Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
“Life’s too short to dwell on the past,” she says, making me flinch. I hope she didn’t catch it, but it’s clear she did when she smiles sadly. “I didn’t mean—”
“Hey, stop.” I wave her off. “You know I hate when you guys filter your thoughts around me. I know what you meant, and I’m glad you’ve moved forward.”
“Thank you … because I met someone. His name is James, and I brought him home to meet my parents. I’m hoping we can do a barbecue with everyone.”
“That sounds like fun,” I tell her, as we walk up to the bar.
I glance at the rows of liquor bottles, trying to decide what I’m going to order. I rarely drink, but if I’m going to get through this girls’ night, I’m going to need some liquid courage.
“What can I get for you?” the bartender asks with a grin.
His name is Patrick, and he’s asked me out no less than a dozen times over the past three years despite me telling him I have no desire to date.
“White Russian,” I tell him with a smile I hope conveys friendly, but doesn’t lead him on since he apparently can’t seem to take a hint. “Bryson Black Label.”
If I’m going to drink, it’ll always be my family’s liquor.
“I’ll have an old-fashioned,” Melanie says.
“Old-fashioned for me too,” Melina adds.
“I’ll take a lychee sour,” Natalia tells him.
“You got it,” Patrick says.
While he makes our drinks, we catch up on what everyone has been up to.
My uncle Jase and aunt Celeste are flying out to Paris the week after next for Fashion Week, and my mom will be going to LA for a photo shoot.
She didn’t travel often when we were growing up, but once my brother and sister left for college and I was living on my own, she started traveling more. After I returned home, she took some time off work to be with me—despite me telling her she didn’t need to—but she’s slowly been traveling again, and since I know how much she enjoys it, I’m happy she’s doing it again.
Now, I just need to convince my dad that I can run the shop without him, so he can join her—or more so that I’m emotionally stable enough for him to leave me.
“To family, who make the best friends,” Natalia says, raising her drink.
“To family,” Melina, Melanie, and I all agree.
We take a sip of our drinks, and then Natalia drags me onto the dance floor. With the music pumping, I get lost in the moment, letting the alcohol take over temporarily.
As one song rolls into another and then another, for the first time in a long time, I feel almost happy. It feels good to let go for a little while—to set aside the anger and resentment and raw emotions.
With the liquor flowing through my veins, I’m so buzzed that I’m not paying attention when Patrick sets the wrong drink in front of me, and I down it in one go.
At first, it hits me that it’s not my drink, that it has a fruity note to it, but it’s not until I’m back on the dance floor and having trouble breathing that I realize the drink must’ve contained raw fruit. And since I’m allergic to raw fruit, I’m about to have a big problem.
“What’s wrong?” Natalia asks, immediately noticing the change in my demeanor.
“I drank the wrong drink!” I yell over the music, reaching over my shoulder to grab my … “Oh shit! I left my purse at the shop.”
My purse … which holds my EpiPen … which means—
“I’m calling 911!” Natalia shouts, already knowing what to do.
This isn’t the first time I’ve mistakenly consumed something I’m allergic to, but it’s been years since I’ve had an allergic reaction and not had an EpiPen on me.
She pulls me off the dance floor and finds a manager, explaining that I’m having an allergic reaction. He takes us into his office while we wait for the ambulance to come—during which time, my symptoms increase by the second.
My hands itch, my skin burns, and every breath I take becomes more labored than the last. I can’t see my face, but based on the way my arms are swelling in various places, I’d bet it’s swelling up as well.
I’d suggest we go to the shop to get my EpiPen, but the raw fruit must’ve been potent because my symptoms are hitting me quickly.
By the time the paramedics arrive, I’m so scared that I can barely make out what they’re saying. Realistically, I know I’m going to be okay, but there’s always a chance an allergic reaction can be deadly.
There are two guys. One is checking my vitals, and the other is asking Natalia questions. They help me onto a gurney and wheel me outside, and that’s when I see the ambulance.