It’s all an act.
I know because when Boone and I drive by in the truck, Tom gives me a look so cold it could refreeze the popsicle I’d only recently dropped into a parking lot trash can. I try to look away—to Boone, to the road ahead, to the slice of lake glimpsed through the trees—but can’t. Pinned down by Tom’s stare, I can only endure it as it follows me in the passing truck.
His head slowly turning.
His eyes locked on mine.
The smile that had been there only seconds before now completely gone.
When Boone drops me off at the lake house, there’s an awkward few seconds of silence as he waits for me to invite him in and I debate whether that’s something I want. Every conversation or bit of contact brings us slightly closer, like two shy teenagers sitting on the same bench, sliding inexorably together. And right now, that might not be the best thing for either of us.
I experienced no such hesitation with Morris, the drinking-buddy-turned-fuck-buddy stagehand from Shred of Doubt. He and I had the same idea: get drunk and screw.
But Boone isn’t Morris. He’s sober, for one thing. And just as damaged as I am. As for what he wants, I assume—and hope—it involves his naked body entwined with mine. But to what end? That’s the question that sticks in my head like a Taylor Swift song. Not knowing his end game makes me unwilling to play at all.
Also, I really need a drink.
That thirst I immediately got when reminded I haven’t had one all day hasn’t left me. Sure, it faded a bit when Boone swiped a finger across my bottom lip and when Tom stared at me as we passed his house. Now, though, it’s an itch that needs to be scratched.
One I can’t touch while Boone is around.
“Good night,” I say, talking louder than usual to be heard over the truck’s idling engine. “Thanks for the ice cream.”
Boone responds with a meme-worthy blink, as if he’s surprised to be rejected. Looking the way he does, I suspect it doesn’t happen often.
“No problem,” he says. “Have a good night, I guess.”
I get out of the truck and go inside. Dusk has descended over the valley, turning the interior of the lake house gloomy and gray. I go from room to room, switching on lights and chasing away the shadows. When I reach the dining room, I head straight for the liquor cabinet and grab the closest bottle within reach.
Bourbon.
But after opening the bottle, something Boone said earlier stops me from bringing it to my lips.
I was hurting others and not just myself.
Am I hurting others with my drinking?
Yes. There’s no doubt about that. I’m hurting Marnie. I’m hurting my friends and colleagues. I cringe thinking about how fucking rude I was toward the cast and crew of Shred of Doubt. Showing up drunk was the ultimate sign of disrespect for their hard work and preparation. Not a single one of them came to my defense after I was fired, and I can’t blame them.
As for my mother, I am absolutely drinking to hurt her, even though she’d insist I’m only punishing myself. Not true. If I truly wanted to be punished, I’d deny myself one of the few things that bring me pleasure.
And I like drinking.
A lot.
I like the way I feel after three or four or five drinks. Limp and floating. A jellyfish drifting in a calm sea. Even though I know it won’t last—that at some point hours in the future I might be dry-mouthed and headachy and heaving it all back up—that temporary weightlessness is worth it.
But none of those things are the reason why I haven’t been sober for a single day in the past nine months.
I don’t drink to hurt or punish or feel good.
I drink to forget.
Which is why I tilt the bottle and bring it to my parched, parted lips. When the bourbon hits my tongue and the back of my throat, all the tension in my mind and muscles suddenly eases. I unclench, like a flower bud spreading open into full bloom.
That’s much, much better.
I take another two gulps from the bottle before filling a rocks glass—minus the rocks—and carrying it out to the porch. Twilight has turned the lake quicksilver gray, and a light breeze blowing across the water wrinkles the surface. On the other side of the lake, the Royce house sits in darkness. Its glass walls reflect the moving water, making it look like the house itself is undulating.
The optical illusion hurts my eyes.
I close them and take a few more blind sips.
I stay that way for God knows how long. Minutes? A half hour? I don’t keep track because I don’t really care. I’m content to simply sit in the rocking chair, eyes shut tight as the warmth of the bourbon counteracts the chill of the evening breeze.