Guilt is intense. Suffocating. A brick, tied quietly around your ankles while you sleep. You never fall slowly into guilt—you wake up with little time to take your last breath before being pulled under. Guilt over being a bad wife turns on a dime into guilt over being a dumb one. Self-condemnation over wanting to leave your children behind flips into shame that they’re in love with a mother who doesn’t love herself. Who doesn’t know how.
“Afternoon.” Three post-middle-aged heads turn in my direction as the bartender greets me.
Breathing a sigh of relief at the relatively empty bar, I smile. “Good afternoon.”
“What can I get for you?” the man who appears slightly older than my dad asks as he leans on the bar.
I stare at the vodka for a few seconds before deciding I’ve had enough of that this week. It’s time to move on. “Tequila.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Just . . . tequila?”
“You feel like mixing me a margarita?” I shrug.
He laughs. “Sure thing, Honey.”
I grin. “Mix up a pitcher to save yourself some time. I’m gonna be here for a while.”
Two of the three men at the bar whistle in surprise. The third seems to be asleep.
“Here ya go,” he says, handing me a glass and the pitcher full of guilt-numbing goodness.
“Thanks.” I grab them and head to the furthest table from the entrance—one with the least amount of light—and start pouring.
As I reach the glass to my lips to take the first sip, I spot a faded scar on my wrist. I don’t know if it will actually turn into a real scar, but it’s there.
I have to stop this . . .
With one more drop of self-loathing filling my glass to the brim, I open my mouth and tip my head back, swallowing half the glass at once.
“That bad, huh?” one of the men at the bar hollers across the empty space.
I chuckle. “You have no fucking idea . . .”
Well, two hours later, they have an idea. After finishing half the pitcher, I saunter over to the bar, ready to talk. And, I do. For twenty minutes straight.
“And, the bitch of it is, I have no fucking clue who this woman is.” The guy who was sleeping is now awake, starting at me wide-eyed.
“Sorry, Kid,” one of them says.
“My name is Natalie. But you? You can call me Nat.” They laugh as I continue drinking. If I’m not careful I’ll start speaking Spanish soon with all this Cuervo swimming through my blood.
“You’ve never seen her before?” A tired looking hippie with a grey ponytail shakes his head. Leave it to the hippie to start asking questions.
“Never. I mean, maybe she was at one of the, like, five functions I attended with him over the last few years but . . . psh . . .I spent most of those watching the clock, waiting to go home. I certainly wasn’t on the lookout for the woman my husband might fool around with. Oh, and to top it all off,” I slam my hand at the bar, commanding the attention I already have, “I ran into my ex-boyfriend last week. I haven’t seen him in, what’d I say? Ten years? And, you know what? He looks great. Just. Fucking. Great.”
Their sudden silence when I sniff away impending tears makes me uncomfortable. It occurs to me that maybe they’ve cheated on their wives, too, which is why they find themselves alone at a bar on a Sunday evening. Or, they’ve been cheated on. Either way, I don’t want them looking at me anymore.
“I’m going back to my dark and dreary corner. Thanks for listening, guys.” I slide with what I hope looks like grace off the stool and sway a bit with my 1/4-full pitcher back to my booth. Yeah, it’s my booth now. I’ve decided.
As soon as I sit again, I feel incredibly dizzy, and am thankful I made it to the booth before falling over. I’d hate to waste so much tequila. Biting down on my tongue, I find it completely devoid of feeling.
Great, now I have to stay here long enough to sober up to drive home. Or to Tosha’s. Or wherever the fuck it is I’m supposed to go.
A few more people enter the bar, and maybe some leave, but I can’t tell because I’ve put my back to the door and the bar. It’s a habit I got into quickly when Ryker got home. He always had to face the door, for reasons I never asked about. So, I just sit this way. Always. The conversation around the bartender is quiet, while the voices in my head are screaming as I finish the last of my pitcher an hour later. Deciding it’s time to start drinking some water if I have plans of ever leaving here tonight, I slowly stand and start my hike to the bar.
There are quite a few more men at the bar, and one woman, most of whom have their backs to me as the bartender catches my eye.
“Anything else, Sweetheart?” he asks with a look of caution.
“Just fill this up with water, please.”
A couple of people jump and turn their heads in my direction. They clearly didn’t see me when they’d walked in, which was my intention. Trying to force a semi-sober smile, I slide between two patrons and hand the bartender my pitcher.
“Natalie?” a voice comes from my right. Directly to my right. Like, our shoulders are touching to my right.
Turning, I pray that was just a voice in my head. No luck. I’m face-to-face and shoulder-to-shoulder with Ryker fucking Manning.