Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Meredith: Sorry. Work has been busy.
Robert: I’m surprised to hear from you, to be honest. The headache excuse is the oldest one out there.
Meredith: I really did have a headache. Maybe *I* owe *you* a second date.
I tap my fingernail against the empty bottle of prosecco, suddenly flush with giddiness. I’m excited to talk to him. Too excited. I force myself to take a deep breath and consider that—consider why. If I were my therapist, what would I think?
That I’m lonely, probably.
Maybe that it’s good for me to be talking to anyone besides Gabriel.
Robert: Maybe.
My heart does a funny thing—maybe. Like maybe he doesn’t want to talk to me. To see me again. But the three dots pop up, indicating he’s still typing.
Robert: It’s late. Unless you’re in, say, London. In which case it’s early. Are you in London?
My chest squeezes with joy. He’s teasing me. Flirting.
Meredith: I wish. Maybe we should go.
Robert: Sure. Right now?
For a second I imagine it—meeting him at the airport, hopping on the first flight to London. Taking a vacation with a handsome near-stranger. The exhilaration of doing whatever I want in that moment. I could do it. I could. My passport is in the safe. An Uber is five minutes away. I start to type back—Yes, let’s do it! But he replies before I can.
Robert: Ahh, to be young again. To be able to leave at a moment’s notice. I’ll have to take a rain check on globe-trotting, but maybe international cuisine is the next-best thing? Tomorrow night?
And here I was going to tell Sarah to move my appointments. I was going to do it. Take off, abandon my life on a whim. I was excited about it, too. Or maybe I’m just drunk.
Meredith: Perfect!
* * *
Morning comes late for me, the sun well above the horizon when I open my eyes and find myself staring at the living room ceiling. A throw is half over me, like I dragged it down when I got cold in the middle of the night. My neck aches as I sit up, reminding me I’m not in my twenties anymore. I can’t just pass out wherever.
Speaking of passing out. I squint at the nearby coffee table. A big bottle of Riesling. A tiny bottle of prosecco.
Jesus. I must have drunk them by myself, because I sure as hell didn’t have company. I search the couch cushions for my phone and check the time—11:08 a.m. It’s the day I work late, so my appointments don’t start until noon, but I’ll have to hurry. I’m already in the shower, voice-messaging Sarah that I’ll be a few minutes late, when I see I have a text waiting. I send the message to Sarah and set my phone down to hurry the shower along.
But when I’m out and wrapped in a towel, I have to check it—it might be important.
It’s a message from Robert, the guy I went on the date with and ghosted. I clear the fog on the mirror and find myself frowning. It’s been weeks. Why would he message now? Isn’t it obvious I’m not feeling it?
But then I see his message.
Robert: Looking forward to it!
Looking forward to what?
I nearly drop my phone as I adjust my towel and lean in, scrolling as fast as I can. There are a dozen texts back and forth between us. Texts I have no memory of. I drank a lot, but surely not enough to completely black out, right?
Oh God.
Shit.
And I initiated the texts. After midnight.
Another text comes in just then, from Jake.
Jake: Are you okay? I still haven’t heard from you.
I study his words, try to figure out what he means. Coming up empty, I check my call log, and sure enough—I called him. We spoke for three minutes and forty-two seconds.
And I have no memory of any of it.
I sit down on the closed toilet seat, trying to recall what I said. What I did. I have no memory of most of last night. What if I did something worse? Like call Gabriel?
My breath catches in my throat as I frantically double-check my call log.
Thank God.
Thank freaking God.
I stare at myself in the mirror. I’ve worried my brother. Set up a date with a man I have no real interest in. Hell, apparently I was ready to hop on a plane with him to England.
And that’s when it hits me that I’m a little afraid. Of myself.
And what I’m capable of.
CHAPTER 26 Now
Don’t be so hard on yourself. Just do your best.
It’s advice I’ve often given to patients, yet I’m not good at listening to myself lately. I stop at the restaurant door and take a deep breath. Yes, I made a date with this man while inebriated. But maybe it’s for the best. Maybe this is just what I need—a push to put myself out there. And really try this time. Dinner. Not just drinks. Date number two.