Page 10 of Notes About Vodka (Happily Ever After Hangover #1)

I linger for a moment, watching her. The lines around her eyes seem deeper, and her hands tremble slightly as she picks up her cigarette.

It’s hard to walk away, but I decide to try my luck with Nick.

He’s in the game room, barely looking up as I step in.

“Hey, Nick, anything I can do to help around here?” I ask.

He glances at me, then back at the screen, his fingers tapping rapidly on the controller.

“Nah, we’re good,” he says, his attention already back on his game.

“Thanks, though.” And just like that, he shuts me out too, disappearing further into the virtual world with his Nintendo, leaving me standing there feeling helpless.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. The house feels heavier today, the air thick with an unspoken tension. But I’m here because I’m trying. Trying to be a good daughter. Trying to juggle school, work, and being close to her even when it’s hard.

So I start cleaning. First the kitchen, where dishes pile up in the sink and crumbs scatter across the counters.

I scrub the counters until they shine and rinse out the sponge twice just to rid it of the smell.

Then the bathrooms, which take more time than I’d like but leave me feeling accomplished as the smell of bleach replaces the lingering odor of mildew.

I gather their laundry and load the washer, noticing how many of Mom's clothes smell faintly of something otherworldly bad and decaying. While the cycle runs, I fold what’s left from the last load, feeling a small sense of control in the otherwise chaotic environment.

The dogs bark at me again, tugging at my pants, their leashes hanging by the door.

“All right, all right,” I mutter, grabbing the leashes and clipping them on.

Outside, the cool air feels like a relief as we begin walking through the quiet neighborhood.

The dogs pull me along, sniffing every bush and patch of grass.

It’s a longer walk than they probably usually get, but I need the break from the house.

For a moment, it’s just me, the dogs, and the sound of their paws on the pavement.

I think about how different things used to be, when Mom would join me for these walks back home in Alabama, chatting about anything and everything. When she would still take me to the park and build sand castles with me.

When I get back, Nick is still in the game room, his attention glued to the screen as if the rest of the world doesn’t exist. Mom has moved to the small dining area, fiddling with the knobs on her tiny radio, trying to tune in an old AM station.

The static crackles as she twists the dial, her brow furrowed in concentration.

She doesn’t notice when I start vacuuming the frayed carpet, or when I rearrange the clutter on the dining table to make room for her coffee mug .

Popping a frozen lasagna into their oven, I set the timer and wipe my hands on a dish towel.

Instead of leaving, I glance at the clock and decide to stay until it’s done.

"Mom," I say softly, moving to the dining table where she’s still fiddling with the radio.

"How about you take a nice hot shower while the lasagna cooks?

Wash your hair—it always makes you feel better. "

She looks at me, skeptical at first, but I can tell she’s considering it. "I don’t know," she mutters, still turning the dial. "What’s the point?"

"The point is to feel refreshed, Mom. You’ll feel more like yourself," I encourage her gently. "I can even set out a clean towel for you."

She sighs but nods after a long pause. "Okay, fine."

I smile, relieved, and quickly grab a fluffy towel from the linen closet, setting it in the bathroom along with her favorite lavender-scented soap. As she shuffles off toward the shower, I hear the water start running, and for the first time all day, the house feels a little lighter.

While she’s in the bathroom, I finish vacuuming the carpet, trying to get out as much grime as I can before making a mental note to follow up withmy cousin James about shampooing it.

Nick remains glued to his game, his fingers moving mechanically over the controller, as if the rest of the house doesn’t exist. I feel a swirl of emotions—a pang of frustration that he’s so detached, mixed with a reluctant acceptance.

Maybe this is his way of coping, escaping into a world where he has control.

Still, it stings to feel like I’m the only one trying to keep everything together, facing the chaos head-on while he disappears into pixels and sound effects.

A small pang of frustration wells up inside me, but I quickly tamp it down.

It’s easier for him to escape into his virtual world than face what’s right in front of us, I suppose.

It feels unfair—like I’m the only one trying to hold everything together.

The smell of lasagna begins to fill the kitchen, a comforting aroma that reminds me of simpler times.

