Page 123 of Let It Breathe
“Nah, but the lady in the corner just ordered ’em and now she says she doesn’t want ’em. She’s a little messed up. Not drunk or nothin’—she’s just drinking root beer, but still. I just called a cab to come get her, but now I got these goddamn fries to get rid of.”
Clay reached up to take the steaming plate, daring a quick glance at the table in the corner to see the pitiful soul who’d given up her French fries.
He almost dropped the plate.
“Sheila?”
She looked up, swaying a little in her chair. Her eyes were red and ringed with mascara, her face streaked with dried tears and snot. The top of her table was littered with soggy tissues and a half-empty glass of root beer.
He stood up and took two steps toward her. “Sheila? What’s going on?”
Eric’s wife dissolved into sobs, her shoulders shaking so hard Clay thought she might topple to the floor.
“Oh, Clay,” she sniffed. “This is bad. This is really, really bad.”
“What’s bad? Are you hurt? Did something happen to Eric?”
She was sobbing too hard to answer, so Clay looked at the bartender. “How much has she had to drink?”
“Not a thing. I wouldn’t serve her.”
“I came here to get wasted,” Sheila sobbed. “To forget. Only he thought I was already drunk because I can’t stop crying, so he wouldn’t let me order anything. But that’s not why I can’t stop crying. Oh, Clay. I don’t know what to do.”
He dropped into the chair beside her and touched her arm. Her skin felt ice cold. Dread squeezed Clay’s gut like a fist.
“Sheila? What is it?”
She looked up at him and shook her head, tears slithering down her cheeks. “There’s something I’ve got to tell you. Something awful.”
Chapter 19
Reese couldn’t remember ever feeling worse in her life. Not even the time she’d thrown up in her underwear on the last day of eighth grade, or the time she’d failed her Advanced Rootstalks & Cultivars course in college and realized she might never make it as a vineyard manager.
You felt worse when you walked out on Clay in the middle of the night fifteen years ago, she reminded herself.
You felt worse when you left him in jail to rot after you got punched at Finnigan’s that night.
That didn’t help.
She wasn’t sure how she made it back to her house after the meeting with the fire marshal, but she knew the only thing she wanted to do was curl up in her bed and cry. She’d just pulled on her pajamas and yanked the elastic off her ponytail to let her hair down when she heard a knock at the door.
Stifling a groan, she peeled back the bedroom curtain to peer out, thinking seriously about not answering it.
When she saw her mother standing on the front porch holding a tray of brownies, a box of Popsicles, and a bottle of Pinot, she reconsidered. Padding into the living room, she dragged the door open and offered a weak smile.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hey there, sweetie,” June said, her voice tinged with worry. “I wanted to see if you’re doing okay.”
“You brought me comfort food,” Reese said, feeling guilty for not confiding in her mother sooner.
But June just walked inside and thrust the brownies in front of her. “Here, have one. Or would you rather have a Popsicle?”
“Popsicle, please.”
“Here you go.”
Her mom handed her the whole box, and Reese opened it slowly. She took a Popsicle and peeled back the wrapper, biting into the sweet iciness. June set down the wine and brownies on the coffee table and trooped to the kitchen to throw the rest of the Popsicles in the freezer. She returned to the living room and settled on the sofa beside Reese, giving her daughter’s arm a squeeze.
