Page 28 of Pour Decisions
The table sits at the far end of the ballroom, so you have to walk through all the belly-up tables, past the bar, and across or around the dance floor just to get to it. And even then, it’s just that—a table. Each of the bottles feature a medal, but we all know the only ones that count are bronze, silver, and gold.
A little anti-climactic in a way, which is why I approach the table with trepidation.
“Hey, congratulations,” someone coming away from the table says. My heart beats faster. I want to know why they said that and don’t want to know at the same time. In this moment, it could be anything. I could be a winner, in second place, third place, the person could even congratulate me because I’m a finalist.
As long as I stay away from the table it could be anything. Congratulations could mean anything. Though typically the meaning is good, right?
Go, Morgan.
Look.
I make my way closer, hands shaking, eyes downcast, daring myself to look up. Seeing how long I can go without looking up.
Do it.
I glance up, starting at the far edge of the bottle line and working my way toward the middle. Nope. Nope. Nope. The three on the left end aren’t mine.
Six more to go.
I avert my eyes until I reach the far right side, then work my way toward the middle again. None of the bottles on the right are mine either.
Holy shit. That means one of the middle three is me.
I’m first, second, or third.
I close my eyes, not wanting to know yet. Trying to talk myself into believing that I’m okay with second or third. That it truly is an honor just to be nominated. That I won’t feel defeated if I’m not first. Then give myself to the count of three to open them again.
One.
Two.
Three.
Open.
My breath leaves my body is a whoosh. I feel dizzy and lightheaded. Like I need to take a step back and walk up to the table again to make sure what I’m seeing is real. Because I won.
Holy shit.
I won.
The smile takes over my face before I can stop it. My hand reaches out of its own accord to stroke the gold medal around my bottle.
I did it.
A sense of accomplishment with a side of euphoria sets in and takes over as I practically skip away from the table in a daze. People I’ve never met before stopping me every few steps to say congratulations. I feel drunk and sober at the same time. Making my way through throngs of people, all with something to say. This must be how celebrities are treated, it’s got to be exhausting when it’s all the time. But right now, it’s exhilarating.
I make it to the other side of the room, intent on hitting up the bar, but also just needing to move my body. The energy coursing through me makes it impossible to stand still. I wish I knew (more) people here so I could celebrate with them. Have an excuse to squeal out loud and do a little jig.
Riggs is near the bar, leaning against a table with a smile on his face. My feet float on air as they bring me to him.
“I hear congratulations are in order,” he says.
“I won.” I smile, bouncing on my toes, not able to hold the enthusiasm that wants to burst out of me.
“You're not going to renege on our deal, are you?”
It takes me a moment to remember that I now owe him a dance. And another moment to decide I’m going to go through with it.
