The acidic taste of regret rises in my throat.
Setting my briefcase on the ground, I twist to work on my shirt.
“So, how did the meeting go?” he asks.
I pinch the fabric together with one hand and slip the safety pin in. “Not great.”
“Oh no. I was going to tease you about the hard-on comment, but now I’d feel like a dick.”
He smiles, waiting for me to respond to the joke, but it’s not in me.
“Are you all right? Are you not feeling well, is that why you’re leaving? You seem a little . . . distracted.” He glances back at the building behind us. “You never take a day off.”
“I’m fine. I—”
I want to tell him. The words are poised at the tip of my tongue, ready to dive into the open. I want comfort. I want reassurance it will all be okay.
But I can’t tell him. I’m itchy with embarrassment. Everything is all wrong.
I want to run away and run into his arms all at the same time. I need to get out of here.
Finished with the safety pin, I pick up my briefcase. “I’ve got to go.”
“Do you need a ride somewhere?”
“No. I’m fine. Thanks though. Bye, Alex.”
Goodbye forever, an overly dramatic voice in my head intones.
Wild laughter threatens to erupt out of my mouth, but I choke it down and keep walking. Maybe I should be crying. I mean, everything I’ve been working for is over in a blink, but it’s like it’s too overwhelming to process.
I don’t know where to go. Back to my empty apartment? I don’t think so. I pass by the Embarcadero train station and keep walking.
I barely remember crossing Broadway, but I end up in North Beach down by the piers, a wide stretch of sidewalk punctuated every hundred feet or so by wooden docks and a variety of stores and restaurants.
I don’t know what to do with myself. I have no one to talk to.
Even if I did, my phone is broken.
My phone.
I breathe in the sea- and fish-laced air and sit down on a bench facing the fog-drenched bay. Pulling my phone from my briefcase, I squint at the dead screen. I take it apart, messing with the battery, putting it back together. Nothing works.
I give up. What does it matter? Who am I going to call? My parents? Ha!
They are the last people I want to explain my most recent failure to. I slump down in the bench, rubbing my head.
I don’t know how long I sit there, surrounded by thick mist, tourists, and locals running along the piers. I sit there until the chilly wind from the bay seeps in, my hands go numb, and my feet are freezing in my sensible low heels.
Eventually I pick myself up and trudge back to the train that will take me across the bay into Emeryville.
Walking home, I stop in the shopping center near my apartment for Thai takeout and a bottle of wine. Might as well spend money I don’t have on comfort food and booze.
It’s dark by the time I get home. Thankfully, I don’t run into anyone in my building. And there’s no rap thumping through the walls, so that’s something.
I open my door and step on a small square of paper that someone must have shoved under the door.
I set my briefcase and the bag of food on the counter.
You must be at work. I tried to call but your phone keeps going to voicemail. Call me?
-Eloise
My sister. My sister the actress, who’s already had a successful series on Netflix even though she’s two years younger than me, and she has some fancy director boyfriend she met on set and they’re both in love and beautiful. Oh, and she’s taking a break from acting because she got accepted to Stanford.
So glad I didn’t come home early and run into her on accident.
I crumple up her note and throw it in the trash.
Grabbing a fork, I open the takeout container and shovel in a forkful of yellow curry, but my stomach revolts.
I can’t eat yet. I put the food in the fridge and then stare at the wine bottle for a second. The top is a screw off.
Going into the living room, I sit on the edge of the couch. Twisting the cap off the wine, I take a swig directly from the bottle. Then another. And another.
Deep breath. I screw the lid back on and hold it against my chest before flopping backward onto the couch.
I gaze up at my ceiling.
The couch is old and used and a spring digs into my butt. But it’s all I could afford.
I sit up to drink more before plopping back again.
Wallowing in despair is inevitable. But my last therapist always told me when it seems like everything is falling apart, focus on the things you can be grateful for. Because there’s always something, no matter how small it might seem.
I drink more and glance around my apartment. I love it here. It’s small and basic. One bedroom, one bathroom, tiny kitchen and living space, but it’s mine. It’s not like I need anything fancy. I’m not a scientist like my parents—I take another drink on that thought—and I’m not a brilliant hottie like Eloise—I take two drinks on that one. I just need a job good enough to pay for this apartment. This lovely apartment I love. The best part is the tub, one of those old-fashioned claw-foot things.
More wine goes down my throat. I feel so much better now.
I love this wine.
I love my tub. I love my apartment.
Love is a weird word. Love love love.
I love Alex. Nope.
Where did that thought come from? I don’t love Alex, he’s too good for me.
Someone is crying. Is it me? I pat my cheeks. No. Not me. Another swig of wine down the gullet. I’m not having a meltdown and it’s all thanks to this lovely wine.
My body is warm. Too warm. I go from warm and fuzzy to hot and
