“Sure. Fine.”
We grab seats at the bar amidst a crowd of people dressed up to the nines in resort wear.
“This hotel reminds me very much of a cruise ship,” I say to Hope.
“I know. There’s no escaping it.”
The bartender walks over to us and Hope orders a dirty gin martini.
“Excellent choice,” the bartender says.
I agree.
God, I’d love a drink right now.
I push the thought down, even as my mouth literally salivates at the idea of Hope’s drink. That icy hit of juniper mingled with salt. That immediate throb of alcohol hitting your bloodstream.
The sharpness of my longing is so terrifying it gives me chills. I haven’t felt this way in months—not since I attended my first wedding after getting sober and felt painfully envious of the people enjoying cocktails with the dancing. I left early.
I should do that now.
“You know what, I’m actually not hungry,” I say, standing abruptly. “Do you mind if I go back to the room?”
Hope looks at me with concern. “Are you feeling okay? You’re a little sweaty.”
In truth, I’m jonesing for nicotine and the desire for a drink is putting me on the verge of panic. But I’m not going to lay that on Hope.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say. “Just exhausted.”
She doesn’t look convinced. “Do you want me to bring you something back?”
“No, I’ll order room service later if I get an appetite.”
“Okay then. Get some more rest.”
I couldn’t rest if you drugged me.
I am electric with adrenaline.
I don’t go back to the room.
I ask the hostess where I can buy cigarettes and am directed to a store on one of the plazas ten minutes away. I speed walk there, and between the heat in the air and my brisk pace, I’m sweating through my new shirt by the time I reach the store.
I buy Marlboros and sit on a bench and light one with shaking hands.
The first drag makes me cough violently. Makes my mouth dry. Tastes disgusting.
I don’t let that stop me.
I smoke three in rapid succession.
And yeah, I was right about cigarettes making me crave booze, because now I’m fantasizing in lurid detail about an old-fashioned, one with bourbon and orange bitters, how it would cut the taste of ash and tar, flood me with—
I shouldn’t have done this. I need to stop.Muststop.
I toss the packet of cigarettes in the nearest bin and rush back to the hotel, dodging groups of merry tourists. When I get back to the room, my skin is cold under the sweat and my heart is pounding.
I’m so fucking anxious.
