Chapter Eight #2
I shrug. “I don’t know. I mean, what can I really do?”
“You could tell Charlie how you feel, for one.”
And potentially ruin our friendship? I think not.
“Besides that?” I ask, hoping she has another suggestion in her bag of tricks.
“Really, there’s nothing else beside that. Either you tell him how you feel or you live like this,” she waves her hand at me, “in limbo and be confused and angry all the time. And that is not good for your skin, I might add.”
It draws a laugh out of me. Leave it to Judith to always be able to make me laugh.
“Remember what I told you?” she asks, sounding like my mother.
“Yes,” I say, somewhat begrudgingly.
I’m beginning to think that Judith is somewhat of a guardian angel. I don’t plan to tell Charlie how I feel, but maybe I can learn to live with it. For a moment, I laugh with Judith and there’s clarity.
“What did Thea make today?” she asks, craning her neck to see the dessert display case at the front of the diner.
I follow her gaze to see what’s left. “Looks like strawberry muffins and cinnamon coffee cake.”
She smiles as she turns back to me. “I’ll take one of each.”
I unlock the door and chuck my shoes off in the entryway, dropping my purse on the floor.
Thea is having a girls night with Penny and Raquel, so I have the house to myself.
I plan on taking a nice, relaxing bubble bath and maybe diving into a good book, but not before drowning my sorrows in some pizza and vodka.
I toss my keys into the dish on the table before walking straight to the fridge for a stiff drink.
One of the things I love about Driftbay is how small it is.
Convenience is key. The pizza I ordered before I left the diner should be here any minute.
It’s from Ramona’s Pizzeria, my absolute favorite little pizza place in town.
They make their own sauce from a secret recipe handed down through generations and their crust is flaky, buttery, and out of this world.
I’ve eaten it since college and get the same quality food each and every time.
I open the fridge door and immediately reach for the vodka bottle from the back of the top shelf. I cock my head as I stare at it — it doesn't seem as full as I remember. I shake my head, chalking it up to cloudy memory and grab a glass from the cabinet.
The house is quiet as I unscrew the lid and flick it off, thinking about the day. I hear it dance across the linoleum and out of sigh.
Oh well, I’ll find it later, I think with a shrug. That’s a problem for Later Beth.
I pour some vodka into the glass and bring it to my lips. I’m ready to feel that mind-numbing burn, to let this stressful day fade away, at least for a few hours.
Except…there is no burn.
I frown and take another sip. Definitely not vodka. I dump the glass out and bring the bottle to my lips.
It’s WATER.
There is only one other person in this house.
I feel anger pulsing through my veins as I stare at the bottle. I grab it and turn it upside down in the sink and watch as the water bubbles out of it. Leaning on the counter, I put my head in my hands.
I’m disappointed. I’m disappointed that I’m out of vodka, when I was so looking forward to a drink, but more importantly, I’m disappointed in Thea.
I know I need to address this and get in front of it, but after the day I’ve had, all I want to do is crawl into bed and have myself a good cry.
I don’t even want to bake. These feelings are just too big to be folded down into something sugary sweet.
I feel myself sinking down, my feet sliding against the linoleum flooring. I go down, bracing myself against the cabinets. My elbows are propped on my knees and hands locked in my hair. It’s the beginning of a breakdown and I welcome it.
I cry.
I’m not one to cry often. If I don’t bake, I tend to shove my feelings down until they boil over and I have a meltdown. Tonight, my emotions are ablaze about Charlie and Thea, both of whom I hold dear.
I cry for Thea. I’ve obviously not done a great job as her guardian or her aunt if she’s secretly drinking away her grief.
I cry for the pain she must be feeling. I thought she was doing better.
I cry for the loss of her mom and my sister.
I wish I could call her for advice, but I can’t.
I cry because of Charlie. I’ve been pushing my feelings for him aside for nearly three and a half decades.
I’ve been content with him as my best friend because it’s safe.
I haven’t had to worry about getting hurt if things ended badly between us.
The doorbell rings and I glance in its direction as I sniffle. There’s no way in hell I’m going to answer it right now. Maybe the delivery boy will just leave my pizza at the door.
I relax my knees and let my legs straighten out. I’m a blubbering mess, crying on my kitchen floor, tear streaks staining my cheeks. I’m sure my mascara is leaving black streaks down my face. My nose is running and I wipe at it with my shirt sleeve.