Page 5 of Wicked Games

We fall silent because we both know I’m far from being in one piece. “I’m okay, Vi. You can’t be like this all summer. You need to give me some space and trust that I won’t hurt myself.”

“How can I do that if you’re not going to be sober all summer?”

“I’ll do better.” Or try to.

She sighs. It’s the best I can give her, and she knows that. “How is it? Is the house okay? How was the drive?”

“Fine, and fine. Pretty piece of land, and the lake’s nice. I might try to read some, if I can get into a book. I don’t know, okay? Can you give me a few days?”

“Yeah. Sorry. I’m just worried about you. Did you meet your neighbors?”

Carefully, I sit up, and my stomach rolls with queasy emptiness. Violet’s right. I can’t do that anymore or I’m going to give myself liver disease. I’ll die a slow, painful death, and cirrhosis isn’t the way I want to go.

I stumble into the kitchen, fill a glass with water, and sip. Downing the whole thing on an empty stomach would only make me puke.

“Yeah, actually, I did. The woman next door. Avery McKay. She seemed nice enough. Sad.”

Violet sucks in a breath. “Did you say Avery McKay?”

I frown and sip my water. “Do you know her?”

“She’s only the most talented essayist I’ve ever read.”

“A what?” It’s not that I’m stupid, but I didn’t think essayists were a thing.

“She writes about her life as a woman, her place in the world. She’s up there with Joan Didion and Annie Dillard. Her work is breathtaking.”

“If you say so.”

“I bought her book. I wish I’d known you were going to meet her. I would’ve asked you to have her sign it for me.”

“She’s that big of a deal? Where does she publish?”

“She writes for a magazine called Bloomscene. It’s similar to magazines like Vogue or Harper’s Bazaar, but then cross them with something like The Atlantic, or Vanity Fair. For women.”

“Huh. Well, I’m sorry to burst your bubble, but she was crying when I introduced myself and she didn’t seem the least bit put out when I told her to leave me alone. I think she’s going through her own shit, and it’s best if we stay out of each other’s way.”

“Oh,” she breathes, as if she’s Avery’s best friend and is hearing upsetting news about her. “That’s sad.”

“We all have problems, Vi,” I say and then sip more water. I need to find something to eat. The realtor asked me if I wanted her to stock the refrigerator and I was dumb and said no. I open the fridge in case she ignored me, but nope. The fridge has nothing in it except an open box of baking soda. Fuck. The mom-and-pop grocery store might still be open, but I’d have to hurry. Things like that in small towns like this don’t stay open all night.

“Not that. I think she would’ve been the perfect person for you to talk to. With how deeply she writes about her feelings, she’d be a great sounding board. She’s married though, I think.”

“She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.” I snap my mouth shut. I hadn’t meant to notice Avery’s bare fingers, and I sure didn’t mean to admit to it.

Violet latches on to my mistake. “You like her.”

“There’s nothing to like or dislike. I introduced myself, she did the same, I told her to stay out of my way, she said okay, and that was it. She was crying, and what she was crying about isn’t any of my business. I just want a few weeks to myself to mourn. No one has given me time to mourn, especially you. I need people out of my face.” I don’t want to hurt her feelings, but damn, I seriously cannot go all summer with her calling me five times a day.

She doesn’t take offense, we’re too close for that, but she does quiet, the pause louder than anything she could say out loud. Violet Weston is my best friend and business partner. I couldn’t have gotten L&W Global off the ground without her smarts and work ethic. At eight-thirty at night, she’s probably still at the office.

“Then answer your phone when I call and you won’t work me into a tizzy. We agreed when you left that you wouldn’t hurt yourself. Getting drunk and passing out is hurting yourself. Don’t do that to me, okay?” Tears have crept into her voice again, and I sigh.

“I’m sorry. You’re right, you’re right. I need to go. I need a shower and I’m starving. I fucked up. I’ll do it again, and probably again. I’m learning who I am now, please be patient.”

“That’s why you should talk to Avery. You’ve practically got a therapist next door. Okay, I’m going,” she says when she hears me growl. I don’t need a fucking therapist. Well, I probably do, but not a pretty brunette who looks like she needs her own. “Goodnight, Seth. I care about you. A lot. I don’t want to run this fucking company without you. Stay safe.”

“I will. I’ll touch base soon. Goodnight.”