“I can’t fix the past. But I can try to build a decent future. You should do the same.”

“You’re building a future with David?”

“Maybe. Why not? He’s good marriage material.”

He’d shown up out of nowhere at the hospital after my accident. Happenstance was possible, but not likely. “He doesn’t seem your type.”

“We all grow up, Marisa. The bad boys are all fun and games when we’re young, but you can’t make a life with them. You should try to find a normal guy instead of your latest addiction.”

“What’s that mean?”

“You’re swapping one addiction for another. Staying off the booze and drugs and now obsessing about Clare. You always take it too far.”

“I’m not obsessing. I want to find Clare’s killer. I thought you’d want the same.”

“Thirteen years! It’s been thirteen years. It’ll take a miracle to find her killer now.” When I readied a rebuttal, Brit held up her hand. “Save it. I’m too tired. And I’m not going to ruin this bit of happiness coming my way, so I can’t indulge you right now. We’ll talk in a few days. You know your way out.”

Brit set her half-full glass of wine on the counter and walked past me to the back staircase leading from the kitchen to the second floor.

The cold shoulder and smothering, heavy silences were her specialties. I should have been immune to both by now, but the isolation stung. We were the last of our family, but that still wasn’t enough.

My gaze settled on the glass of wine. Of course Brit would just leave it out at a time like this. It was a test. Brit liked her little tests.

I raised the glass, held it up to the light. She knew I’d look at it, swirl it in the glass, wonder how much I’d actually taste as I slugged it down. I sniffed the wine, inhaled the scent, and then lowered it back to the counter, ready to prove to Brit I was a different person.

I carried the bottle and wineglass to the sink, studied the vintage. Expensive. I poured the bottle down the sink. As I reached for the glass of wine, an irresistible urge overcame me. It wasn’t a craving or longing but a powerful force that devoured all my good intentions, common sense, and a year’s worth of sobriety mantras. As I readied to dump the glass’s contents down the drain, I stopped.

I raised it to my lips and gulped it down in two sips. “Fuck you, Brit.”

39 MARISA

39

MARISA

Friday, March 18, 2022

7:45 p.m.

My mind was still buzzing from the wine and the anger boiling in my veins when I parked in my spot at my apartment building. I reached for the plastic bag filled with three bottles of grocery-store merlot.