Page 30 of Broken Hearts

She giggles again, signaling to the server for our check, immediately handing over her credit card before I have a chance to offer mine. “Should we head back?” she asks, letting out a small burp before covering her mouth in embarrassment.

I laugh, liking this new side of her. “You think youcanwalk back?” I tease.

“Absolutely,” she says with a nod. “I’m not that drunk!”

But when she moves to stand, she stumbles a little and I can’t help but laugh again, reaching out a hand to steady her. “You sure? You kinda seem like you might be,” I say.

Sage shakes her head as the server returns with her card, signing the tip before she turns to me again. “Nope, just a little tipsy,” she says.

We make our way to the entrance of the restaurant, stepping out into the still warm night. Sage lets out another burp that for some reason makes me laugh as I ask, “You’re not gonna puke, are you?”

She punches my arm now, a look of horror on her face as she says, “I donotpuke! I’m just…just…”

“Drunk?” I offer.

“Okay, maybe a little,” she says, throwing her arms up as she rolls her eyes.

“You want to grab a taxi back?”

“Noooo,” she says, shaking her head. “We should walk some of this booze off.”

Chuckling, I turn toward home. “Okay, come on then.”

Sage falls in beside me, neither of us saying anything as we slowly walk back to the shop. We only get a couple of feet, before suddenly Sage stumbles a little, this time a low, “Owww” falling from her mouth.

“Shit, you okay?” I ask, stopping.

“Fuck, I stubbed my toe,” she moans, hopping on one foot as she tries to inspect her other one.

I can’t stop laughing, knowing that for all her denials, she is definitely drunk. “Come on,” I say, turning and crouching down a little.

“Um, what are you doing?” she asks.

Glancing back over my shoulder, I grin, lifting my brows as I say, “Jump on, I’ll carry you back, drunk girl.”

By the timewe make it back home, all bumped and jostled being carried on Nate’s back, I’ve sobered up slightly. Not enough to drive a car or even walk a straight line, but enough that I know being here is a good idea.

Or maybe that’s the alcohol talking. I have no idea at this point, but Nate’s been nice to me, and I’m a little drunk and everything just seems better. Tomorrow morning will probably be a different story.

Nate sets me down, and as soon as my feet hit the gravel on the edge of the road, I stumble causing both of us to burst out laughing. His hands reach out to steady me, and I don’t even think it’s fully from the margaritas, but more from the stress, the alcohol, the being carried, all of it. But it feels good to laugh, to feel somewhat normal in the chaos of being here.

“I think I might need to help you up the stairs,” Nate teases, slinging an arm around my shoulders. The weight of his body feels comforting, and for a second I catch a faint smell of my father. The blueberry wax, the ocean and the fresh air from the hibiscus, and I lean into Nate. My memory catches, sending a burning sting through my nose.

I won’t cry in front of him. Up until a few days ago, he didn’t even think I should be here, so I will not grieve the loss with him watching me.

Swallowing hard, I push aside my feelings, fighting it with everything I have as I walk with Nate toward the stairs. Linking my arm around his waist, I try to remember all the stories Nate told, all the fun times he had with my dad, and how, even though Nate didn’t directly tell me anything about his past, my dad helped him.

We make our way up the stairs, both of us giggling stupidly as I let out a loud hiccup, grateful my dad lived on this plot of land with nothing else around it. We look like two drunk fools trying to get up these stairs, loud and clumsy.

Fumbling with the keys, I eventually get it into the lock, steadying myself on the doorframe as I push the door open.

The house is dark, and I feel around for a light switch, still unfamiliar with where anything is located. Nate reaches around me, flipping on the light, and the large space comes into view with the dim overhead lighting.

“Want to come in?” I ask Nate, not even really hearing myself, wondering what I’m even doing. “A thank you for dinner. I could make you some tea,” I now suggest. “Might help us sober up.”

“I’m not that drunk,” Nate replies, not bothering to answer me, he just steps inside the house. It’s a place that is so familiar to him, but to me, it’s like staying at a stranger’s house.

I want it to be home, a place I love and remember, but I’m not there yet. Thinking about selling the place does make my heart ache. Not just for the people that rely on my dad’s business, but also for my dad. This was his dream as my mom said, and I don’t know if I can be the one to ruin that.

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