Sydney had been holding my suitcase the whole time. “Should I take this upstairs?” she asked, lifting it slightly in question.
“No, you can put it down there, at the foot of the stairs. I’ll take it up later.”
She did as I requested, then said, “That sounded good.”
“What?”
“Kirby’s beer.”
“You hate beer.”
“I mean, a drink. Don’t you want one?”
Oh, yes, I did. A drink or ten. I had a feeling Syd was hoping that if she got some alcohol inside me, I’d tell her what was going on. Maybe that would work. Maybe if I blurred the lines with booze, it wouldn’t hurt so much to confide in her, tell her how Connor had rejected me.
“Yeah,” I said at last. “I guess we’ll have to look and see if there’s anything left to drink here…besides Kirby’s beer, that is.”
I set down my duffle bag and purse next to the suitcase, then headed toward the kitchen, Sydney a pace or two behind me. Once I got there, it looked as if the countertop wine rack had been left untouched. When I peered into the fridge, I saw Kirby’s six-pack of Lumberyard IPA sitting on the bottom shelf. My throat tightened when I looked at it; the Lumberyard Brewing Company was walking distance from Connor’s apartment, and we’d eaten and drunk there more than a few times over the past few months.
The contents of the refrigerator blurred, and I turned away, blinking furiously.
“Angela? You okay?”
I was incapable of speech at that moment, so I only shook my head.
She hesitated, biting her lip. “Do you still want a drink?”
I nodded.
“Okay. Just sit down, and I’ll take care of everything.”
Somehow I managed to blunder over to the kitchen table and fall into one of the rickety farmhouse-style chairs there. Sydney busied herself with getting out a couple of wine glasses, then selected one of the bottles from the rack. Pausing, she looked over at me and asked, “Corkscrew?”
I pointed toward the utensil drawer. Tears had begun to leak from my eyes and spill down my cheeks, and I reached up to wipe them away.
“Sweetie — ” she began, taking a step toward me, but I shook my head.
“I-I’m okay. Just hurry up with that wine.” As if to prove me wrong, more tears filled my eyes, forcing me to reach up with the back of my hand to try to blot them away. Streaks of black mascara and eyeliner came off on my skin; I’d put on full makeup for Damon’s memorial service.
Brow puckered with worry, Sydney got out the corkscrew, then inexpertly pulled the cork out of the bottle. It came out crooked, but at least it didn’t break off. After that she filled each glass almost full. She shot me a dubious glance. “When was the last time you ate?”
I shrugged. I had a dim recollection of eating a few cold cuts and some cheese at the reception following the service. The whole day had begun to take on a hazy, nightmarish quality, like something I’d experienced while suffering a high fever. I didn’t want to think too hard about the service, or the reception…and especially not what had happened afterward.
“I’ll see what’s here,” she said, correctly interpreting the shrug to mean that I hadn’t eaten very much at all. To my annoyance, she left the glasses of wine sitting on the counter while she rummaged through the refrigerator. “Well, whoever’s been hanging out here, they’ve left some good stuff behind. Here’s some smoked gouda. Where would the crackers be?”
“Over there,” I replied, jerking my index finger toward the pantry.
She opened the door, located a box of cracked wheat crackers, and arranged some on a plate, along with the cheese she’d found in the fridge. Finally she brought the plate over to the table, then returned with the wine.
I seized my glass and took a long swallow. It was a local red blend, and usually I found it fairly mellow and fruity. Now, though, it seemed to burn like acid when it hit my empty stomach. Although I felt as if I never wanted to eat again, I knew I’d better put some sort of a buffer in there. So I picked up a cracker, sliced off a bit of cheese, and then shoved it in my mouth.
“Better,” Sydney said. She’d been smiling faintly as she watched me eat, but her expression abruptly sobered. “You ready to talk about it?”
Not really. However, I knew I couldn’t hold her off indefinitely. And better that I should first relate the story to someone sympathetic, someone who didn’t have any agenda where Connor was concerned.
Connor. Just the sound of his name in my thoughts was enough to send more tears welling in my eyes, and I swallowed another large gulp of wine. This time it didn’t burn quite as much, instead feeling pleasantly warm. “It’s bad, Syd,” I said at last.