53. Bailey
fifty-three
Bailey
“Hey Siri, what time is it?”
Fucking crickets.
I cringe after the bottle clacks against my teeth as I take another long pull. The cyclical bullshit of feeling so bad about drinking again that I have to drink more has been a bitch.
Oh well.
I lazily dig around the couch cushions until I feel the phone. Damn. It’s only seven-thirty. What time did he say the drag show starts? You can’t be serious, Bays. A drag show? With Lolly? At Disco?
I swallow, the lump in my throat smaller than it was before this last drink. My skin a little less tight. I haven’t been back to a meeting since I started drinking again, the shame a little too heavy for me to carry right now. I’ll go back soon. I’ll have to.
I pop the tab off another beer and lean back, checking my messages again for the umpteenth time today.
Yep. It still says they’ll be there around eight forty-five. I groan, leaning back into the sofa. “Beto, if I go tonight, I don’t know who I’ll be tomorrow,” I admit.
Thoughts of brown eyes and soft kisses hit me like a bullet to the brain. His scent floods my senses. Phantom hands find me. Goosebumps erupt as I take in a sharp breath, trying to reason with my own damn brain.
I miss him.
Will he talk to me?
If so, will it just be because he pities me?
The coward that walked away.
The liar that couldn’t face his own truth.
The fucking broken pieces of who he used to know.
I take another drink, letting the warmth spread through me. Reassuring me as my heart rate slows and my thoughts become more manageable.
What if he’s there with someone else? Is he seeing anyone else? He hasn’t mentioned dating anyone, but would he?
Fuck.
This is all a terrible fucking idea.
I need to stay far the fuck away from him.
My darkness has the capacity to swallow the light that is him. To consume all that is good, and soft, and kind.
I have nothing to offer him. Nothing to give. Just small reflections of who he knew, fashioned sloppily together for survival.
Nah, I’ll leave him alone. He deserves better. Someone brave. Someone beautiful, and brilliant. Proud of who they are. Someone so unlike myself that it physically hurts to imagine, my chest burns with regret and longing. Goddamn.
My fat thumbs hit the wrong button on the remote and I’m launched onto Netflix. I sigh then begin flipping through the newly added movies. I blink forcefully, making sure I’m not imagining things when Casper pops up.
My dickhole brain immediately launches into a montage of, “Can I keep you,” and his lips on mine. His strong hands touching me everywhere. Me whimpering and not giving a fuck.
“Fuck it,” I grunt as I force myself up and off the couch and head to take a quick shower.
I throw on the old faithful black v-neck and some jeans and black Vans before calling an Uber to take me to Disco.
I have to see him.
I have to try.