Chapter 22 #2
“Umm, remember on the flight to Istanbul,” I begin, my voice slow and careful. “When Marc cornered me in the lounge.” I hesitate, then admit, “It scared me.”
Her eyes are sharp, all the warmth replaced by fierce protection. “What did he do?”
“Nothing, nothing,” I blurt too quickly, then flinch at my own lie.
“I mean, he grabbed my arm. But that wasn’t the worst part.
” I exhale, rubbing my palm against my jeans like I could erase the memory.
“It was the things he said. The way he twisted it. Made it sound like I owed him something. Like I led him on.”
“You don’t owe him anything.” Riley doesn’t hesitate. “Not a damn thing.” Her voice is like steel.
I nod in agreement, because I know she is right. “I think,” I say quietly, “what hit me after was realizing how much I’ve been drinking.” I pause. “How often I’ve been drunk.”
She reaches over and rests her hand on my knee.
“Functionally drunk,” I continue, the words taste sour. “And not.” I let out a weak, humorless breath. “You saw how much I drank in London.”
“I did,” she affirms gently.
“But you haven’t seen how much I drink here,” I admit. “How much I drank before flights. Before we even left for London.” My voice cracks slightly, but enough. Enough that I hated myself for it. The danger I’d put her in, that I’d put my whole crew in.
A shaky breath escapes me, raw and unguarded, and my eyes burn. I didn’t look away this time. I don’t want to.
“I know now,” I say, slower, steadier. “That I’ve made some pretty bad choices this past year. And that I’ve been using it.” I laugh bitterly. “Using it to cope. Or really to avoid coping at all.”
I turn my body toward her then, pulling a knee up to my chest, closing the space on the couch. If I am going to say this, I am going to say it fully. No half-truths. No jokes to soften it.
“I don’t want to keep numbing myself,” I declare. “That’s not who I want to be.” My voice steadies as the truth settles between us. “I want to be present. For Gregg.” I swallow. “For me.”
Riley doesn’t rush me. She just looks at me with warm, unwavering eyes. Then she says, firmly but softly, “Then be present. And I’ll support you every step of the way. No judgment. No pressure. Just us.”
I breathe in. Then out. “I don’t want to drink anymore.”
“Then we won’t,” she states plainly. “Not till you’re ready.”
I blink hard, brow raised. “We? You’d stop too? For me?”
Riley’s hand flies to her chest like I’d just stabbed her with a dramatic monologue. “Cam. I would give up bottomless brunch for you if it meant helping.” She pauses, letting it land. “Do you know how unwell that would make most people in our community?”
A laugh breaks out of me before I can stop it. It surprises me, how real it feels. My chest still aches, but the tightness is eased a little. Enough to breathe.
I shake my head. “You’re a saint, you know that?”
“I know,” she agrees. “I’ll expect a plaque one day.”
The evening light of the city outside slants through the window, softening the edges of my room like it’s trying to soften what comes next. I cross to my bedside table and pull open the drawer, already knowing what is waiting inside but still feeling a familiar drop in my stomach when I see it.
Riley leans over my shoulder and freezes. “Oh,” she says quietly. Then a bit louder. “Oh, shit.”
Airline minis. So many of them. Vodka. Gin. Whiskey. Tequila. Rum. A chaotic little parade of excuses and justifications. They gleam back at us in the light, colorful and ridiculous.
“A dragon’s hoard,” Riley murmurs.
My instinct is to explain, to minimize, to joke. But before I say anything, Riley scoops them up like they were nothing more than loose change and heads toward the kitchen.
No pause. No looks. No judgment.
“Okay,” she announces, setting them down on the kitchen counter. “Let’s begin the purge.”
We line them up shoulder to shoulder like little soldiers. Riley twists the cap off the first one and hands it to me.
“Want the honors?”
My fingers stall for half a second before I nod. “Yeah.”
Gin. Clear and sharp. I tip it into the sink and watch it vanish down the drain, the smell biting at the back of my throat. It stings in a way that feels clean, like something’s getting burned away.
“Good riddance.” I sigh.
“Be gone, tequila demon,” Riley announces as she grabs the next bottle, pouring it out with theatrical flair. She picks up a miniature bottle of red wine and lifts it like a chalice. “Shall I say a few words?”
“Please don’t,” I beg, already smiling.
She ignores me. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to mourn the life of Cabernet Sauvignon, who—”
“Riley.”
She grins wickedly and affectionately. “Fine. But she lived fast and died young.”
Bottle by bottle, we empty them. The sound of liquid hitting the sink becoming rhythmic. Finally, when the last splash disappears, I lean forward and brace myself on the counter, breathing deep.
My hands are steady. That alone feels like a miracle.
I look at the empty sink and the empty bottles. Then at Riley.
“Thank you,” I whisper quietly. The words feel small compared to what they carry.
She nudges my shoulder with hers, then hugs me tight. “Always,” she says. “You don’t need to do this alone. Ever.”