Free When I Was You by Minka Kent Page A

observation, seeing how my grandfather was the one who first introduced me to them. Many of my friends who’ve sipped off mine coughed and sputtered and shot me looks like I’d just fed them poison, but not this woman.
    She sips hers like she’s done it a hundred times before.
    No puckered face. Not so much as a hint of a wince.
    The other me sweeps her hair behind one ear, rests her chin on her hand and her elbow on the bar, and tells the bartender some story. At least that’s what I assume she’s doing. Her eyes are lit, her face is animated, and she’s talking with her hands—an old habit of mine, actually.
    He wipes down the bar top in front of her with a blue rag, laughing at everything she says like he’s smitten with her. When a couple take the two spots to her right, she scoots over a little before leaning in and placing her hand on the woman’s arm.
    She points to the other woman’s shoes.
    A compliment, I imagine.
    I used to be able to do that, to talk to anyone like I knew them. Compliments were my go-to icebreaker. I was quite young and on my fifth elementary school in three years when I learned quickly that kindness was the gateway to friendship.
    The other me swirls her drink, once clockwise, once counterclockwise, and then takes a sip. It’s like watching a video of myself, each mannerism mimicked down to the last detail.
    My stomach churns and rocks, and the burn of bile stings the back of my throat. I should’ve ordered an appetizer, something to sit in my stomach and soak up all the liquor I’ve consumed in the past few hours. Come to think of it, I can’t recall if I ate lunch today.
    Too much excitement.
    Too much preparation.
    Nourishment was the furthest thing from my mind.
    The threat of rising bile intensifies, and I’m left with no choice but to hurry to the ladies’ room. Slinging my purse around my shoulder and leaving everything else, I rush to the back of the restaurant and close the stall door.
    Hovering over the toilet, I squeeze my eyes tight. The scent of sterilized air and industrial cleaner fills my lungs, making my nausea worsen for a moment.
    But it doesn’t take long for the sensation to pass, and when it does, it’s like it was never there at all.
    The strangest thing.
    I leave the stall and wash my hands before heading back to my table, keeping my head down so as not to make it obvious. Sliding back into my booth, I sneak a quick glance at the bar.
    But it’s all for naught.
    The woman, her bag, and her drink are gone.
    It’s as if she was never there at all.

CHAPTER 13
    It’s not until I’m headed home from Italia Fina that I realize I have five missed calls—all of them from Niall, and all of them over the past hour.
    I had my ringer off while I was there, for obvious reasons.
    He must have been freaking out, if he’s even capable of freaking out, that is. It doesn’t seem like his style, but then again, neither is incessant calling.
    I texted him from the parking lot before leaving, letting him know I would be home in ten minutes. The message showed as “read” almost immediately, but he didn’t respond.
    This isn’t like him, and of course my mind goes to the worst-case scenario and one of my biggest fears: someone broke into the house.
    But my concerns are quelled the instant I arrive at my driveway.
    There are no police lights, no investigators, no broken glass.
    Just a pacing Niall.
    I watch him through the kitchen window, practically wearing a pattern into the kitchen tile, and when I let myself in through the back door, I’m greeted with his lanky arms wrapped around my shoulders.
    “What’s this about?” I ask, letting him hold me as I breathe in the faint scent of his morning shower mixed with the scent of antibacterial soap that always lingers on his skin.
    “I came home, and you were gone. There was no note. I was just worried,” he says.
    This is about the other night. It has to be.
    He has concerns about my mental stability now.
    He