“You look like someone pissed in your cereal,” Lemon comments when he finds me curled up on the couch in front of a fireplace, the very crouch where I once kissed Coraline. “Also, dude, are you drinking? I thought you didn’t like drinking!”

I’ve got a bottle of wine clutched in my hand, and the taste of the tart red liquid on my tongue and lips. At any other time, it would be disgusting to me, but this time, the liquid feels like nectar from the gods. There’s a bottle of whiskey in front of me on the coffee table, but even in my misery I still haven’t worked up the courage to touch that. Besides, I’m pretty sure the wine will knock me out just fine, me being such a puny lightweight.

I still hadn’t even drunk more than three gulps from the bottle, yet already feel buzzed. So, yeah, no worries there.

I boggle my head to glance at Lemon who looks at me with an expression that’s between surprise and worry and get the sudden urge to laugh because of the sheer ridiculousness and disbelief a