In the Stillness - By Andrea Randall Page 0,70

me.

Breathing a sigh of relief at the relatively empty bar, I smile. “Good afternoon.”

“What can I get for you?” the man who appears slightly older than my dad asks as he leans on the bar.

I stare at the vodka for a few seconds before deciding I’ve had enough of that this week. It’s time to move on. “Tequila.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Just . . . tequila?”

“You feel like mixing me a margarita?” I shrug.

He laughs. “Sure thing, Honey.”

I grin. “Mix up a pitcher to save yourself some time. I’m gonna be here for a while.”

Two of the three men at the bar whistle in surprise. The third seems to be asleep.

“Here ya go,” he says, handing me a glass and the pitcher full of guilt-numbing goodness.

“Thanks.” I grab them and head to the furthest table from the entrance—one with the least amount of light—and start pouring.

As I reach the glass to my lips to take the first sip, I spot a faded scar on my wrist. I don’t know if it will actually turn into a real scar, but it’s there.

I have to stop this . . .

With one more drop of self-loathing filling my glass to the brim, I open my mouth and tip my head back, swallowing half the glass at once.

“That bad, huh?” one of the men at the bar hollers across the empty space.

I chuckle. “You have no fucking idea . . .”

Well, two hours later, they have an idea. After finishing half the pitcher, I saunter over to the bar, ready to talk. And, I do. For twenty minutes straight.

“And, the bitch of it is, I have no fucking clue who this woman is.” The guy who was sleeping is now awake, starting at me wide-eyed.

“Sorry, Kid,” one of them says.

“My name is Natalie. But you? You can call me Nat.” They laugh as I continue drinking. If I’m not careful I’ll start speaking Spanish soon with all this Cuervo swimming through my blood.

“You’ve never seen her before?” A tired looking hippie with a grey ponytail shakes his head. Leave it to the hippie to start asking questions.

“Never. I mean, maybe she was at one of the, like, five functions I attended with him over the last few years but . . . psh . . .I spent most of those watching the clock, waiting to go home. I certainly wasn’t on the lookout for the woman my husband might fool around with. Oh, and to top it all off,” I slam my hand at the bar, commanding the attention I already have, “I ran into my ex-boyfriend last week. I haven’t seen him in, what’d I say? Ten years? And, you know what? He looks great. Just. Fucking. Great.”

Their sudden silence when I sniff away impending tears makes me uncomfortable. It occurs to me that maybe they’ve cheated on their wives, too, which is why they find themselves alone at a bar on a Sunday evening. Or, they’ve been cheated on. Either way, I don’t want them looking at me anymore.

“I’m going back to my dark and dreary corner. Thanks for listening, guys.” I slide with what I hope looks like grace off the stool and sway a bit with my 1/4-full pitcher back to my booth. Yeah, it’s my booth now. I’ve decided.

As soon as I sit again, I feel incredibly dizzy, and am thankful I made it to the booth before falling over. I’d hate to waste so much tequila. Biting down on my tongue, I find it completely devoid of feeling.

Great, now I have to stay here long enough to sober up to drive home. Or to Tosha’s. Or wherever the fuck it is I’m supposed to go.

A few more people enter the bar, and maybe some leave, but I can’t tell because I’ve put my back to the door and the bar. It’s a habit I got into quickly when Ryker got home. He always had to face the door, for reasons I never asked about. So, I just sit this way. Always. The conversation around the bartender is quiet, while the voices in my head are screaming as I finish the last of my pitcher an hour later. Deciding it’s time to start drinking some water if I have plans of ever leaving here tonight, I slowly stand and start my hike to the bar.

There are quite a few more men at the bar, and one woman, most of whom have their backs to me as the bartender catches

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