Page 123 of Meet Me in the Valley
Fuck.
Everything about this moment makes me want to turn around, walk out of the restaurant, and take my chances walking into oncoming traffic.
Seeing the consequences of my actions materialize in the form of a five-foot feisty redhead is a humbling experience, to say the least.
If this were the old me—the me before therapy, before I started peeling back the layers, beforeTia, I’d laugh this off. Flash a grin, crank up the charisma until Erin was the one apologizing tome. I’d invite her out after her shift, buy her a drink or two, then it’d be back to hers or mine for the night. Easy.
But I’m not proud of that anymore.
Not the charm. Not the chase. Not the emptiness that came after.
And especially not the version of me who believed that was all I was good for.
It’s only now, as I stand in this awkward, silent standoff with a girl I tossed aside, that I realize just how familiar this pattern is.
Because across the room, sitting alone in the far corner of the restaurant, is the person who taught me how to disappear.
My mother. The origin story of every wall I have ever built.
I let out a slow breath. Not because I know what to do next. But because for once, I’m not running from the mirror exposing my deepest fears.
“I’m really sorry, Erin. What I did was so fucked up. You didn’t deserve that. I should’ve been straight with you from the beginning. I led you on. I see that now. I know my apology might not mean anything to you, but?—”
Erin laughs dryly, her voice low and laced with sarcasm. “Let me guess—this is the part where you say you’re working on yourself?”
She grabs two menus and walks away, not waiting for a reply. And I don’t give one, because she’s not wrong.
I’ve got work to do, and I know for damn sure I won’t always get it right. Words I’ve told Tia before, but this time I’m holding myself to them.
As I follow a visibly annoyed Erin toward the table where my mom sits waiting, my chest feels just a little lighter.
Because for the first time in a long time, I can look at myself and not completely hate what I see.
I slide into the seat across from my mother just as Erin slams the menus down in front of us with a clipped, “Enjoy your meal.”
“Thank you, Erin,” I tell her, offering a small grin.
She scoffs under her breath and spins on her heel, already heading back toward the hostess stand.
Across the table, my mom raises an eyebrow. “Old friend?”
A short, surprised laugh escapes me. More like a snort. It catches us both off guard, and for a second, her smile brightens like she’s relieved to have earned it.
She used to make me laugh all the time, always slipping into character voices during bedtime stories—whenshe was home, at least.
“Something like that.”
But the flicker of warmth fades almost as quickly as it came, replaced by the weight of old memories pressing at the edges of my mind.
A younger version of me, lying awake in the dark, wondering when—or if—she’d come home.
That ache settles behind my eyes. I blink it back. My mom notices my sudden shift in demeanor, pushing forward a drink in front of me.
“Um, I ordered you a Coke. I know it was your favorite when you were younger …”
Her voice trails off as I watch a bead of condensation slide down the side of the cup, pooling onto the flimsy paper napkin beneath it.
My blood runs cold at the sight of the syrupy drink. Flashes of a bartender pouring me round after round assault me. The fizz tickles my nose, accompanied by a phantom scent of aged whiskey that catapults me straight back to the night that changed everything.
