“She and I have some serious catching up to do since Harper came along. Easier to just kill a bottle of wine at her house.”
He doesn’t respond. I feel like an idiot. It’s clearly an excuse for not wanting to go back to my mother’s house because I lost my apartment. Am I twenty-nine or nineteen?
It’s a quiet ride until we get to their large brick home on a quiet road with houses scattered far enough apart it has privacy but not so far we can’t tease them about moving to the suburbs. Zara is standing outside as Nash coasts up the circular drive to deposit me at the front door.
“Thank you for the ride,” I say with false confidence and a fake smile.
Finally he looks at me, his expression harsh and cold like he’s scrutinizing me, looking right through me, seeing right through the bullshit facade I put up.
“Good night, Hanna,” he replies coolly before looking forward.
When I climb out, Zara is there with her arms around my waist and holding me up without even knowing why. She just knows. Maybe this is something she learned from growing up with a sister, knowing when your best friend needs a hug and someone to keep them upright, but it’s my favorite thing about Zara. She doesn’t make being me any more exhausting than it already is. I didn’t grow up with best friends and affectionate women.
After Nash drives away, Zara and I tip-toe inside. It’s not super late, but I’m sure the baby is already asleep. I can only assume Alistair is too. We move straight for the wine rack and she pours us both a glass of something red before we head for the patio.
There is a cozy chenille throw blanket draped over the back of each chair, and I cocoon myself in it as I tell Zara all about my evening. I see the interest pique on her face when I tell her I dragged a woman to the stall instead of a man.
“I didn’t know you…”
I point a finger in her direction. “You don’t get to judge me.”
“Why would I judge you for that?” She sets down her glass and looks at me again. “The only part that concerns me is you’re being reckless, Hanna. Pulling anyone into a bathroom stall while you’re drunk and alone at a bar is a red flag.”
I don’t respond because I don’t disagree. I’m not just waving a red flag; I’m practically leading a parade with it. Then she hits me with the truth.
“I’m worried about you.” This is where the conversation gets heavy. Where I have to face reality and unleash every gross and toxic thought in my head. I haven’t exactly been honest with Zara, or anyone, about how things are with my mother. How they’ve always been.
When you grow up in toxicity, live in it every day of your life, you can’t see past the tidal waves that drown you in it again and again. Zara knows the pressure of dance became too much, I had a nervous breakdown, and was let go from the company for health reasons. As far as she knows I’ve been in a state of rehab for the past eleven months, living at my mother’s house while I rest and recuperate. She has no clue things have only progressively gotten worse.
And I’m not going to tell her now. It’s too much. If I open that box, we’re going to need a lot more than this bottle of red to get through it.
“I need to get away,” I mumble, not exactly knowing what it means.
“No more auditions?”
Zara is under the impression I’ve been auditioning and actively trying to get rehired, but the truth is I haven’t even been rehearsing. Even if I did show up to an audition, the chances of me getting picked up are nonexistent.
I simply shake my head.
She watches me for a moment. “What are you not telling me?” Zara’s level of intuition is unmatched, but I’m also not a discreet hot mess.
“I just wish I could escape everything for a while. Dancing, rehearsing, the constant reminder I fucked up, my mother.”
Her eyebrows pinch together, and she leans toward me. I know she’s scared I mean escape as in the permanent kind, but I settle her worries with a smile. “You don’t have to worry about me, Zara. I’m not going to do that.”
“I’m still going to worry about you. You know..." she says, her voice trailing, which tells me she's