Quandary | Noah Sebastian |

six

I woke up to my throat burning, paired with cottonmouth. I groaned and pushed myself into a sitting position, swallowing in an attempt to alleviate my sore throat. This always happened whenever I fell asleep unintentionally after drinking, becoming the worst of mouth-breathers. Sighing, I brought a hand to my face and rubbed the sleep out of my eye while picking my phone up with the other to read the time. It was later than I had expected, just shy of 10 PM.

I tossed my phone back onto the mattress before standing and lifting my arms over my head to stretch. A satisfied sigh passes my lips once I felt my shoulders and back crack, relieving the tension, and I made my way into the bathroom. From there, I saw that my hair was in complete disarray and my cheeks were stained black from my mascara, thanks to my hysterics from earlier this afternoon. I snorted at myself and took a makeup wipe to clean up my face, then brushed my hair out, leaving it a frizzy mess.

I shrugged at my appearance, not caring to impress anyone at the bar, and changed into a pair of dark jeans and a comfortable swoop neck shirt. I slipped on a pair of vans, grabbed my purse and phone, and was out the door heading towards The Virgil, my stomach tied in knots of guilt from what I was about to do. It was selfish, but I didn't care. I just wanted to drink to forget the events from earlier today, to mask the loneliness that was looming over me.

I opted not to drive for the sake of convenience, and to walk the half hour it took to get to the bar instead. The walk was pleasant, the air around me a comfortable 65 degrees if I had to guess, and there was enough foot traffic where I didn't feel totally vulnerable walking the streets of LA alone. I chuckled to myself; Noah would probably kill me if he knew what I was doing.

After the 30-minute walk, I finally made it to the bar and slipped inside. The lights were dim, and the hum of dozens upon dozens of voices speaking over one another encases me, having my chest tighten with apprehension. It's been years since I've been in this scene; I wasn't even sure how to act in a bar anymore.

Scanning the area, my eyes finally landed on the semi-familiar sandy-blond mop sitting on a tall stool at the bar, a beer in hand. I let out a sigh, feeling some sense of security, and made my way through the sea of people towards Steven.

"Hey," I greet him as I took the empty seat next to him.
He swivels towards me, a genuine smile on his face. "You made it! Here, have some fries—if you're hungry, that is."
"Thanks," I flashed a timid grin, picking a single fry out of the basket. Just as I bit into it, my stomach growls—I hadn't realized how hungry I actually was. I glanced around the bar for a menu, pleased to see one to the right of me, and decided I should probably order my own meal.

The bartender soon makes his way over to me after a few minutes, giving me time to read over the menu to decide on a classic cheeseburger and fries, and politely hands me the water I so very reluctantly ordered. I know that I came here with the intention of drinking, but I had to at least seem like I was telling Steven the truth earlier when I said that I didn't drink. At least for now, I could later pull the whole 'oh, one drink won't hurt' card.

"How's your hand?" Steven asks, nodding his head in the direction of my hand that was holding the glass of water much too tightly.
I shrugged lightly, "Not so bad, the glass must've got me in just the right way where it decided to bleed profusely," I chuckled. "It stopped bleeding with some pressure."
"No stitches?"
"No stitches."
He smiles gently, "Good."

We fell silent, and I found myself absentmindedly spinning my water with my fingertips to hide the nervousness I was experiencing. The longer we sat in silence, the more my heart pounded, and the more I craved a drink to calm my nerves. My eyes zeroed in on the bottle of Sambuca that was calling my name, tempting me, just out of arm's reach.