face my life right now.
Two girls sitting at a table off to my right are laughing happily and whispering their deepest, darkest secrets, and I envy them. I envy them because I want to be them. I was them. For a moment in my life, I was normal.
But now. Now I’m reminded that I’m anythingbutnormal.
I never will be.
“Hey, you look like you could use another. Let me buy you a drink.”
As I look up and meet the eyes of a stranger who looks insipidly normal, I suddenly crave that normalcy. I need it to get through today.
“Sure,” I reply, meeting his big blue eyes. “Why not?”
He takes a seat, eyeing my arrangement of empty glasses in front of me with a smile.
“I’d ask what you’re drinking, but it looks like you’re not fussy.”
