I understood the lyrics. I knew how to pick them apart. Hell, I willed them to wash over me. To save me. To help me understand and feel understood.
And, sometimes, I coveted the pain on display. I wished my hurt could be that pretty.
It’s practically a cliché at this point, listening to Amy Winehouse, simultaneously wishing for her ability to bare her soul. And her predisposition for self-destruction. Bulimia and alcoholism. And an early death via alcohol poisoning.
The chanteuse had it all. At least according to my still sick brain.
I don’t know when it switched. There wasn’t one day, really. There wasn’t a carrot dangling on a stick. It wasn’t even the fear of disappointing my family. I wasn’t there yet. I couldn’t see that they loved me. That they wanted me to be okay. That I deserved that love.
I can’t even say why I was so sick.
It just got easier. I hated myself less. Saw more of the ugliness for what it was.
I was so fucking tired. But it’s not like there was any way to rest. Healing was hard. Staying sick was hard.
Everything was hard.
Now—
“You need another drink?” Luna leans close enough to whisper. She turns me around. Looks into my eyes. “Or we can talk.”
No. I’m good. I can be good.
I just have to focus on the music.
I shake my head. Close my eyes. Let the rhythm wash over me.
My hips catch the beat. Then my chest. Shoulders. Arms.
“I’m good.” I can be good. I can be normal. For one fucking night, I can be normal.
Her expression streaks with concern for a moment, then she blinks and it’s gone. “Okay. Then it’s dancing.” She takes my hand. “Are you up to finding a hottie?”
“I have you.”
She laughs. “Flattering. But you know what I mean.”
“I’m up to it.” That was always a part of it. My therapist thinks I starved myself so I could stay a girl forever. So I could deny my curves, my sexuality, my desire for satisfaction.
I guess she’s part right. It was always about denying myself satisfaction. About proving myself worthy. Worthy of what, I’m not sure. Existing, I guess.
She says that was all my depression talking. Now that I’m medicated and talking through my problems, I feel okay. Not great. Not amazing. Okay.
I’m not trying to disappear.
I’m not trying to shrink myself.
I’m not worried I’m not worthy.
But I’m still scared of that voice. Of relapsing. Of going into the world and finding it too much and running back to easy comfort.
I’m so tired of being tired. Of being scared. Of being chained.
Maybe my best friend is right. Maybe I need another drink. Maybe I’m too sober.
“Okay.” I take her hand. “Drink first.”
“Let’s go.” She cuts through the crowd to lead me to the bar. She bumps into a tall guy with sandy hair.
My brother. “Hey.” He gives Luna a quick once-over. Looks to me. “You two good?”
“We’re finding Daisy a dance partner,” Luna says. “After another round.”
Oliver nods of course. Hails the bartender. Orders four more drinks.
He turns back to the wall.
To Holden.
Motions come here.
The troublemaker jumps to his feet. He practically skips to us.
My heart thuds against my chest.
It means something, that I want him. That I’m actually thinking about taking him.
If I’m really ready to take off my clothes in front of him. To let him touch me. To feel all that pleasure.
That satisfaction in my body.
God, what is it like to feel that way without effort? To lose yourself in a kiss? A touch? A fuck?
I want that.
For one goddamn night, I want that.
My heartbeat picks up as he comes closer.
He stops at the bar just in time to pay for our drinks. He takes his. And mine.
His fingers brush mine as he hands it to me. “You’re not venturing past your usual?”
Same rum and diet. “I know what I like.
He nods fair enough.
It’s still strong. And cheap.
My throat burns.
My face flushes.
My chest warms.
It’s not terrible. Just not great.
I take another sip. Then another.
Holden was right. I just need a few shots. Maybe I need his lessons too, but a few shots can’t hurt.
Anything to make it easier to touch him. To feel this. To feel every ounce of my desire.
“We’re trying to find a dance partner for Daisy.” Luna motions to the room full of sweaty dancers. “Help us?”
His eyes meet mine. He raises a brow you sure.
I nod.
“What do you think?” Luna asks. “More cute? Or more sexy?”
“What’s the difference?” I ask.
“Cute is the guy who will cuddle with you and watch Netflix,” she says. “Sexy is a guy who will slip his hand under your dress.”
“No,” Oliver growls.
She laughs okay, sure. “It’s just an example. But, sure, cute it is. If that’s what you want, Daisy.”
“Cute is good.” Holden is good. But I can’t say that in front of my brother.