“Ophelia has good news,” Diego says with an eyebrow waggle.
“Really good news,” Ophelia says, and she finally breaks the hug to look me in the eye. She’s smiling so wide it looks like her face might crack in half. I haven’t seen her like this in…well, ever. Her happiness is like a lantern illuminating her from the inside out. She looks even more beautiful than before.
“Okay,” I say, “well, don’t keep me in suspense—”
“They liked it!” Ophelia exclaims, answered by a whoop from Diego. “The gin people! They liked it! They actually liked my shitty sample pictures!”
Her joy is contagious. I find myself grinning just as wide as she is, and before I can stop myself I’ve flung my arms around her again, squeezing tight. “That’s the best news,” I tell her. “I’m so freaking happy for you. Oh my god!”
“Thank you,” she says, her fingers digging into my shoulders briefly before we separate again. “I seriously didn’t think it was going to happen. I thought they’d take one look and be like, Ugh, this shit, but they really— I’m going to be in stores. People are gonna have my art in their houses!”
“You deserve it,” I say. “More than anyone. You’ve earned this.”
She laughs and wipes the heel of one hand over her cheek—there’s glittery eye shadow streaked down her face, presumably from crying. “Thanks. I can’t believe it. I keep waiting for them to email and take it back.”
“Absolutely not. They would never. They know what a good thing they’ve got.”
Diego bounces on the sofa again, waving the champagne bottle in the air. “Okay, you two, stop crying and come celebrate! This is a party, dammit!”
“Did you just tell us to stop crying?” Ophelia says, but she goes and I trail after her, dumping my camera bag on one of the armchairs.
Diego scrounges up an empty water glass and dumps a solid eight ounces of champagne in there, then shoves it into my hand. “Bottoms up,” he says. “We’re toasting the next Banksy here!”
Ophelia’s gaze catches mine before I can even start thinking of a response. I can see the worry in her eyes—like she thinks I’d throw my sobriety away on a whim.
The thing is…The thing is, I’ve been clean for four years. That’s a long time. That’s two black chips in a row. And the goal isn’t always abstinence; sometimes the goal is to approach normalcy. It’s moderation.
Maybe it’s been long enough. Maybe I should let myself breathe a little.
One sip won’t hurt me.
I hesitate, my palm gone damp against the glass. But Ophelia has already looked away, practically wriggling out of her skin with excitement, and Diego’s eyes are big and glassy with pride, and I’m not gonna be that person. I’m not gonna be an asshole.
I’m gonna be normal.
So I drink.
18
I wake up the next morning curled up in the center of my bed like a cat, the covers kicked down to the foot of the mattress and my arms draped over my face to block out the sunlight. My phone alarm keeps beeping in my ear like it thinks I haven’t heard it already, and I groan, fumbling to press the Mute button.
It’s been a long time since the last time I had anything to drink. Four years, five months, and sixteen days, to be precise. And it’s not like I got drunk last night or anything—I just had a glass. No big deal. But my mouth still tastes like something crawled in there and died.
I feel like a part of me died.
I’m such an idiot. I can’t believe I deluded myself into thinking a few sips was no big deal. Of course it’s a big deal—I literally went four whole years without breaking my streak. And it was so goddamn easy to let the whole glass castle shatter around me. And for what? Because I thought I could make myself normal for a night?
I’ve never been normal.
I push myself upright and lean against the wall, swiping open my phone to scroll through my latest notifications.
The top one is from Wyatt, a text I’d missed last night.
Wyatt: I’m back. Hope you made it home okay.
Guilt seeps in like water through rotten floorboards. One glass. One stupid glass into the mouth of one stupid Ely. The fucked-up part of my brain wants to say that it’s a good thing that I was able to just have the one glass and then cut myself off. It used to be that I couldn’t. If I had a single sip, I’d drink and drink and drink until I wished I were dead.
I scrub both hands over my face, squeezing my eyes shut tight.
No going back now. I made my choice last night, such as it was. And who knows? Maybe it really is okay. Maybe four years clean has knocked me out of whatever rut I was in before, fixed whatever was broken in me. I certainly have no desire to drink more. Or worse, to go out and find someone behind a dumpster somewhere to sell me smack.
Still, my hands are a little shaky as I open up the messaging app and text Wyatt back—like he’ll somehow sense what happened through the phone screen.
Me: Hey! Sorry I forgot to text back last night. Made it back. Hope you’re alive and didn’t eat all the leftovers in one sitting.
I shove my phone away from me before I can see if he replies. A part of me hopes he doesn’t. I don’t know if I can stomach his kindness on top of everything else.
Diego is a bundle of blankets on the couch when I emerge from the bedroom, either having fallen asleep there or having nested there, hungover, when he woke up. He doesn’t stir as I move around the kitchen making coffee and grabbing breakfast, but I leave him a mug—black, four sugars—on the coffee table before I go, just in case. At least Ophelia is gone; I don’t have to face her cautious concern and try to explain myself.
The train into Manhattan is running slower than usual today. We keep stopping in between stations, and the normally rocket-fast journey under the river is reduced to a drudging forward rumble. I find myself staring at the scars along my left forearm. They’re barely visible anymore, just off-white smudges against my skin. I remember when they were angry fissures stretching along the lengths of my veins like portals to hell.
That was so long ago now.
Wyatt has texted me back by the time I get off the train: Two sittings. I finished the brisket for breakfast.
A beat, and the phone shows he’s still typing. I climb the stairs out to street level still staring at my screen like the perfect stereotype of everyone my age.
Wyatt: Could probably go back for more.
I grin and have to make myself stick my phone in my back pocket so I’m not tempted to text back too quickly. I wonder if he’s at Parker, if he bothers to go in on Saturdays. Perhaps he’s on a train somewhere headed here now. He might ascend those stairs minutes after me or be just a couple blocks ahead, tapping out a text while he sips his morning coffee.