Page 5 of Thin Ice

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

She taps her red-painted fingernails on the table. “I didn’t know we were playing the avoidance game tonight.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “I’m not avoiding, just—”

“—lying to yourself?”

Stevie’s direct words hit me square in the chest, my gaze falling to watch the remaining liquid in my glass dance from the sound vibrations of the bar.

Lying to myself. My therapist told me the same thing only yesterday, though she said it in different terms.

“It’s not healthy to bottle up what you’re feeling about your marriage. Telling yourself everything is okay doesn’t make it true. I think you need to get honest here, Quinn. Not only with yourself, but with Noah, too.”

“Hey,” Stevie says, her voice softer as she scoots closer to me, her hand finding my forearm and squeezing. The smile from before is gone, replaced with concern again. “We don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want.” She grips my arm a bit tighter. “But I won’t lie and say I’m not worried about you, that I was hoping you’d talk to me after your text earlier.”

My stomach sours. I’d pushed that text from my mind, one I sent in a burst of emotion that is unlike me. Just like the burst of emotion I had toward Noah right before I came here.

The text to Stevie was simple, just me expressing my concern for Noah, that his drinking and excessive working out was worrying me. In the moment, I needed to tell someone, and her response was what I wanted: an invitation to get out of the house that’s become a source of depression—not just for Noah, but for me, too.

I was excited for a brief time, getting dolled up and putting in extra effort in hopes that when Noah saw me, he’d light up like the young man I met at college who looked at me like I was everything to him. Instead, he couldn’t have cared less. Choosing to wallow over a fucking hockey game and respond with “Okay” and “You deserve to have some fun” and “I trust you.”

Renewed anger bubbles from my gut, acid burning my throat. I down the rest of my margarita then pour another. I gulp several swallows like I’m back in college at a toga party, racing Noah to see who could finish their beer first. The loser always had to give the winner a foot massage once sober the next day. I always won.

“Okaaay, I guess we’re getting hammered?” Stevie chuckles.

I wipe my mouth with my hand. “You game?”

Her gaze flickers over me, and I can see her warring with herself.

“I talk more when I’m drunk,” I coax.

It’s the truth, too; Noah says I’m a chatty drunk. Which I don’t mind. Better chatty than like my freshman roommate, Liv, who once spent an entire party sobbing about how much she hates when inanimate objects appear to have feelings. Like the drink ladle that was thrown out the window by a college boy for no reason at all and laid in the snow like a fallen angel.

“‘Loose lips sink ships’ kind of girl?” Stevie asks.

I dip my chin. “Only when drunk.”

The corners of her mouth lift slowly. “Okay, but if I end up puking, you have to hold my hair back and explain to Lucas it’s all your fault when he picks us up later.”

I hold out my hand. “Deal.”

Stevie doesn’t take it right away, glancing toward the exit before she meets my gaze again. “I have one more condition before drunkenness ensues.”

“What is it?”

“We go someplace where there’s dancing and no sports.”

I wiggle my fingers and match her grin. “I accept.”

Stevie’s hand falls into mine, and we shake. “Let’s get out of here.”

Chapter three

Quinn

I slam down the now empty shot glass that once contained sweet alcohol. I blink and look up at Stevie, who’s smiling wide, her cheeks flushed from dancing and the drinks we’ve consumed.