Page 9 of Notes About Vodka (Happily Ever After Hangover #1)

I know it’s not her fault, but it doesn’t make it any easier to face. It’s like she’s trapped in her own world, a place I can’t fully reach no matter how hard I try. And yet, I keep trying. I’ve spent years running in circles, trying to pull her out, knowing deep down that I can’t .

As I pull into the driveway of their tiny home, the sight of the chipped paint and overgrown lawn makes my chest tighten.

I brace myself for whatever I’m about to walk into.

Mom probably won’t leave the couch today, and Nick will pretend that everything’s fine while the dogs bark their heads off, their shrill yelps echoing in the quiet neighborhood.

I pause for a moment in the driveway, gripping the handlebars of my moped, and take a deep breath.

This is part of why I moved north, right?

To be closer to her, to help her if I can, even though it feels like I’m always fighting an uphill battle.

The uphill battle—it’s not just about her.

It’s about my whole life, where every challenge feels connected, each one piling onto the next.

Balancing my studies feels impossible when I’m too exhausted from work, and my job at Pianissimo drains what little energy I have left for self-care.

Meanwhile, trying to be there for Mom is like carrying a weight I can never set down.

All these struggles blur together, each one amplifying the others, leaving me in a constant state of catching up without ever really feeling caught up.

It’s overwhelming, but I keep moving forward because I don’t see any other choice.

There are days when I feel like I’m barely holding it all together, like one small nudge could make everything come crashing down. And yet, I keep going, because what else can I do?

Being here for her feels like a duty I can’t abandon. She’s my mom. She was there for me in her own way when I was younger when I was being bounced between my dad's and his parents, even if her illness made it hard for her to show it. I owe it to her to try.

Seeing her like this breaks my heart every time. It’s a reminder of how heavy it is to carry so many responsibilities, knowing I can’t afford to drop any of them.

And as much as I hate to admit it, I sometimes wonder how much longer I can keep this up.

The fear gnaws at me during quiet moments, whispering that one day I’ll reach my breaking point and there won’t be anything left to give.

What happens then? Will I lose my scholarship, drop out of school, or let Mom’s needs overwhelm everything else?

Every decision I make feels like walking a tightrope, with no room for error and no safety net to catch me. It’s exhausting, and yet, the thought of giving up scares me even more.

Here… I pause, setting my feet on the ground as Buddy vibrates beneath me.

I glance at my phone, half-wishing I had a message from Val. He really lights up my days lately. But he doesn’t even have my number. And maybe that’s for the best. For now, I’ll keep playing our napkin game. I just hope I can figure out how to balance all of this without losing myself in the chaos.

As I kill the engine and swing off Buddy, the smell of cigarettes and dog pee hits me full force.

I stand there for a moment, taking in the tiny, run-down home where my mom lives with Nick.

The same house that feels like it’s closing in on itself every time I visit.

I tuck my helmet under my arm and brace myself for what’s inside.

But before I can even knock, my thoughts drift back to Val and our little napkin notes.

They’ve become this bright spot in my life and I reach into my pocket where I have one of his napkins.

Rubbing it between my fingers, I can still remember the first note he left me. It was some random question about vodka.

“What’s your notes about vodka?”

That was it. Nothing profound, but enough to make me stop and think for a second. I had written back with a smile, “Vodka, because no great story ever started with a salad.” And the way he laughed? Like I’d surprised him .

I like surprising him. It feels like a little victory every time.

Since then, the napkin game has been our thing.

We don’t have time to talk much during our shifts at Pianissimo , so we’ve turned scraps of paper, receipts, and napkins into this secret communication channel.

It’s kind of perfect, actually. Every note feels like it’s just for me, like we’re sharing something no one else gets to be part of.

Last week, I asked him where his accent was from, like I didn’t already know. He wrote back,

“Where do you think? Guess.”

So, I played along said,

“I guess you must be from Louisiana with that Cajun accent.”

When he corrected me and said he was from Sochi, Russia it made me realize I know nothing about the place. He later wrote,

“Imagine the city, but with mountains, a dacha in the woods, and a condo near the sea.”

