Sober(ish)

A gold key glimmers on the island counter, practically glowing against the white marble. I stand in my doorway, disheveled and sweaty, and stare. I kick the front door closed with my heel and hear the latch click behind me. The apartment is silent, and all I can hear is my own labored breath.

“Damien?” I say. My voice reverberates against the wall of windows across the kitchen. Again, I am met with more silence. A small part of me says, maybe he’s just in the bathroom. I know it’s wishful thinking. I move towards the counter and see a small piece of paper folded neatly next to the key. Elizabeth is written in Damien’s script on the center of the folded paper.

“Oh Jesus Christ,” I mutter under my breath. I drop my purse and it hits the floor with a solid thud, and the metal of my purse straps clinks against the concrete flooring.

“It’s all the rage right now,” my realtor, a boomer named Catherine, had assured me when I was buying the apartment. “Concrete flooring is the newest canvas of interior design. Think about all the rugs you’ll be able to accent with!” Of course, the concrete was not the selling point Catherine the Realtor thought it was. I bought the apartment for the windows. A whole wall of them, looking out on Central Park.

Elizabeth.

He wrote my name like he was whispering it. And used my full first name like... like what? Like he was some sort of authority figure to me? I snatch the note off the counter and storm into my bathroom. What a sorry excuse for a man. He couldn’t even bother to break things off in person. I toss the note in the trash bin without bothering to read it and stare at myself in the mirror. Deep purple circles ring around my eyes. My hair is greasy, and a strand of it is stiffened with dry vomit. I lean over the sink and inspect the blackheads on my nose.

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I jump, bumping my knee against a cabinet handle.

“Fuck,” I say as I dig my phone out of my jacket.

It’s Liam.

“Hi,” I say. I run my fingers through my hair and fiddle with a snarled knot.

“Liza. Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you for —” Liam pauses, probably checking his watch, “damn near forty-eight hours.”

“Sorry. I haven’t had my phone.” This is true.

“These benders can’t keep happening, Liz. I can only pull so many strings for you.”

“I wasn’t on a bender, Liam.” This is a lie.

“Then where the hell were you?”

“Upstate. I needed to get away. Clear my head.”

“Whatever. I know how you writer types are. But you’re not Lisa Arrington, writing me a best-selling manuscript. You’re my editor, and you’re supposed to be at your desk editing manuscripts.”

“I’m sorry. I haven’t been doing well. I’ll be on my way to the office in twenty minutes,” I say. I start undressing, stepping on my slacks as they slide down my legs.

“Twenty minutes? Liza, I needed you here an hour ago. We need to finish the final revision forGreen Grasstoday.”

“Will do.” I hang up.

My head is pounding. I reach under the bathroom sink to grab the bottle of whiskey I have stashed away. I grab at nothing. My bottle is not where it should be. I squat down in front of the cupboard, frowning. There is always a bottle of Jack Daniels sitting next to the stack of fresh towels. The bottle is not there.

My heart skips a beat. I think I know what is happening, but I check the liquor cabinet in the kitchen anyway. As I suspect, the cabinet comes up empty.

“Asshole!” I yell at my front door. Damien is not there to hear me.

***

I stop at a gas station on my way to the subway. I fill up a styrofoam cup with coffee and make my way to the counter.

“Can I get a shooter of Jack, too?” I say to the clerk as I start digging through my purse for my wallet. I feel the clerk eyeing me.

“I’ll need to see your ID, ma’am,” he says.

“I’m getting it.” I pull my wallet out and fumble with getting my ID out of the stupid slit it’s shoved in. The clerk – his name tag reads “Dhruv” – scans my ID and hands it back to me.

“You look so young,” he says, and then he gives me a wide grin, because he means it as a compliment.

“I get that a lot,” I say. Dhruv hands me the little bottle of whiskey, and I spin on my heel.

“Have a good day!” he calls after me. I don’t say it back.

I find a seat on the subway and sit against a window. The glass pane feels cold against my forehead, and I close my eyes for a moment. The subway car screeches to a halt a few blocks down, and in the commotion of people loading and unloading, I pour the whiskey into my coffee. Who needs creamer when you have Jack Daniels?

***

Liam is waiting for me in my office, snapping the rubber bands on a rubber band ball. His leg is bouncing in anticipation. I pause at the doorway for half a second before stepping through.

“Good morning, Liam,” I greet.

