Page 110 of Healing Eleanor
I drag a hand down my face, groaning. Why can’t I stop thinking about her? I came here to forget. To erase thoughts of today, yesterday, and tomorrow.
“Another,” I slur, pushing the glass toward Kelly.
“You’d better slow down, or we won’t be able to have any fun tonight.” Kelly’s fingers trail along my forearm like tiny marching soldiers.
If I wasn’t half-plastered, I would’ve shaken her hand off in an instant. But that’s the price of drowning your thoughts. You pay in clarity and strength.
Another pertsovka slides in front of me, and I tip it back in three quick gulps. Liquid fire slithers down my throat, and with it comes the ghost of my past.
Nik from ten years ago would’ve kept drinking until he couldn’t think, walk, or speak. But the man I am now is supposed to know better. I’m saved; redeemed. A man who no longer craves this life.
And yet, here I am. Not seeking God. Not praying. Not fighting. Just caving.
The voice in the back of my mind begs me to stop. But I can’t. I’m not ready to face the guilt I know will crush me in the morning.
Three more pertsovkas later, and I call it a night. I slap a few bills on the sticky bar top and push to my feet. The room tilts sideways, forcing me to grip the counter just to stay upright. My eyes burn as I squeeze them shut, willing the world to steady. It doesn’t. I’m well and truly wasted.
“Kelsey,” I hiccup, praying I won’t puke until I’m alone. “Call me a cab?”
Her expression sours. “It’s Kelly.” She rolls her eyes, but grabs the phone off the wall and mutters into it. “Someone’ll be here soon.”
Relief slumps through me. I tug my hoodie on, fumbling with the zipper, and stagger toward the exit. I don’t care if it’s snowing. I can’t survive another minute in this place. Not without letting it chain me all over again.
“Nik—wait! You can stay here. It’s snowing out there,” Kimberly—Kelly, or whatever—calls after me.
But I ignore her. I yank the door open and stumble into the night. The wind slaps my face with a thousand icy needles, cold and cruel and almost welcome.
I slump against the brick wall, letting my head fall back and closing my eyes. Even in the dark, the world spins like a carousel gone mad. How did I used to do this every night? Call it age, but I feel like I’ve been hit by a subway at full speed—except I’m alive, forced to endure the wreckage I’ve brought on myself.
Seconds, minutes, hours—who knows—later, a cab horn blares. What a relief. I stumble toward it and nearly weep when the first blast of heat smothers my frozen face. I rattle off an address that isn’t mine.
Maybe my brain knows what my heart needs before I do, and I don’t have the strength to question it.
By some supernatural mercy, I make it up the steps and to her door. I don’t even remember if I knock. My body simply gives out, sliding to the floor until my head rests against the familiar green door I’ve seen so many times these past weeks.
I’m wasted. So, so wasted. But my heart begs her to open it. I need her smile, her soft hand in mine, her voice whispering that everything will be okay.
And as if God hears my desperate prayer, the door swings open. I topple backward, hitting the hardwood with a thud as the light stabs my eyes.
Her silhouette hovers above me, and even in my drunken haze, I know there’s no better place in the world to be.
21
Stay With Me
Eleanor
A sharp thud snaps me awake.
I fumble for my phone on the nightstand, squinting at the screen.
1:22 a.m.
Groaning, I let my head flop back onto the pillow, until another thump rattles the door.
This time, I bolt upright. My heart pounds in my ears as I strain to listen. A few moments of silence pass, and I almost convince myself I imagined it. Until the noise comes again, heavier, like someone collapsing against the door.
I scramble out of bed, scanning the room for anything remotely weapon-like. My eyes land on the feather duster I left on the TV stand after cleaning earlier. Not exactly a bat, but it’s all I have. If I can’t fight, maybe I can dust the intruder into an allergy attack.
