Addicted(12)

The sight of the sad, pathetic remains of the blender lying drunkenly on its side does for me what none of the wanton destruction did. It shocks me back into myself. Shocks me silent.

For long seconds, neither my roommate nor I move. We just stare around the kitchen at the absolute disaster I have made. There are shattered bits of Plexiglas everywhere, electronic wires and plastic casing strewn across the floor and from one counter to another. There’s even a piece resting drunkenly on top of the toaster.

I want to make an excuse, but they say a picture is worth a thousand words and nothing I come up with is going to combat what Tori just walked in on. So in the end, I just stand there and wait for her to react.

It doesn’t take long. After a minute or so, she takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders—almost like she’s deciding something, or is preparing herself for battle. Then she walks straight to the hall closet and pulls out the broom and dustpan we store there. Without a word, she starts sweeping up the detritus of the blender.

I try to take the broom from her—I’m the one who made the mess, after all—but she just shoos me away. It isn’t until she’s done, until all the pieces have been swept up and deposited in a brand-new garbage bag—even the ones on the toaster and inside the mixer—that she finally speaks.

“So, are you sending this mess to Ethan Frost with a giant Fuck you, I quit attached to it? Or am I? Because one of us is and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to be the one to hand deliver it to the f*cker.”





Chapter Four


In the end, neither of us delivers the decimated blender to Ethan. Instead, I take the trash bag out to the Dumpster in an attempt to get a couple of minutes alone so I can think—which turns out to be a bad idea, because the summer sun is so blinding that it makes my hangover worse and pretty much takes away any small ability to form rational thought that I might have.

When I make it back to the condo, Tori has the food set out on the table and is pouring wine into a couple of long stemmed glasses. Since the last thing I want to do is add any more alcohol to my already shaky mental state, I fill two cups with water and bring them to the table.

Tori rolls her eyes, but she takes the glass I hold out to her. She even takes a couple of sips before trading it out for wine.

“So, are you feeling any better?” she asks as I settle into the chair directly across from her. “Because I’ve got to tell you, that level of rage was pretty f*cking impressive to witness.”

“I’m fine,” I tell her while concentrating way harder than necessary on spooning rice onto my plate.

“Where have I heard that before? Oh, right, just before you drank yourself into unconsciousness and then went batshit on a blender.”

“I’ll take full responsibility for the blender, but the excessive tequila drinking was all your fault.”

She ponders this for a second before nodding. “It really was, wasn’t it?”

“Completely.” I take the two Tylenol she has very thoughtfully placed next to my wineglass. I start to thank her, but the fact that she obviously thinks it’s a good idea for me to use pinot grigio to wash down painkillers is a little concerning.

“So, how are you going to quit?” she asks me a couple minutes later over a shared order of kung pao chicken. “By email? Voicemail? Or are you just not going to show up for a few days? The last one is a bit passive-aggressive, but I’m sure it won’t take that * Ethan long to get the message.”

“He’s not an *.”

“Don’t defend him. That’s pathetic.”

“You don’t even know what he did!”

“Because you won’t tell me. But, really, does it matter? Anything he did that had you showing up looking like your world was ending makes him a total dick in my book. And just so you know, I never liked him.”

I nearly choke on the bite of chicken I’d forced myself to try to eat. “Oh, no. You don’t get to rewrite history now. You’re the one who hounded me to go out with him in the first place.”

Tori thinks about that truth for a second, then sniffs haughtily, in a manner only she can carry off. “Yes, well, that was back when I thought he was going to treat you right. Now that he obviously isn’t, I don’t like him. And I never will.”

I don’t have the energy to argue with her, not when it’s taking every ounce of strength I have to just sit at this table and pretend like I’m not falling apart. It’s hard though, now that the shock and the anger have worn off. Now that all I’m left with is the grief.