Page 47 of If Not for My Baby
“You know what.” My hands are shaking. “We kissed but…it didn’t mean anything. You’re making it into a whole—a whole, romantic thing. Just stop.”
I am manic in my terror. I want to lock myself in the toolshed behind him and never come out. Not for decades. I want to launch myself into his arms and cry. There is no winning here.
I can tell from his expression whatever he says next will be my death sentence. I coil my fist tightly as if to arm myself against how badly it will hurt.
“Sure. Sorry I overstepped.”
I want to say,Don’t go.I didn’t mean a word of it. Please, Tom, my brain is broken. It’s not my fault. Stay here and kiss me again.
But I don’t say a word, and he presses his lips together in finality before abandoning me with the trash where I belong.
Sixteen
Where has drinking heavily beenall my life? Turns out I have no notes for the practice—keep up the good work, alcohol.
“Damn,” Molly cheers as we slam our shot glasses on the party’s makeshift bar. “You’re an animal.”
“It’s just so fun,” I say, though it comes out likeisjusofun.
“Small-town mots are always deadly on the lash,” Conor says thoughtfully. “Not much else to do if yer a culchie.”
“Hey.” I cross my arms at him. “I’m not a— Cherry Grove has…it has all the things…to do all the things.”
Oh, God, my head—
Conor laughs good-naturedly and sips his drink. Or drinks…everything is a little multiplied right now.
“How about some water?” Indy suggests. She nods to the bartender, who brings a glass over for me, but I don’t want it. All I want is to be drunker. The four shots I took with Molly and the two with Lionel have done wonders for all those pesky bad feelings. The guilt that runs through my mind like asubway car every time I think of leaving my mom behind. Or how much I don’t miss home even though I know I should. Or how I’ve been avoiding calling her. Or Halloran’s pained expression. The stomach-dropping fear that accompanies all the gooey emotions I have for him. The unrelenting, inexcusablelonging…
“Another, please,” I ask the bartender sweetly, waggling my shot glass.
“I don’t think so, party girl,” Indy says. “Bus is leaving soon, we gotta go.”
“But I love it here,” I whine. “What kind of bus leaves at midnight?”
“It’s past two,” Conor lilts. “Such is life on the road. But you’re bang on at that, aren’t you, blondie?” Conor finishes off his drink and makes his way out of the party, a pretty blur looped around his arm.
I cannot get back in that bus. I can’t face Halloran again. And with the alcohol, I don’t have to.
“Shit,” Indy breathes. “Jen’s calling. Keep an eye on her, will you, Molly?”
Indy wanders off into the party, phone pressed to her ear, and when I turn around, Molly’s talking to Pete, black-tipped fingers pressed against his solid chest.
I stare down at my own hands. I had a chance to press them against Halloran’s chest, and I blew it. What is wrong with me? This vodka cranberry with its decorative little lime tells me if I keep drinking, I never have to answer that question.
“All alone?” a man croons beside me. When I look upfrom my drink, I notice how wrinkly and fake-tanned his face is. He’s got to be at least fifty.
I scan the bar area for Molly and Pete, but they’ve disappeared. Probably off kissing. Lucky jerks.
“Can I get you something?” the tanned man asks.
“No,” a thick Irish brogue cuts in. My entire body vibrates at the sound. “She’s fine, thanks.”
Halloran’s come up behind me and placed his hand on the bar around my back. He doesn’t touch me, though, not even the sleeve of his jacket, and I sip my drink to stifle the irritation.
The man with the fake tan sneers. “What are you, her dad?”
“I don’t have a dad,” I supply, to be helpful.
