Free In the Distance There Is Light by Harper Bliss

baby.”
    I give her a big smile—I don’t have it in me to clasp my hands in front of my mouth in fake surprise. “That’s really wonderful. I’m so happy for you.” I pull her into a hug and when I stand with my arms around my friend, a person whom I wish nothing but well in this world, a pang of jealousy lances through me. Because for her, nothing much has changed, while for me, everything is still as broken as it was two months ago. Even my coming to this gathering , which is really a party—but couldn’t possibly be called that—doesn’t alter this situation.
    “I shall raise a glass to your good news, Alex.”
    “I was a bit nervous about telling you,” she says. “But I’ve got quite a belly on me now.” She points at her stomach, which protrudes ever so slightly. If you didn’t know, you wouldn’t be able to tell just by looking at her.
    I smile widely and try to gather myself, pull myself together and push back the anger that’s boiling up within me. It’s not as if Ian and I had decided that we wanted to have children. But now we don’t even have the option anymore. Maybe I should check with that attorney, Mr. Coates. Considering Ian was so practical about what would happen after his death, perhaps he had some of his sperm frozen without telling me.
    I realize this sudden burst of anger isn’t aimed at Alex; it’s directed at Ian, for leaving me like that. For not being more careful. For not staying the hell alive. It’s not that hard. Look at all the people at this party. They’re all alive. Why them and not him? Why did he have to be the one to die?
    “Are you okay?” Alex asks, her hands on the exact same spot on my upper arms where so many people have planted their sweaty palms since Ian’s death. It’s not on my shoulders, but just below. The imprints I have amassed there, as though the press of a palm in that exact spot can inject me with a secret force, a newfound inner strength stemming from the energy of the palm-planting party, and make it all okay.
    I know I’m being unfair, and that everybody is just doing the best they can under the circumstances. But so am I. This angry person who feels so unfairly treated by life is the best version of myself I can be at this moment.
    I need a drink.
    “Yes,” I say, resolutely, my mind on nothing but pouring some of the Veuve Clicquot Jeremy always treats us to at one of his parties down my throat. Tonight, I want to forget. I want to listen to my friends talk about their lives, moan about their jobs, argue about politics, gossip about colleagues, as though Ian were still alive but simply couldn’t make it to the party. He’s at home with a migraine and he didn’t want me to stay with him; it would only make him feel worse. He forced me to come here and have a good time with my friends.
    I can’t pour the champagne down my throat fast enough to keep the fantasy alive.
    * * *
    “Hey there, Miss Thirsty,” Jeremy says while he replenishes my glass. “You’re going to regret this so much in the morning, but I’m not going to be the one to keep you from drinking your tits off tonight. Oh no, not me.” He grins, then kisses me on the cheek.
    I glance at the kitchen wall where he has lined up all the bottles we’ve emptied tonight, and I might be seeing double, but there are at least ten already. Apart from Alex, my friends are all drinking with me. We’re doing this together. Getting mindlessly, recklessly wasted together, because what else are we going to do? The more we collectively drink, the more stories about Ian come to the surface.
    His best friend Ethan, whom I’ve always found a little weird with his hippy man-bun and very socialist ideas, says, “The thing about Ian was that he was willing to believe everything anyone told him. He always gave you the benefit of the doubt, no matter how crazy the idea you put to him.” For a socialist, he’s enjoying the Veuve with a lot of gusto, knocking back the last of his glass