Page 25 of Notes About Vodka

The word hits me like a punch to the gut. “You’re married?” I ask, barely able to process the revelation. “Wait… How old are you?”

“Twenty-three,” she replies, her tone defensive. “Why does it matter? You’re not my spouse or my boyfriend, or anything else.”

Her words sting, leaving me speechless as she brushes past me and walks out the door. I’m left standing in the silence, a thousand thoughts racing through my mind.

This amazing woman, who I’ve been so drawn to, feels like a force of nature—confident and kind, yet carrying an air of sadness she tries to hide. It’s in the way she lights up a room effortlessly, making even the most mundane moments feel significant.

I remember one night, when she forgot to bring her sheet music but still managed to play a flawless set, improvising as if the music had always been a part of her. Her laughter, even after a long and grueling shift, echoes like a reminder to keep going. And yet, behind all of that, there’s a vulnerability, a quiet sadness she tries to bury beneath her strength.

That mix of fierce determination and fragile humanity is what draws me to her the most. It’s in the way she commands a room with her presence, her laughter contagious even on the hardest days, and the way she sings as though she’s pouring every ounce of her soul into the melody.

She’s a whirlwind of contradictions—fierce yet fragile, bold yet guarded—and it’s impossible not to be drawn to her light, even when it feels like she’s burning herself out to keep others warm. She’s the kind of person who could make anyone feel seen and understood, and yet she’s in a marriage with someone who doesn’t value her, who doesn’t seem to grasp just how extraordinary she is.

It’s maddening to think of someone like Laura, so full of life and potential, being tethered to someone who treats her like an afterthought.

And yet, even now, I can’t shake the image of being by her side, holding her close, showing her what she truly deserves.

But that world isn’t mine to claim. At least not yet.

Chapter Eight

"Vodka really is a mirror—it reveals the truth you’re too scared to face, but it never offers a solution."

I storm out ofPianissimo, anger and frustration swirling inside me. Val’s words echo in my mind, his judgment cutting deeper than I’d like to admit. It wasn’t just what he said—Why are you with someone like that?—but it was how his tone carried disappointment, maybe even anger, and it was the look in his dark eyes that hurt the most.

It was like he could see every mistake I’ve made, every secret I’ve kept hidden, and he still thought I could be more. That vulnerability, laid bare, is what I can’t stop replaying.Why are you with someone like that? How old are you?

The raw conviction in his voice stung because a part of me knew he was right, even if he didn’t know the full story. Yet sometimes when he looks at me, it’s like he can see through the cracks I try so hard to keep covered.

The cold night air hits me as I walk home, my thoughts a chaotic mess. I’m kicking myself for not having my scooter; it’scold, and every step feels heavier than the last. I let Sam convince me to take the subway to work this afternoon because he “wanted to talk”. Now the memory of that conversation gnaws at me.

Watching a homeless man hang from the subway bars, Sam leaned in, all faux sincerity, and said into my ear, “Laura, you need to get over yourself and just come home. I miss you.”

He tried to put his arms around me, but I pushed away.

Staring at him, I stated incredulously, “We’re getting divorced, Sam. That’s not changing. I’m willing to be civil, bear with your presence for the weekend, but we are not together, and we will never be together again.”

He smirked, that infuriating, smug look he always wore when he thought he had the upper hand. I’d felt my temper flare, but I bit my tongue and ended the conversation, turning my attention back to the homeless man.

Now, walking the cold, windy streets of New York, I’m mad all over again. Mad at him for trying to manipulate me, mad at myself for letting him occupy even a second of my headspace.

Then there is Val, why does he care? And why does it matter so much to me?

I can’t deny that he sparks something in me that Sam never did. But I didn’t tell Val the whole truth. He doesn’t know that I’m in the process of divorcing Sam, and that our relationship has been nothing but a hollow, painful mess for years. Sam is only in town to get a check and hopefully, finally sign the paperwork. But knowing him, there’s always an angle, some ulterior motive.

Or so he says…

Our marriage was doomed long before I left Alabama. Sam wanted us to be swingers, a lifestyle he pushed for under the guise of "keeping things exciting”. At first, I felt conflicted andtried to convince myself that this was normal for couples looking to strengthen their bond.

But deep down, it made me question everything about our relationship. Was I not enough for him? Did he need more because I wasn’t fulfilling some unspoken need? The more he pushed, the more I felt like I was disappearing, my worth shrinking under the weight of his demands.

Each attempt left me feeling hollow and ashamed, like I was losing pieces of myself I could never get back. It chipped away at my self-worth, making me question whether I was enough or if I ever had been.

His push for this lifestyle wasn’t about us—it was about him, about feeding his ego and desires without regard for how it affected me. It became another way for him to control me, to make me feel small while pretending it was for our mutual benefit. I tried a few times, thinking it might salvage something, but I always felt disgusted afterward.

The memories make me shiver, and I quicken my pace as I walk down the sidewalk, desperate to shake them off.

When I finally reached my breaking point, I knew I couldn’t stay. The decision didn’t come overnight; it was the culmination of years of feeling trapped and losing sight of who I was. I got checked for STD/STIs—a necessary precaution after years of living in denial—and with each appointment, I felt the weight of my choices and their consequences pressing down on me.

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