As she closed the door, she was still smiling.
Chapter 17
Hours after Brooke’s visit, Anne still hadn’t been able to throw out the wine.
She’d canceled her recurring order, at least. But there were still three bottles of Pascal Jolivet Sancerre sauvignon blanc in the fridge, two of them unopened, and, somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to dump their contents down the sink.
And the pantry still contained a nearly-full crate.
Head throbbing, Anne sat on the back deck while the sun slowly slipped toward the horizon, tracing brown hills with gold light. The more she thought about the open bottle in the fridge, the more it haunted her. Hints of acidic green apple felt sharp on her tongue, almost as real as if the wine was in her mouth.
Was she an alcoholic? Was that what this craving meant?
A rush of fresh worry made her grab her phone and quickly Google:How do I know if I’m an alcoholic?
Twenty minutes and several websites later, Anne had more information, some reassuring and some not. Apparently alcohol abuse existed across a large spectrum, with alcohol addiction at the far end. Alcoholism was defined by a physical dependency and the inability to stop or control your drinking; alcohol abuse more broadly involved an unhealthy reliance on alcohol.
Maybe she wasn’t a full-blown addict—or at least not yet—but these websites mentioned some uncomfortably familiar habits.
With growing unease, Anne read the signs and symptoms list for something called alcohol use disorder, which spanned a scale from mild to severe. Some of the bullet points were disturbingly familiar:Feeling a strong craving or urge to drink alcohol. Drinking more than you’d planned. Getting excited about future plans to drink. Building a tolerance to alcohol soyou need more to feel its effect. Unable to relax or feel pleasure without drinking.
What she’d always brushed away as perfectly normal apparently wasn’t normal at all.
Well, that fit her pattern, didn’t it?
Not counting the swallow after her fight with Sadie, Anne’s last real drink—a couple glasses of wine—had been Sunday afternoon. Two days was more time than she’d gone without for a good long while. At least her physical symptoms weren’t too strong, just a headache and an upset stomach—none of the intense withdrawal reactions the websites said came with severe alcohol use disorder, such as sweating or shaking or heart palpitations.
That was good news. It meant she should be able to take a break from drinking without help.
She just needed to do what she’d been planning to do all day: go into the kitchen and pour out the bottles of wine in her fridge. No good reason not to do it right now.
Just drain them into the sink. Simple.
But her legs wouldn’t let her.
Get up, she ordered herself.Just get up and do it.It’ll take you two minutes, and then it’ll be over.
She didn’t get up.
She sat there, unable to move, and thought,I always make sure there’s a wine menu before I go to a new restaurant.
Then:I never have just one glass.
And then, she thought:Maybe I don’t need to do this without help.
Before she could stop herself, she sent Sadie a text.
Are you busy? Could I call you? Just for a minute.
In less than a minute, a response popped up.
Reviewing my notes for tomorrow, everything ok?
Right. The next day—Wednesday—was Sadie’s interview at Barnard, where she’d be grilled by everyone from the dean to her prospective students.
I’m fine.Don’t worry about it, please. I hope the campus visit goes well.
While Anne stared at the screen and wondered if she should reach out to someone else—if therewasanyone else—the phone buzzed loudly with an incoming call, startling her almost out of the deck chair.