It was strange how easily a crutch could become a habit, a routine. Odd the thing that you turned to to get through your day after a breakup. The you that you’d been before Rafe, wouldn’t recognize the you that you were after him. She’d be disappointed at how far you’d fallen, at how much you’d let a man control your happiness. When he was gone, it was like you were gone too. You’d never thought that you’d be in the after Rafe stage, but here you were, and you hated every second of it.

You leaned your elbow on the bar, pressing your chin into your hand. Your waist length blonde hair, fell like a curtain, helping to block your face from the prying eyes or leering gazes of the other patrons. The judgement on other people’s faces shouldn’t bother you, they didn’t know you, even if they thought they did because of your status as Rafe’s ex. You pick up your glass of tequila and drain it.

How many was that now? You had lost count. Just like you’d lost count of the hours you’d spent drowning your sorrows tonight, or how many nights you’d done the same this month. God, you were a pathetic mess. Rafe had walked away and you’d lost the ability to function as a human being. You nod at the bartender, and he pours you another tequila, sliding it across the bar to you. You gratefully pick it up, taking a big gulp, and letting the alcohol numb you, letting it blur the memories of Rafe.

You don’t know how much time passes before last call is announced. You throw crumpled bills down at the bar. You stand up, and everything spins. You have to brace yourself against the bar and you start laughing hysterically when you can’t seem to gain your balance and you fall on your ass. Between laughs, it takes you a few tries to stand back up and you collapse back onto the barstool slightly out of breath.

“Keys and phone please” you ask the bartender, in between manic laughter. You can see the judgement in his eyes and you know you’re not getting your keys or phone back. Damn bartender. You glare at him as he scrolls through your contacts and makes a call. You’re too out of it to follow his part of the conversation, only picking up bits and pieces.

“Your ride is on the way” He says, pushing a glass of water towards you. You scoff at the beverage like it personally offended you and focus on trying to get the room to stop spinning while you wait for whoever he’s called for you. You slump in your seat, resting your head against the sticky bar top, and letting your eyes rest.

“Jesus, you’re a fucking mess” your eyes snap open when you hear the familiar voice practically growling at you. Rafe. The bartender had called Rafe. And he had come. That had to mean something right. You lift your head up from the bar and smile.

“Heyyyyy baby” you slur, tossing your hair in what you think is a sexy manner. But he doesn’t look amused. There’s no desire on his face. He merely looks like he’s absolutely annoyed by your existence.

“Don’t” he says, his tone a clear warning that he isn’t your baby anymore. “This is a one time thing. I’m driving you home, and then we’re done” you’re not really listening, already trying to plot in your alcohol fueled brain how you can turn this in your favour.