Reasons to Drink

By Krista Iovino

Seemingly good girl Annabelle Taylor is living her own Manhattan fairytale with the man of her dreams. But when her dream life becomes a cold reality, she learns that the cost to bury her secrets and maintain her illusions are more than her emotional budget can afford. Her clever, martini-shaking cronies help her face the day, but only the truth can help her once she‘s forced to face herself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Krista Iovino
• Release date: Jun 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476410272

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Reasons to Drink

By

Krista Iovino

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2012 by Krista Iovino

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

To Karma, you go girl

PROLOGUE

It was the tail end of our evening. We were at TriBeCa Tavern, monopolizing their unsurpassed jukebox, and toasting to the modern union of my best friend Jocelyn Stein and her boyfriend Mark. He was a truly wonderful man who had asked her to move in a few days prior, and we found it a permissible reason to make a night of it.

Do you think all the drinking we do is a problem, Jocelyn, My high-pitched drunk voice and glazed doe-eyes that are revealed after three too many Stoli and sodas were in full effect. Not in the slightest. Joss raised her eyebrows. But even so, it’s not our fault. We drink on the rise, we drink on the fall, but if life would give solid ground we wouldn’t need to drink at all.

Ha! Love it.

You’ve never heard my mother say that? She claims that she coined it, but I’m skeptical. You’ve heard her say, ‘Life isn’t a slow and steady buzz, so I have to maintain one,’ right?

Of course. Why is she so hilarious?

"She’s insane. Her latest one goes like this: ‘Life has ups and downs like the letter M, as in all the Martinis you need to survive them."

Brilliant! I laughed. And we both know how proud she must be of herself for that one."

"Absolutely. I told her she has to come up with a better version that involves us drinking Martinis to forget about the men we love and the mistakes we make."

In Manhattan! I perched up proud of myself for that one.

Joss hopped off her bar stool. Must pee. Order me another one when you get his attention.

While Joss was gone, I thought about the truth underlining her mother’s new catchphrase. Just like a journey along the letter M, I’d spent most my life going up peaks and coming down valleys. Sure, the Martini makes a perfect companion in times to celebrate or sequester, but I’d much prefer that M to stand for middle ground.

By the time Joss came back from the restroom I had squared away our tab. She pointed at my receipt crumpled where her drink was resting. Is that it for tonight?

Yea, let’s call it a night. We’ve got two incredible men waiting for us at home.

Aw, you can say that again. Joss linked her arm around mine, gave me a kiss on the shoulder, and leaded us towards the exit.

When I got home the apartment was low-lit and quiet. I kicked off my shoes, flung my purse, and went toward the bedroom for some lovin.’ But my darling husband lay fast asleep in a diagonal across our bed. I ran my fingers along the side of his hair and admired how precious he looked. My mind told his, I love you, baby.

I stripped down to crawl into bed but was feeling far from sleepy. I took my white satin robe off the hook behind the door and swaddled myself in it. As I crept into the kitchen, the wooden floor cracked against my feet despite how lightly I tried to carry them. Quietly as possible, I uncorked a chilled bottle of Montrachet. With glass-in-hand, I stepped out onto the balcony to spend some alone time with my rocking chair.

I rocked slowly to the background melodies of the languid, midnight city. "Maybethis is middle ground?"

I dipped my middle finger into the wine and gently circled it around the rim of the crystal. After a few seconds, a loud swooning noise bellowed from my balcony into the vastness of the sparkling city before me. It reminded me of David Weston, who, on the first night we met, showed me how to make a crystal wine glass sing; he was shocked I hadn’t learned as a child.

David Weston. Wow. He hasn’t crossed my mind in ages. A man who once occupied my every thought had become a fleeting memory. It’s funny how time changes everything.

I looked out at the city and thought about David nestled in a bed somewhere amidst the lights and concrete. I lifted my glass and made a toast: To you, David. Thanks for everything. It was all worth it.

CHAPTER ONE

Fleetwood Mac’s Rumors was playing on rotation. Tears uncontrollably filled my eyes, blurring my vision. I continued to squint and slice knowing it was almost over—slice, slice, slice, chop, chop, chop. I pierced through my glassy haze and found my way from the kitchen island around to the stove. I got up on my toes as if I were in my old point shoes and sucked in my partly bare stomach to make space between me and the explosive wok of olive oil. Just as I scraped in the last bit of onion chunks, a giant droplet went splat right below my belly button. Shit! Ouch! Damn it. My pent up onion-tears came pouring out. That was when he came through the front door.

Hey baby, what’s cookin? Smells delish.

His keys crash down at the bottom of the crystal bowl, which was never meant for keys, on our foyer table. David made his way into the kitchen and found me holding ice on my tummy with a face full of tears.

Aw, babe, what happened in here?

I burned myself with the oil. I always wait too long.

You’re crying.

Onions.

Awe, your tummy’s all burnt

He took my hands apart and got down on his knees before me.

