Page 8 of You Met Me There

And maybe, if I’m being honest with myself, it’s also my way of hiding behind a facade of happiness and bliss. No one at the country club would expect me, a bubbly blonde girl wearing neon pink and shiny accessories, to be battling for her life. I might look calm and collected on the surface, but underneath I’m thrashing my feet in the water, just waiting for the moment I’ll lose all my strength and sink.

In the mirror now, I see myself the way I’ve always seen me: as someone who hides her true self. Behind all the fun colors and expensive outfits, I’m just a girl struggling in every part of her life.

I blink at my reflection. And, as I learned in therapy a very long time ago, I wave the back of my hand at the mirror to shoo away the negative thoughts.

It doesn’t work.

I grab my key card and head toward the lobby. In only a few steps, I’m at the bar. Country music plays on the speakers, and the hum of conversation pulsates from every corner.

It’s not easy to hear the ocean waves with the music echoing through the room, but I see them in the light of the moon. The white glow hits the water, making it sparkle and undulate beneath a dark sky. I’ve always loved the ocean. But I’ll soon be switching back to the mountain views I grew up with.

I spot an empty stool at the end of the counter, near an open door that leads to the patio outside and the beach beyond that. With shaking hands, I take a seat.

The bartender, a young guy with stylishly messy dark hair, nods at me as I sit. I rest my elbows on the countertop and stare out at the water.

“What can I get you?” His voice interrupts my thoughts, and I turn toward his boyish grin.

“Um …” I could ask for a fruity beach drink from the menu or a sophisticated glass of wine, which would be simple. But today’s events have put me on edge. And besides, I’ll be sleeping it off after this.

I look up at him and smile weakly. The order rolls off my tongue with the ease of someone who’s spent her fair share of nights at a bar. “Jack on the rocks.”

“You got it. You want to close out or start a tab?”

This gives me pause, a niggling in my chest telling me to not leave my tab open.

“Let’s start a tab. Just in case.” I hand him my driver’s license.

He takes it, and as soon as he does I feel a stirring in my gut like my world is built on shifting tectonic plates. I shouldn’t drink to cope with my mess, but the promised numbing sensation I know it will bring pulls at me.

Mentally, I shoo away the unease.

As the bartender turns away to make my drink, I notice a woman at the other end of the bar wearing a pool cover-up. It looks to be made of a thin charmeuse fabric, but the quality of the material isn’t what catches my eye. It’s the print.

Small white flowers in the shape of bells cover the loose-fitting garment. Green stems and leaves fill the gaps between the beautiful little flowers. It reminds me of a time in my childhood when I used to pick flowers with my sister. Lilies of the valley, they’re called. They used to grow all over our backyard and down the side of our house, usually just a little past the tree line. They’re also the flower that inspired the name of my photography business: NataLily Studios.

“There you go,” says the bartender. He sets my glass down on a square napkin and slides it toward me.

I smile at him. “Thank you.”

“You just passing through?” he asks, wiping a white dish towel over his hands. When he’s done, he leans a hand against the bar.

I lift the glass, bringing the amber liquid to my lips, and take a small sip. The liquor burns as it goes down, the ice-cold drink heating my throat until the fire travels all the way through my chest and into my stomach. I wince.

“Yup,” I reply. “Just passing through.”

“You alone?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Should I be telling you one way or the other?”

He raises his hands in a harmless show of surrender. “Sorry. Just making conversation. We get a lot of locals here, but also a lot of tourists. I was going to offer you some ideas on the local attractions. But”—he runs a hand through his straight dark hair—“I can tell you don’t prefer to talk.”

I take another long pull, enjoying the bite and knowing tonight I’ll be stripped of everything—pain, memories, guilt, dreams. At least until I wake tomorrow.

The guy starts to walk away, but I call out to him. “Why did you ask if I was alone? You want to be a personal tour guide or something?” I scoff, then take another burning sip, the alcohol already making me bold.

“No,” he says, wiping the counter and clearing glasses from the bar. “Unless you wanted a little company.” A smile plays on the corner of his lips.

I turn back to the waves outside, hardly visible now as a cloud floats in front of the moon. “No,” I mumble. “I don’t want company.”