“Morning? Goddammit, Liza, it’s 12:04 in the afternoon. Half the office is at lunch.” Liam sets the rubber band ball down on my desk. I sit across from him and put my bag under my desk. A collage of sticky notes are scattered across my computer screen – messages from my hiatus.

“Look, Liam, I’m sorry I was MIA. I’m going to finish Green Grass today. I’ll stay late if I have to.” I give Liam my Can you get off my case now? eyebrows.

“You better,” is all he says to me before leaving my office and closing the door behind him.

I sink down into my chair, my chin resting on my chest. There’s something I need to do before I keep my promise to Liam and finish the novel edits. I take another sip of my coffee. A shot for the nerves. I dial the HR 1-800 number on my office phone. An automated voice walks me through a phone tree, although I’m pretty sure it’s just a wild goose chase to slow me down. After hanging up twice, and demanding, “Representative!” several times, a human is on the other line.

“Human resources, can I have your first and last name please?” a woman asks pleasantly.

“Elizabeth Ashford.”

The woman asks for my employee badge and my address. After I prove that I am who I say I am, she asks what I am calling about.

“I need legal representation, and uh, I know my company offers assistance to employees. I was wondering how I go about accessing this resource?” I take another sip of my coffee. It’s almost gone. So is my headache.

“Oh, yes. We offer a program that could help connect you with an attorney who has contracted rates with our company!” The HR representative sounds giddy. This must not be a common request.

“Great,” I say.

She asks what kind of representation I need. I tell her.

The HR rep is silent for a moment, and then says, “Okay, well, I will get some referrals together for you and send them your way!” She confirms the email the company has on file for me, and we hang up. I peer through the blinds on my office windows. Liam is storming about the office, waving his arms over his head and shouting inaudibly. We have several best-selling authors publishing new books over the next three months, and every day has been the Most Important Day This Year.

Today is important because I am finishing the final touches on Green Grass.

Thank god. I fucking hate this book.

***

I get home close to midnight. My whole body is heavy, and I am drooping towards the floor like a wilting weed. My purse ends up on the floor in the kitchen again. I slump onto a barstool and set a bottle of gin on the island counter. The bottle gleams at me, promising a relief so sweet I can’t help but let a sigh escape.

The noise in my head finally shuts up after the warm tingle spreads from the tip of my tongue to the tips of my fingers. I smile to myself. I feel okay. I move from the island to the couch and flip on the TV. I bounce through channels until I’ve polished off a third of the gin, and then I find myself in the bathroom. The lights over the sink are fuzzy, and I’m stumbling as I make my way to the trash bin.

Elizabeth.

I pick up the note. I want to read it now. I kind of miss Damien.

Damien, the poet. Damien, the musician. Damien, the son of an alcoholic and the brother of three others. Damien, the man I dated for two years. Damien, who called me “Honeybee” and kissed the scars on my arms. Damien, who paid my bail after I wrecked my rental car on the back bumper of a minivan while I was driving plastered through the woods upstate three days ago.

E,

I know you know this by now, but I can’t do this anymore. I can’t watch you destroy yourself. You are wickedly talented and smart, brave and beautiful. I wish I could have been enough for you.

I think I’ll wait for you forever.

- D

I roll my eyes. All of it makes me cringe. I don’t miss him anymore.

***

I cure my hangover with another Jack and coffee. Dhruv asked me if I was having a rough week. He doesn’t know the half of it.

Liam was in a good mood when I got into the office. He was happy I finished Green Grass, and he told me knows I’m “turning over a new leaf.” Now he’s chattering excitedly with a news outlet on his cell, jabbering about Laney Goodwin’s newest best-seller.

When I was a kid, I thought I’d grow up to be a writer. I knew it was impractical, and I knew the term “starving artist” would probably apply to me, but I thought it would still be achievable. I was even a good enough writer to convince my college educated parents that I could make a living off of my skill.

Of course, I grew up, never finished a single manuscript, and became an editor.

Close enough.

My office phone rings.

The caller ID says it’s one of the attorneys I reached out to yesterday. I take a sip of my coffee.

“Hello?”

“Hello, I’m calling to speak with Ms. Ashford?”

“This is her.” My palms are sweaty. The receiver of the phone slips a little in my hand.

“Good morning, this is Douglas Hemsworth. I’m the attorney at Hemsworth and Coleman. Now, normally I’d have my secretary call you to set up our first appointment, but I went over the details of your case, and felt it was of utmost importance that I reach out to you myself.”

“Okay,” I say. My heart is hammering in my chest.

Douglas proceeds to tell me how badly I’ve fucked up.