Free Bliss by Shay Mitchell Page A

It’s Wine O’Clock. She laughed to herself. The ironic part: Demi hadn’t been much of a drinker with James. Two wasted people in one couple was a recipe for disaster. Single Demi was making up for lost time. Her long-neglected friends were all too happy to celebrate the breakup with her, especially if she were buying the drinks. James had transferred some money into her bank account, like a parting gift. She was burning through it, in a blur. At some point soon, Demi would stop drowning her sorrows, get on dry land, and deal. Her parents—both sets—didn’t know about the breakup yet. She wasn’t ready for “we knew he wasn’t The One,” followed by mature and responsible suggestions about how to live her life. She’d only just figured out where to live.
    Her new apartment complex was called the Grace. She had toured a dozen apartments, and this one-bedroom was the only decent place in her price range that was available immediately. She’d moved in a couple of days ago with the suitcases she’d packed when James was at work. No furniture yet, so she slept on a mattress on the floor. Her schedule—going to work by nine A.M. , coming home in the middle of the night, wasted—wasn’t conducive to bonding with the neighbors. She hadn’t met any of them yet.
    She parked tighter this time, her rear tire rising onto the curb, lifting the back right corner of the car off the pavement. Bone tired and queasy, Demi eased out of the car carefully this time. She made it halfway up the walk toward the front door when the world tilted to one side. Her legs buckled. The ground rushed up to meet her face.
    It was a semi-soft landing. Demi crashed through some bushes on the way down. The sound of snapping branches and an oomph when she hit the dirt seemed to come from a distance, as if someone else had taken a header into the shrubs. Demi thought of herself as a down-to-earth person, but … Fuck me, I just ate it big-time . She wheezed out a laugh that sounded a bit like a dying seal.
    She tried to push herself upright, but her hair was tangled in the twigs. The trickle on her cheek could be blood, or tears, or saliva. Struggling to move, she managed to roll over and see the brightening sky. The stars were gone. It was getting light out. Her best bet, her only feasible option, was to just lie here, close her eyes for a minute, and wait for her head to stop spinning. Like Demi, time collapsed. The next thing she knew, it was morning.
    â€œIs she dead?” asked a female voice over her.
    â€œDead drunk.”
    Demi opened her eyes a slit, and made out a pair of wrinkly faces hovering above, haloed with nimbuses of white hair. “Call the cops,” said the woman in an orange windbreaker.
    â€œI know this girl,” said the other in Lululemon yoga pants and jacket. “She moved into Miriam’s apartment last week. May she rest in peace.” They both made the sign across their chests.
    Rest in peace sounded perfect. Demi would love to close her eyes and snuggle into her pillow of mulch. But the two oldies each took an arm, and pulled her upright. She hoped she didn’t pull them down with her, and forced herself to focus.
    â€œThat’s a very pretty windbreaker,” said Demi. “I don’t want to heave on it.” The ladies instantly dropped her arms, and she fell backward, landing on the ground.
    â€œHere’s Wally,” said Yoga Pants, waving at someone Demi couldn’t see. An ancient dude, the one who winked at her every day when she left for work as he set out on his snail-paced morning walk.
    â€œShe’s cute,” he said, studying Demi through thick bifocals. “Except she smells like a distillery.”
    â€œWe can’t just leave her here,” said Yoga Pants with a soft English accent. “The dog walker comes by every morning with those five poodles. This is their favorite pee stop.”
    Demi