Let me kiss it and make it all better.

His hands grasped the small of my back. "Deep fried just how I like my women," he said, and French kissed my stomach. David often cracked corny jokes during our moments of passion.

You’re such an idiot, Davie I laughed. Go away. I turned and grabbed one of the silver spoons that hung on the wall above the stove and stirred the onions. David was still on his knees, now facing my behind.

I like this side better, anyway, he said as he grabbed my hips and gently bit each side of my butt. He slowly slid the waistband of my favorite, worn-in sweat pants down to my feet. Surprise! I wasn’t wearing anything underneath them.

I giggled and squirmed a little while he passionately kissed my lower back. His hand crawled up my inner legs from ankle to knee to Oooh! I reached around behind my body and stroked the back of his head. He stood up, whipped me around in front of him, and kissed my mouth as if he were going to devour me. I undressed him out of his suit like I’ve done so many times before, never taking my lips off his.

With both of our pants around our ankles, we fell to the floor and recklessly peddled each other out of them with our feet. We rolled into the dining nook outside the kitchen and David put himself inside me.

Uh, I love you, Anna-banana.

"I love you baby. Look at us," I whispered as I pointed to the reflection of our lovemaking in the glass doors to the terrace.

You’re so beautiful, Annabelle.

I was entranced, smiling largely in ultimate ecstasy.

When our lovemaking came to an end and our body parts unlatched, the kitchen fire alarm went off. But we bypassed the caution for about a minute to catch our breaths. He lifted his head from my chest and laughed as we both watched the smoke squeeze its way through the kitchen archway.

Oh well, he said and crawled away to open the terrace doors for some ventilation. I guess we’re ordering in tonight.

We sure are, I laughed as I stood to my feet. To fan away the smoke, I made big half-circles with his suit jacket. A matchbox fell out of one of his pockets and hit me in the shoulder before landing on the floor. I picked it up and said to him in my interrogator voice, I have evidence that you lunched at the Palm today.

You’re good!

I showed him the matches and smiled grimly.

And might I ask why you have matches, Mr. Weston? Are you smoking cigarettes, again?

No, I had a cigar, babe. I had no choice; Winston Larchmont of Larchmont Capital insisted.

Oh, really? How come you always eat there? I want to try that place.

I threw his jacket at him. He grabbed it one-handed. You would hate that place, he said. It’s a bunch of stuffy old men eating rare steaks and talking about world domination.

I crinkled my nose at him, smiled, and then turned around to walk back into the kitchen. He gave me a good, five-finger slap to my ass. I screeched playfully and went to go scrape the damage off my beloved wok.

Don’t clean, babe, the maid lady is coming tomorrow.

I threw him a disappointed glance. Her first name is Sandy.

Whatever.

I’m just gonna soak the burnt onions so they don’t crust up. Order us a pizza or something from that place across the street. I’ll pour the wine.

While straightening up the kitchen, I rambled on about my day:

So the kids have been practicing for their talent show and I think it’s gonna be a big hit. I had a mother call me today and tell me that she’s never seen her son so involved with anything school-related. That makes me feel so good, ya know, because I question myself all the time. How do I know if I’m a good teacher? If I’m doing everything right? I wonder if I’m I really getting through to these kids, ya know? And then a parent calls and makes it all worth it. I felt really good today. And I can’t wait to see the show—they’ve all been working so hard. You’re coming, right?

All I heard was silence.

Davie?

No answer.

David? Hey?

I made my way to the living room and there was no sign of him.

David!

I’m in here! he called out from the closet in our bedroom. I walked in to find him weighing the compatibility of two Hermes ties with different animals on them against a charcoal grey suit. I shook my head laughing. Go with the penguins.

No, I like the zebras.

Zebras are nice, too. I just had a full-on conversation with you from the kitchen.

Again? What’s up?

Nothing, I was just talking about the talent show my kids are putting on. You’re coming right?

How cute, my sexy little teacher. Of course I’m coming. Hey, do those kids know how lucky they are?

Yeah, but you are luckier.

I know, because you’re all mine, and I get to do this!

He picked me up and flipped me over his head onto the bed like a rag doll. What about dinner? I asked through a hearty laugh.

Dinner can wait! It’s time for round two!

***

The morning played out as normal. The room was dark with the exception of small slits of light that shined through the sides of the silk, blackout blinds. I was buried in the Egyptian cotton waves in high tide across our California king. David was executing his daily morning rituals to the background sound of CNBC’s Squawk Box. I swam up to the top of the covers, peeked one eye out, and caught a glimpse of his shadow moving around the room. Trying my hardest to sweeten the frog in my throat, I said, Good morning, lover man. Let me see how handsome you look today.

He flicked on the lights and gave me a cheerful, Good morning, sunshine! You look so cozy all bundled up in there. What I would give to get back in bed with you. Then he disappeared and continued on from the bathroom: It’s pouring out there, and we forgot to put the umbrella down on the terrace—you know, the one we’re not supposed to have out there to begin with.

