Chapter 3 #2
The sob tears out of me, raw and ragged. It hurts. My whole body hurts—from the top of my head down to the tips of my toes. It’s a physical ache, a deep, throbbing bruise on my soul.
I grip the steering wheel, burying my face in my arms, and let the tears come. I cry for the baby I lost. I cry for the fear that still lives in my bones.
I cry because he won. He got to rewrite the story, and I’m just the footnote, the crazy ex-girlfriend who couldn’t handle it.
I cry until my throat is raw and my eyes are swollen. I cry until I have nothing left, sitting alone in the parking lot, while the snow begins to fall again outside the window.
The paper bag containing the cinnamon sugar cookies sits on the passenger seat, the scent of sugar and spice wafting through the car, taunting me.
I should be driving back to the shop. I should be eating a cookie with Norah and laughing about whatever Wren said on the phone.
Instead, I’m parked outside the local market, staring at the automatic doors like they are the gates of hell.
My hands are gripping the steering wheel so hard my fingers ache. The tears have stopped, leaving me feeling hollowed out and scrubbed raw.
Luke’s voice still echoes in my head, mocking me. You were the problem.
I know better than this. I know the path of self-destruction better than I know the back of my own hand.
It’s been years since I touched the hard stuff—since the whippets and the pills that Stella and I used to chase away the emptiness.
I was never an alcoholic, not really. Liquor was too slow, too messy. I wanted the lights-out switch. I wanted the immediate obliteration of consciousness.
But right now, staring at the fluorescent glow of the market, that old, seductive whisper is back. It would be so easy to grab a bottle. Just to take the edge off. Just to numb the edges of this pain so I don’t feel like I’m bleeding out internally.
A bottle of tequila would burn going down, but it would silence the noise in my brain. It would make me forget that he’s happy. It would make me forget that I’m not.
You’re better now, I tell myself. You have Maisie.
But Maisie isn’t here. Maisie is at school, safe and unaware. And I’m just a woman with a broken heart and a car.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I kill the engine and climb out.
The air is biting, nipping at my nose, but I don’t feel it. I march into the store, my boots squeaking on the linoleum floor.
I don’t grab a basket. I don’t look at the produce. I make a beeline for the liquor aisle, my vision tunneling.
There it is. A shelf of golden-brown glass. I reach for a handle of reposado, my fingers brushing the cool neck of the bottle.
It feels heavy. Significant. Like a weapon.
I pull it into my chest, hugging it like a secret. For a second, I just stand there, breathing in the smell of cardboard and disinfectant.
Then, sanity creeps back in. What are you doing?
If I buy this, I won’t stop at one drink. I know myself. One drink turns to three, turns to passing out on the couch and waking up to a terrified daughter asking why Mommy smells funny.
I shove the bottle back onto the shelf with a clatter that makes the elderly woman at the end of the aisle jump.
Mumbling an apology, I turn on my heel and walk out. I need air. I need to breathe.
I pace outside the store, my breath puffing out in white clouds. I wrap my arms around myself, hugging my coat tight. People are walking in and out, giving me sideways glances.
I can feel their eyes on me. The crazy lady pacing in the cold. They know. They can smell the instability on me. They can smell the failure.
Stop it, I hiss internally. Nobody is looking at you.
But the urge is still there, gnawing at my gut. Just a little something. To take the edge off.
I spin around and march back inside. This time, I grab the bottle.
I’m going to buy it. I’m going to take it home and hide it and drink it after Maisie goes to sleep. It’s fine. Everyone has vices.
I walk to the counter, then stop. My hands are shaking. If I put this on the counter, the cashier will see. They’ll judge me. They’ll know I’m not one of those normal wine drinkers. I’m a mess.
I turn around and march back to the aisle, shoving the bottle onto the shelf for the second time.
Make up your mind, Amber.
I turn to leave again, moving too fast, my vision blurred by unshed tears. I’m not looking where I’m going. I’m just trying to escape.
I slam directly into a shopping cart coming around the corner.
The impact jars my teeth. A bottle in the cart rattles dangerously and then tips over, smashing onto the hard floor with a violent shatter. Purple liquid splashes everywhere, soaking into my boots and the hem of my jeans.
“Ah, shit!” a man’s voice exclaims.
“I’m so sorry!” I gasp, the apology tumbling out before I even see who I’ve hit.
I look up, blinking rapidly. The man is tall, maybe an inch or two taller than me, with a lean build.
He’s wearing a light blue button-up tucked into a pair of dark jeans, with a long wool coat over the top. A pair of dark-rimmed glasses sits on his nose.
He is gorgeous. Not in the intimidating way of the Alphas I’m used to, but in a soft, approachable way. He has dark hair that looks like it might curl if he let it grow out, and warm brown eyes behind those lenses.
I recognize him. I know I’ve seen him before, but the panic scrambling my brain won’t place him.
