I’m trying to forget about my disastrous conversation with Owen.
God, the way he looked at me. Like I was damaged goods. Like he felt sorry for me.
God, the way he looked at meAll I want to do is forget, but since I’ve decided to break up with alcohol for the time being after I molested Owen in his bedroom that night, my brain is fully sober and replaying the entire conversation we had on my couch in vivid Technicolor nonstop.
Good times.
Good times.I could really use a drink—or three—right about now. Instead, I’m perched on a bar stool next to Elise, watching the team celebrate their victory. They won their game against Montreal earlier this week, three to two, and everyone’s in a happy mood. Well, mostly everyone. I’m totally faking.
Only amping up my frustration? There’s some overl