When Mom finally emerges, her deep dark brown hair damp and combed back. Last time I was here I helped her dye it because her gray roots were just too much with the brassy ends. She looks slightly more alert, her eyes clearer than before. "See? Doesn’t that feel better?" I ask, grinning.

"Yeah, yeah," she says, brushing off the compliment, but I catch the faintest smile tugging at her lips. She sits back at the dining table, and I bring over two plates, slicing the lasagna into manageable pieces.

We eat quietly, but there’s a calmness between us that wasn’t there earlier.

I even manage to get her to laugh when I share a funny story from work, her laugh raspy but genuine.

"I’ve been singing and playing the piano at Pianissimo lately, it’s a bar in Manhattan,” I tell her, feeling a flicker of pride as I share something positive.

"It’s more than just performing—it’s a way to let go of everything weighing me down.

For a little while, it’s just me, the music, and this sense of freedom I can’t get anywhere else.

Tony, the talent manager, lets me take the stage sometimes. "

Mom looks up from her plate, her interest piqued. "You’ve been performing? At a bar? I didn't think you did bars anymore..."

"Yeah, I know. But it's just a few nights a week when I don't have class or lab," I reply, keeping my tone light. "It’s a good crowd, mostly regulars, and it feels good to play piano again."

She nods slowly, a small smile crossing her lips. "I’m glad you’re doing that. You always did love singing, but piano, that was your soul, baby girl.” The moment feels warm, but then her expression shifts. "Have you heard from Sam?" she asks, her tone cautious.

I pause, the question hanging in the air for a beat too long. My chest tightens, and I can feel the familiar heat of frustration and sadness creeping up my neck.

"I guess he’s okay," I say, finally, my voice neutral, though my hands fidget slightly, betraying the unease I feel.

Memories of his broken promises and the constant battle to leave him behind flash through my mind, but I push them away. My eyes drop to my plate, avoiding her gaze as the knot in my stomach tightens further. I don’t elaborate, and Mom doesn’t press, sensing the tension.

She nods slightly and returns her focus to her plate, the calmness between us settling again.

As we finish eating, I clean up the dishes while she leans back in her chair, humming softly to the radio’s faint tune. Before I leave, I kiss her head again and say, "See you soon, Mama. Call me if you need anything."

"Okay, Laura," she says, her voice softer now. She lights another cigarette but seems less withdrawn, more present. I linger by the door, watching her for a moment, before stepping outside. The cool air hits my face as I close the door, and this time, it feels less like relief and more like a promise to keep coming back. Love drives me, even when it’s hard, even when the weight of responsibility feels unending. There’s a part of me that clings to hope—hope that things can change, that my presence might make a difference, no matter how small.

Later, after I’ve visited with Mom and escaped the house on Buddy, I think about heading home to the apartment I share with my two roommates from Opelika, a town near Hurtsboro, who also wanted to escape Alabama and start a new life, Skipper and Rhea.

It’s a tiny apartment near Upper West Central Park, barely enough room for the three of us.

But it’s ours. We’ve made it into a little haven away from everything else.

Skipper’s the wild one, always talking about his next adventure as an airplane steward or dragging us out to some party.

Rhea’s more grounded; like me, she's a student, and has a way of making me laugh even when I don’t feel like it. They’ve been my anchors through this mess of life.

When I get back to the apartment, they’ll ask about Mom, like they always do, and I’ll give the same answer—“She’s okay,” even though she’s not.

Then, we’ll probably settle into our usual routine: Skipper making dinner, Rhea plopped on the couch. It’s comforting, knowing I have them. Knowing I have this little corner of the big apple with them to call home.

But still, Val’s always there in the back of my mind.

The napkins. The teasing. The way he looks at me, like maybe I’m more than just this girl from a small town who got stuck in a bad moment.

Maybe, just maybe, he sees something in me that I’m still figuring out for myself.

And I know I can’t let him in, not yet—not until I’ve figured out what the hell I’m doing with my life.

But for now, I’ll keep playing his game. Keep writing him back, note after note, letting him get a little closer with every word.