He pulls a pair of headphones down around his neck, looking from the mess of glass on the floor to my face. “No, no, it’s my fault,” he says quickly. His voice is gentle, calm. “I wasn’t looking where I was going either.”
The smell of the spilled wine hits me—tannins and alcohol. It makes my stomach lurch, reminding me of the bottle I almost bought.
“Ah, shit,” I say again, dropping to my knees to clean up the mess. “I’ll buy you another one. I’m so clumsy.”
“Please, don’t worry about it,” he says, crouching down beside me. “It was just a cooking wine. Nothing expensive.”
We both reach for a large shard of glass at the same time. Our heads bump together with a dull thud.
“Ouch,” we both say in unison.
I rub my forehead, my face heating up with humiliation. I am a disaster. I am a walking, talking catastrophe.
“It’s just cooking wine?” I ask, trying to focus on anything other than the throbbing in my skull.
“Yeah. For a reduction,” he explains. He reaches out to help me stand up, his hand gripping my forearm with surprising strength. He pauses, looking at me closely. “You’re Jude’s sister… Amanda, right?”
The name throws me off. “Amber,” I correct him softly. “It’s Amber.”
“Right. Amber,” he repeats, as if testing the taste of it. He gives me a small, apologetic smile. “I’m Elijah. But people call me Eli.”
He holds his hand out.
I stare at it for a second. It’s a large hand, his fingers long and slender, marked here and there with small scars—burn marks, maybe? From a kitchen?
When I take his hand, it’s incredibly warm. A tingle runs up my arm that has nothing to do with the cold. His grip is firm but gentle.
“Eli,” I say. And then it clicks. The glasses. The hair. The kitchen burns. “You work at Blade & Butter. You’re the pastry chef.”
He looks pleasantly surprised. “I am. You’ve been to the restaurant?”
“I’ve seen you around. Small town.” I pull my hand back, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “I work at the flower shop.”
He nods, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Knightly Blooms. I’ve bought herbs there before. Nice place.”
“It is nice.”
He leans in slightly, his expression turning concerned. “Are you okay? You seem a little… shaken.”
He reaches out, his fingers brushing against my forehead, checking the spot where we bumped heads. His touch is electric, sending a jolt through my system.
His scent washes over me—vanilla bean, burnt sugar, something warm and sweet like fresh bread. It’s delicious. It’s the most comforting thing I’ve smelled in days.
I freeze under his touch. My heart rate, already spiked from the phone call and the near-relapse, kicks up another notch.
“I’m fine,” I lie, stepping back slightly. His hand drops. “Really. Just a long morning.”
He doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he lets it go. He looks down at the puddle of wine. “I really am sorry about the mess. And the scare.”
“It’s my fault. I wasn’t looking.” I look down at my own hand and realize there’s blood welling up on my palm. A shard of glass must have cut me when I reached down. “Oh.”
He sees it too. “You’re bleeding.”
“I can clean it up,” I say quickly, grabbing a napkin from my pocket and pressing it to the cut. “It’s nothing. Really.”
“Let me help you with the glass at least,” he insists, kneeling back down.
“I’ve got it,” I say, dropping to my knees again to prove I’m capable.
We both move for the same large piece of the bottle.
Thud.
We bump heads again. Harder this time.
Pain explodes behind my eyes. I lose my balance, feet slipping on the wine-soaked floor. My legs go out from under me, and I land hard on my ass.
“Fuck,” Eli says, scrambling toward me. “Amber!”
He reaches for me, his face full of genuine alarm. He grabs my arm to steady me, his other hand hovering as if he’s afraid to touch me and make it worse.
“Are you hurt? Did you hit your tailbone?”
I sit there, sprawled on the dirty floor of the market, covered in purple wine, holding my bleeding hand, with a throbbing headache. I look up at him—this kind, gorgeous, concerned man who smells like sugar and safety—and I feel the walls cracking.
The panic from the phone call, the shame of the almost-relapse, the humiliation of falling on my ass—it all surges up at once.
I can’t do this. I can’t sit here and let this nice man pity me. I can’t let him see how broken I really am.
“I’m fine,” I gasp out, scrambling to my feet. I ignore his outstretched hand. I ignore the stinging in my palm and the ache in my tailbone. “I have to go.”
“Wait, your hand—”
“It’s fine!” I practically shout it, then wince at my own volume. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry about the wine.”
I turn and run. I don’t look back to see if he’s watching. I don’t look to see the mess I made. I push through the automatic doors and stumble out into the cold air.
I get into my car and slam the door, locking it immediately. I put the key in the ignition and my hands are shaking so badly I can’t get it to turn.
This was a really bad idea. A terrible, horrible, no-good idea. I should have just stayed at the flower shop. I should have just eaten the damn cookie.
I rest my forehead against the steering wheel and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to banish the image of Eli’s concerned eyes, trying to forget how good it felt to be touched by someone who wasn’t angry.