Page 77 of The Long Way Home
“Babe, I gotta go, the boys are getting mad. But I’ll see those panties later, okay?” he says.
“Whatever, Ben.” I hang up before he can answer back. The phone goes dark in my palm. I set it beside my empty glass and clamp my lips together until the stupid sting settles.
I feel ridiculous. I practically walked into a room naked and asked someone to touch me, someone who’s supposed to want to touch me, and they looked me dead in the eye and said, “Nah, I’m good.”
I swallow hard, trying to push it all back down, but the ache lingers.
And the worst part? Iknewhow that call would go. I saw the ending like it was playing in slow motion and I pressed play anyway.
I slide out of the booth and head to the bar.
The bartender walks over, wiping his hands on a towel tucked into his apron. “You want anything, miss?”
“God, yes,” I say, propping my chin in my hand. “I’ll take a shot of tequila. And a spicy blueberry margarita. Make it strong enough to erase the last twenty minutes of my life.”
He gives me a half-smile. “Rough night?”
“How much time do you have?” I mutter.
He chuckles. “Extra tequila, got it.”
Since my brother died, I’ve carried the weight of everyone else’s pain as if it were my own. I’ve always been the one to catch others before they fall, to make sure no one else breaks. And I was happy to do it. I fought so hard to pull Margo out of her darkest days, to be the light she couldn’t see, and yet I wonder if anyone even noticed that I was drowning too.
I made myself small, invisible even, so my parents could grieve without distraction. I thought that if I disappeared enough, they could focus on their loss and not worry about me, but that invisibility came at a cost. It taught me that my needs don’t matter, that my pain is secondary to everyone else’s. And in that silence, I became my own caretaker, the only person I could truly rely on.
Sometimes I feel like I’ve built a fortress around myself out of obligation, out of survival. But inside, it’s hollow, and I can hear the echoes of all the things I’ve buried: anger, sorrow, the mere exhaustion of constantly guessing what others need me to be. I’m proud of how strong I’ve been, but it’s a quiet, lonely kind of pride. And part of me wonders, have I been living my life for myself at all, or just for everyone else who needed me to hold it together? I’ve bent myself so many times into so many shapes that I don’t know who I am anymore.
So at least this time, I’ll let Tequila help me forget.
Chapter Eighteen
RACHEL
After my second margarita, and I don’t know how many shots, my vision slips. Everything softens at the edges, the room losing its shape. I blink hard, once, twice, but the blur doesn’t leave. My hands feel slow, clumsy even, when I reach for my purse. A tight breath escapes me as I sit up straighter, the motion enough to make me sway.
Okay, maybe I pushed it too far. The thought brushes my mind, but I shove it down. Keep moving. Always keep moving.
The bartender, Stu—who’s been checking in on me throughout the night—catches my eye as I stand.
“Hey, honey, you know I can’t let you drive.”
I shake my head too quickly and wave him off, words tumbling out thick. “Oh, I’m not—driving. I’m getting a ride.” They blur together, but I don’t bother fixing them.
He studies me for a beat, making sure I’m not about to topple over, then finally nods and steps back.
I dig out my phone, squinting against the light of the screen. My fingers miss the buttons the first time, then fumble their way back, tapping slow and sloppy.
“What’s the address here again?” I mumble, not looking up.
He calls something back. I don’t catch the words, but my fingers seem to know what to do. I type it in and hit confirm.
Ping.
Notification from rideshare
Charlie will arrive in five minutes.
I let out a small breath and head for the door.
