Page 103 of Hannah.
“Hey, easy there.” Then, after looking closer at my expression, she frowns. “You okay? You look pretty down. I just brought this down to share.” Ginger holds up a bottle of deep red liquid and gives it a small shake. “Come have a drink with us by the fire.”
Us. She’s talking about her friends. Normally, I’d decline, but right now, I’m desperate for company. “Alright, thanks.”
Ginger grins, and we head back down to the ground level.
She leads me over to the fireplace, where several of her friends are sitting in big leather chairs. Others are dotted around, sitting on the floor or on the antique, high-back couches. I find a seat on one alone, and Ginger brings me a glass of brandy before settling down next to me.
The fire is huge and roaring, and it’s warm on my face. My skin is stiff where the tears have dried, and I’m glad no one cansee them. Everyone here is happy and laughing, and it’s nice not to feel so alone.
“So,” Ginger comes over, sitting beside me, a curious expression on her face. “What’s up?”
I smile, aware it must look fake, and give a vague answer. “Nothing much. You know, the usual.”
“Ah,” she nods, figuring I’m not ready to open yet. “Gotcha. Well, if you ever need to talk, I’m just down the hall from you. You’re probably the only neighbor I haven’t spoken to.”
“Yeah,” I mumble, glancing down at my glass. “Thank you.”
Conversation picks up, and it’s a lot lighter than what I’ve been dealing with the past few days. I swirl the brandy in the snifter and then, in one motion, drink the entire pour down. My throat burns, but I like the pain. It matches the one in my chest. One of the boys on the floor across from us laughs and waves for the brandy bottle to be passed back to us.
“Looks like you need a refill,” he says, giving the bottle back to Ginger.
I accept and hold the glass out for Ginger to pour. She obliges and then fills her own.
We chat a little while longer, and then the group breaks up. Ginger, along with most of her friends, decides that they want to go to a pub and invite me along. Part of me wants to go, to keep not being alone, but I’ve got three glasses of brandy in me now, and my vision is starting to spin.
I decline but agree to join them another time and head to the stairs. Once I’m back in my room, I strip out of my clothes, pull on a tank top and underwear, and crawl into bed.
I don’t manage to sleep, though.
Full of liquid courage, I decide to throw caution to the wind and send Johan a text. The first one since Astrid told me about their engagement. It takes me a few tries to get it typed out, thebrandy making it difficult for me to type, but finally, I have what I want in the text box.
Before I can chicken out, I hit send, then curl up and hug the spare pillow to my chest.
Hannah:Congrats on the engagement. I wish you both so much happiness.
It’s a damn lie, but who cares.
Eventually, the alcohol put me under. I wake up a few times during the night, the spins and queasiness dragging me out of slumber completely at 1 am. My phone screen is on, and when I reach to turn it off, I see that it's because I have a notification. A text. From Johan.
Acid crawls up my throat as I open it.
Johan:I’m so sorry. One day, you’ll understand why I did what I did.
I should leave it alone. I really should. But I can't.
Hannah:I won’t ever understand. But it doesn't matter. Goodbye, Johan.
The little bubble indicating that he’s replying pops up, and for some reason, after dying to hear from him for days, it sends me into a panic. Sucking in air, trying not to get sick, I tap the icon for his contact at the top of the screen and, after only a second of hesitation, hit the block button before his response can come through.
The message thread disappears, and all is silent.
Blocked and deleted, like his actions towards me. If only I could block him like this in my heart, too.
Fighting off the urge to stagger to the bathroom and get sick, I lay on my mattress, cover off, and wait for the nausea to subside. Finally, I sleep once more, and while I don't wake up again, my dreams make me wish I had never closed my eyes in the first place.
Over and over again, in all sorts of situations, I watch Johan and Astrid get married, and all I can do is watch. I can’t scream, I can’t move, I can’t run. I can only stand there. In some, Johan is holding her hand. In others, he’s kissing her while the crowd cheers. In others, I am a bridesmaid, hands clutching a rotting bouquet, watching as Johan slips a ring onto her finger.
No matter what dream I’m having, each and every one ends with Johan turning to me, the picture of joy, and saying, “I’m sorry, Hannah.”