There was nothing else to do… but drink. My legs, as if they knew what my body needed, carried me to the little bar down the street. I’d thought about texting Constantine, letting him know where I was, but the thought of reaching for my phone felt exhausting. A drink wouldn’t hurt — not just any drink. The strongest one they had. Before I knew it, I was on my fourth… fifth glass of bourbon. The burn chased away the ache in my chest, numbed the anxiety buzzing beneath my skin. I laughed at a cheesy soap commercial during the baseball game — a perfect family bonding over a bar of soap. My laugh sounded foreign even to me. I tipped back my glass again, empty. Tapping it on the counter, I caught the bartender’s eye. “You’ve had enough, sweetheart,” he said, flashing a charming grin. “Fill it up, or I swear I’ll smash it over your head.” He laughed, shrugged, and poured another, dropping two ice cubes in with a clink. “Rough night?” “No,” I said, bitterly, “I’m drinking this
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