Page 27 of Letting Go

“What?” I croak. “I-I sent it to you?”

Hannah nods, and I swear the world tilts on its axis.

“I meant Hans!” I gasp, then burst into this maniacal giggle that quickly turns into a full-body laugh. “Oh my God, I don’t even have Hans’ number!”

The laughter spills out of me like wine from a knocked-over glass. I’m wheezing. Cackling. Crumbling.

And then-

I’m sobbing.

Ugly, hiccupy, shoulder-shaking sobs that make my whole body hurt.

Hannah doesn’t say a word. She just lowers herself onto the floor beside me, wraps her arms around me like I won’t break if she holds on tight enough, and lets me cry into her shirt while I cling to the wine bottle like it’s the only thing that hasn’t betrayed me.

Her arms are warm. That’s the first thing I register.

Not judgmental. Not stiff or awkward. Just warm, like a real human anchor in the middle of my personal hellscape.

She smells like lavender and espresso and something faintly citrusy, and suddenly I’m acutely aware that I smell like betrayal and desperation and wine.

She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t try to slap a band-aid over the gaping wound in my chest with some Pinterest-worthy quote. She just holds me like I’m not completely unhinged and snotting on her designer clothes.

I cry into her like it’s the only thing left I know how to do. Loud, ugly sobs that hitch in my throat and come out in wet gasps. My fingers are still clenched around the neck of the wine bottle like I’m gearing up to use it in a bar fight. Or maybe just finish it. Whichever comes first.

“I’m fine,” I lie into her collarbone. It comes out all slurry and wet. “Totally, like, functioning adult behaviour. Just a lil’ breakdown. Tiny one. Blink and you miss it.”

Hannah says nothing. Just tightens her grip. Her cheek rests on my hair.

“I kicked them out,” I whisper eventually. “Him. Her. Satan and… Satan Lite. She didn’t even put on pants. Just dragged the sheet out like a whorey little ghost.”

There’s a pause.

Then Hannah murmurs, “Was it your good sheet?”

I let out a watery laugh that turns into a sob halfway through. “My favourite one. The one with the linenblend and the tiny flowers. She sexed on my floral linen, Hannah.”

“That bitch,” she breathes, deadly serious.

I lose it. Full hysterics. Laughing and crying and hiccupping while I smear mascara tears down her very expensive outfit. I’m a mess. A wine-soaked, grief-feral, mascara-streaked mess. And she holds me anyway.

“Do you want to shower?” she asks gently, brushing a hand down my tangled hair, after my tears dry. “Or, like, burn all his clothes?”

“Yes,” I croak. “To both. And then pizza. And then maybe more arson.”

“Perfect,” she says, already reaching for her phone. “I’ll grab the matches.”

God, I don’t deserve her.

We get up like we’re rising from the ashes, except I’m more gremlin than phoenix. My limbs creak, my balance is shot, and I move like a drunk cartoon character who just walked into a wall of emotions face-first.

Hannah, calm as ever, gently pries the wine bottle out of my death grip. It’s like watching a zookeeper disarm a raccoon. “Okay, Medea. Let’s shower before the arson. Hydrate before homicide.”

She gives me a little push toward the stairs and I go, mostly because she’s right and also because I’m too emotionally bankrupt to argue.

I make it halfway up before I remember.

The bed. That bed. The one with the traitor sheets and the even more traitorous memories. Where my husband; and yes, the word still tastes like bile; had sex with my sister like he didn’t make vows to me, like we didn’t build a whole damn life.

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