Page 13 of Knot on the Menu
Before I can talk myself out of it, I kill the engine and climb out.
The air is biting, nipping at my nose, but I don’t feel it. I march into the store, my boots squeaking on the linoleum floor.
I don’t grab a basket. I don’t look at the produce. I make a beeline for the liquor aisle, my vision tunneling.
There it is. A shelf of golden-brown glass. I reach for a handle of reposado, my fingers brushing the cool neck of the bottle.
It feels heavy. Significant. Like a weapon.
I pull it into my chest, hugging it like a secret. For a second, I just stand there, breathing in the smell of cardboard and disinfectant.
Then, sanity creeps back in.What are you doing?
If I buy this, I won’t stop at one drink. I know myself. One drink turns to three, turns to passing out on the couch and waking up to a terrified daughter asking why Mommy smells funny.
I shove the bottle back onto the shelf with a clatter that makes the elderly woman at the end of the aisle jump.
Mumbling an apology, I turn on my heel and walk out. I need air. I need to breathe.
I pace outside the store, my breath puffing out in white clouds. I wrap my arms around myself, hugging my coat tight. People are walking in and out, giving me sideways glances.
I can feel their eyes on me.The crazy lady pacing in the cold.They know. They can smell the instability on me. They can smell the failure.
Stop it,I hiss internally.Nobody is looking at you.
But the urge is still there, gnawing at my gut. Just a little something. To take the edge off.
I spin around and march back inside. This time, I grab the bottle.
I’m going to buy it. I’m going to take it home and hide it and drink it after Maisie goes to sleep. It’s fine. Everyone has vices.
I walk to the counter, then stop. My hands are shaking. If I put this on the counter, the cashier will see. They’ll judge me.They’ll know I’m not one of those normal wine drinkers. I’m a mess.
I turn around and march back to the aisle, shoving the bottle onto the shelf for the second time.
Make up your mind, Amber.
I turn to leave again, moving too fast, my vision blurred by unshed tears. I’m not looking where I’m going. I’m just trying to escape.
I slam directly into a shopping cart coming around the corner.
The impact jars my teeth. A bottle in the cart rattles dangerously and then tips over, smashing onto the hard floor with a violent shatter. Purple liquid splashes everywhere, soaking into my boots and the hem of my jeans.
“Ah, shit!” a man’s voice exclaims.
“I’m so sorry!” I gasp, the apology tumbling out before I even see who I’ve hit.
I look up, blinking rapidly. The man is tall, maybe an inch or two taller than me, with a lean build.
He’s wearing a light blue button-up tucked into a pair of dark jeans, with a long wool coat over the top. A pair of dark-rimmed glasses sits on his nose.
He is gorgeous. Not in the intimidating way of the Alphas I’m used to, but in a soft, approachable way. He has dark hair that looks like it might curl if he let it grow out, and warm brown eyes behind those lenses.
I recognize him. I know I’ve seen him before, but the panic scrambling my brain won’t place him.
He pulls a pair of headphones down around his neck, looking from the mess of glass on the floor to my face. “No, no, it’s my fault,” he says quickly. His voice is gentle, calm. “I wasn’t looking where I was going either.”
The smell of the spilled wine hits me—tannins and alcohol. It makes my stomach lurch, reminding me of the bottle I almost bought.