I had no clue what a “dacha” was, but he explained it like a cozy little cabin in the mountains, and suddenly I could picture him there, away from the noise and crowds. It sounded peaceful, and honestly? A little lonely, too.

But Val? He doesn’t seem lonely at all. Not with how he looks at me when he passes me those notes.

There’s something about him. He’s not just the tall, dark, and handsome type—although, let’s be real, he’s exactly that.

It’s the way he’s so…interested. Like he actually cares about what I have to say.

I found myself writing back more and more.

We talked about movies one night—he said he liked thrillers, and I threw in a recommendation for a cheesy horror flick just to see if he’d watch it.

He hasn’t told me yet if he did, but I’m waiting for his next note to find out.

One night, we got into food. I told him about the best barbecue joint I found in the city, but he hit me back with something I hadn’t expected:

“Have you ever tried shashlik? Russian kebabs.”

I haven’t, but I think I want to now. He even mentioned cooking for me one day, but then followed I followed up with,

“Remember, friends first. I’m not sure I’m ready for you to win my heart through my belly.”

Friends first. It’s what I said when he asked me out before.

“Let’s build a friendship first,” I had written.

It was a way to protect myself, to keep a safe distance while I sorted out my feelings.

But deep down, I can't help but wonder what it would be like to let that wall down, to let him in. It’s a safe line, one that keeps me at arm’s length but still lets me enjoy the banter.

And God, do I enjoy it. I catch myself wondering what it would be like if we weren’t stuck in this strange limbo of life…

I shake myself from my thoughts and head up the driveway, taking a deep breath before I open the door. Inside, the acrid scent of cigarette smoke and stale air surrounds me. Skipper is going to be so mad when I do laundry and still can’t get the smells out.

Mom’s on the couch, a cigarette hanging loosely from her lips, the TV blaring some reality game show she’s probably not even watching.

The three little dogs bark, their sharp yaps echoing in the cramped space.

I ignore the barking and wave to Nick, who’s in the side room playing video games, the faint clicking of buttons barely audible over the noise, pretending the smell of the urine and nicotine isn’t an unbearable combination, like he always does.

The air inside feels thick and stagnant, carrying the faint smell of smoke, old coffee grounds, and something metallic that lingers just beneath it all, like the faint tang of rust or neglected pipes and burnt oil.

"Hey, sweetie," Mom says, barely looking up, her voice blending into the hum of the TV in the background. One of the three little dogs jumps up on my legs, yipping for attention, while another starts sniffing around the corner, eventually squatting to pee. I sigh and try to keep my focus on Mom.

“How are you feeling today?” I ask, settling into the chair beside her.

“Same as always, Laura. Nothing changes,” she mutters, her eyes glued to the TV. Her voice is flat, and I can’t help but notice the ashtray on the table, already crowded with cigarette butts.

“Did you watch that baking show you like? The one with the cakes?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood.

She shrugs. “It was fine. They make the same things over and over. Gets boring after a while.”

I smile gently. “Well, maybe next time we can find something new to watch together.”

She finally glances at me, her expression softening just a little.

“Maybe,” she says quietly. There’s a pause, and I know I need to say it.

I hesitate, my fingers fidgeting with the edge of my sleeve.

I’ve asked her this before, and it never goes smoothly, but the thought of not asking feels worse.

“Have you been taking your meds, Mom?” I ask, keeping my tone as gentle as possible, hoping this time will be different.

She huffs, finally turning her head to look at me. "Nick handles it," she says, dismissively waving her hand. I can see the strain in her eyes, though, a flicker of something beneath the surface. "I'm fine. You don't need to worry so much."

“I do worry, Mom,” I say softly. “I just want to make sure you’re okay. Sometimes it’s hard to tell when you’re not feeling your best.”

She sighs deeply, looking down at her lap. “I’m fine, Laura. I just get tired. That’s all.”

“Okay,” I reply gently, even though I’m not convinced. I reach over, giving her arm a gentle squeeze. “If there’s anything you need, just let me know.”

“Help by living your life, sweetheart,” she says, but her voice lacks conviction, and she turns back to the TV, ending the conversation.