Last night. The parts she can remember: Gemma had dreamed of that kind of life. When she was younger, she’d dreamed of that kind of life. A life where she woke next to a good woman and they went peaceably about their days and the evening spread wide between them and friends, sweet and trusted friends. Gemma’d never had that. But it was all she’d ever really wanted.

After she and that ex had split up, Gemma finally came out socially, in her early twenties. (The ex had been fine with Gemma going on hormones, but in public—yeah. It’d been a whole thing.) Gemma lost her job, and then she started camgirling. Then it occurred to her better money was available in person. Sick of the prairies, she hoofed out to Toronto to crash with a girl she knew; they slept together and worked together for a few months and it was nice, but then they had a fight. She went out to Nova Scotia to visit her dad, but he’d thrown in his lot with his new wife and her church, and the new wife and Gemma didn’t get along, which birthed the current relationship Gemma has with her dad, where she sees him once every couple years and they talk mostly on Christmas and birthdays; it’s all pleasant, but the sporadicity of the contact is what keeps it pleasant. Gemma’s come to terms with this, but back then … It was a head-spinning time.

In the decade since, she’d pieced together an existence through different cities and houses and lovers, few of which ever lasted. She was always short of money, but she always got by; it was a stressful life, but it was a life. Somewhere early along the way, evenings became permanently linked with alcohol. And it was such that this life of Gemma’s was also a life of peace. Since she was small, living had been a trial, and when she was drinking, it was not. She’d read tearful stories of alcoholics whispering, “I don’t even like it anymore,” and Gemma just couldn’t identify less. Yeah, she’d go on the wagon now and then, but mostly that just confirmed that life continued to be intolerable sober. Do I want to quit? Let’s give this a whirl. Nope, still sucks. She hadn’t lied when she told Ava it kept her sane to know stopping was an option. She knows it’s an option, and she doesn’t want to, and there’s a certain clarity to those twin understandings. (Though this ferritin bullshit—well, she’ll see what the doctor says.) Sure, Gemma feels more energetic when she’s sober, more attuned to life, but that’s not a plus. Drinking, for her, turns violent despair into garden-variety sadness. If it works that way, she’ll take it.

(One thing Gemma does notice when she’s on the wagon. Sober people say their appearance changes when they stop drinking—shrunken booze bellies, unmottled skin. None of that stuff’s ever happened to Gemma, with the exception of her eyes. Normally, the bags under Gemma’s eyes are deep, numerous, and tinged with sickly yellow-green. Except during her bouts with sobriety, when they instantly go away.