Page 101 of Finding Hope

She helps me reconcile the past and appreciate the good, while accepting and letting go of the bad.

Instead of fixating on the fact I lost Steph, Britt’s presence helps me appreciate that I had her, if only for a little while. Her calm whispers and softhands help me consider that maybe everything is already planned out; that maybe Steph’s destiny was already planned and she was going to die when she did no matter what. I find comfort in knowing she loved and was loved.

She was loved so fucking much.

Her time was good. She had a good life. And if she was going to die that day anyway, at least her time here was happy.

I won’t ever have to wonder if she felt the love.

Ididwonder. I used to wonder every day. But with my clear mind came clarification. I loved her deeply, hopelessly, and I told her every single day. We may have bickered sometimes, but that comes with a couple of kids who were growing together. We had growing pains, but we still loved each other with everything in us.

Refocusing on the bottle in my hand, I unscrew the cap and swallow down my nerves. Taking a deep breath of stale air, I prepare myself, prepare for the onslaught of when the new scent wafts toward me.

I try to stay strong. I try not to do it, but as soon as the cap’s gone, my nose moves toward the lip of the bottle and I inhale the way I inhale Britt’s hair.

I breathe in so deep, I feel the alcohol travel to my toes.

I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to go backwards.

I’ve worked so hard to become better.

Just one sip. Just one time. It’s a special occasion. You owe it to yourself.

Staring at the bottle for a full minute, I argue with myself.One foot in front of the other. Don’t go back. It’s not actually back; it’s just pause.

If they just spared her, I wouldn’t be weak. If that asshole never drove that day, I wouldn’t be in my kitchen arguing with a bottle of bourbon.

With a shake of my head, I scrunch my eyes closed, lift the bottle, and tip it down the sink. With every glugging noise it makes as the amber liquid moves past the glass neck, comes a kind of peace.

I don’thaveto drink. I don’thaveto be weak.

I simply have to tip it out.

As the last drops drain down the sink, Annie’s presence filters back into my mind. I forgot she was here. I forgot she existed. It was just me and my ghosts, and I forgot she was here to protect me.

Jumping quickly, spinning excited circles in the middle of my kitchen, it’s almost as though she knows what I just did.

Or more accurately, what Ididn’tdo.

It’s like a mini celebration for my achievement, but then she darts across my tiles and sprints into the living room, leaving me all alone.

So much for a celebration.

At the sound of my doorbell chiming, the slide of toenails on tile, then a solid thump as Annie slams headfirst into my front door, I frown and start moving forward.

I don’t want to see anyone, but my legs move anyway.

A compulsion I don’t understand has me striding toward my guest, past the haunted chandelier and straight to the front door as Annie noisily sniffs at the gap at the bottom.

Opening the door with a wide flourish, I bask in the enthusiasm borne from the sweet victory of knowing I just poured away the bourbon. I did it myself, with no reward and no praise. I did it because the women in my life would be proud, even if they never actually know about it.

My heart stutters at the beautiful girl on the other side. I smile at her magnetic smile. I itch to stroke the long hair hanging over her shoulder and feathering in the afternoon sun.

It’s a school day, but she looks more likemyBambie than she does Miss T.

Stepping through the doorway without a verbal invitation, she winds her arms around my hips and holds on tight like only she can.

She’s small, but her hold is like steel.

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