It’s raining?

Pouring. And I got soaking wet trying to wrestle that thing down. It was like Captain Lou Albano back from the dead.

Who?

Never mind. Come on, woman, you’re gonna be late. He gently turned the covers off me and kissed me good morning.

Go and make us some more money, boy, I said in a Southern accent.

Yes m’am! Remember, we have dinner tonight at Babbo, 8 o’clock.

I know. Can't wait. Meet you there?

Yes. I'll call if I'm running late. Have a good day, babe. Bye.

I rested in bed for a short while thinking about how sexy I found him to be. I closed my eyes and imagined his morning departure in my head. I pictured him making his way down the elevator of our Greenwich Village Penthouse in his perfectly tailored suit with his brown Valextra briefcase swaggering by his side. Out of routine, he would greet Miles behind the concierge counter with a smile and nod. Milton, his driver, would be holding an umbrella that covered the ground of small space between the building’s awning and the opened door of his black S600 Mercedes. He would settle himself in to find the Wall Street Journal waiting on the seat next to him. On the way down to the Financial District he would thumb through the news looking for pleasantries, or maybe he would just close his eyes and calmly sigh before the busy day ahead of him. Of course, I would be on the top of his mind the whole time.

My daydreaming gave me less time to spare. I rushed to get myself together and took a not-so-glamorous approach to my morning commute. The five-block journey to the Greenwich Village Middle School had me as quite a mess: wet hair, books stuffed into an oversized bag, umbrella in one hand, cell phone in the other. I hadn’t spoken with my best friend Jocelyn in days and I just had to hear her voice. She answered with a groggy and disheveled-sounding moan.

Shit. Joss, did I wake you?

I’m up now, she yawned.

I pictured her sprawled out on her ostentatious four-post bed with a satin eye mask over her face. She was living on the Upper East Side like a queen in her mother’s mansion-esc townhouse off Fifth Avenue. And who could blame her? Like Bugs Bunny, she asked, What’s up, teach?

Oh nothing, I’m just hauling my ass to school right now, dodging puddles.

Aren’t you late?

Almost. Hence the hauling and dodging. What have you been up to? I miss you.

Bitterly, she said, "Oh, so you want to know how I occupy myself now that you are in full-blown loversville? I’m holding my own. Stephen has been trying to get back into my pants, but I’m over it. Otherwise, same shit: I got no job, I got no man, I live off my mom, and I love being me. Ya know, my mom has been asking about you like crazy. She misses you and wants you come by or at least call her.

I've been meaning to call her. I miss that crazy bitch. How is she doing?

She’s nuts.

Still draining the well of husband number-four?

"You mean, Quattro Daddy? The one who's never home? Of course she is, and Belle, more than ever, she is covered in diamonds."

More diamonds? She must shine for miles.

"It’s only in case she bumps into husband number three. Even though she wants to have him murdered for cheating, I think she’s still in love with him. She also pulled her face even tighter.

Oh no. Really?

Yup. There isn’t a wrinkle on her. But her neck is still a mess. And no matter what I say, she refuses to lose the Brooklyn accent. She’s like a street talking Barbara Walters.

Don’t touch that, Joss, it’s her trademark. She wouldn’t be Rhona Grossman-Stein-Goldberg-Mendelson without it.

The one and only.

Uh, I miss her so much. OK, I’m walking into school right now. Can we have dinner this weekend?

You know I’m free. How about a nice, early Sunday dinner for two? I can reserve us a sidewalk table at Nello.

Done! Can't wait. I love you, babes.

Love you, too, Bella-boo.

***

Later that evening at Babbo, as our waiter poured the last drop of vintage Bordeaux into my glass, I was feeling like the luckiest girl on the planet. There I was, dining in one of the finest restaurants in New York City, drinking the finest wine with the finest man I had ever crossed paths with, and I thought, all the finest is finally mine. I was buzzing with gratitude and excitement—so happy to be living with a man like David, a man whose caliber could make any woman weak in the knees with desire.

David signed the check and then slipped his wallet back into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, never realizing what a struggle it was for me to contain my wine-infused zeal. I was so happy I could have multiplied.

This really is my favorite restaurant, David.

I know, baby. That’s why we’re here at least once a quarter.

David liked to talk to me in financial terms, although I never quite understood them.

Thank you for Dinner. It was delicious. And now I’m so full. I rubbed my tummy with one hand and delicately knocked back the remains of my wine with the other.

You’re welcome, my love. Come on, let’s walk it off around the park.

David led me by hand to the fountain in the middle of Washington Square Park on this warm, particularly humid-free, night. Across the park, three different groups of musicians played separately but in harmony. Couples and friends were sitting around the fountain wall watching the children who were splashing around way past their bedtimes. The street lamps shadowed everyone’s face with a romantic glow.

When we arrived at the nearest curve of the fountain, David let go of my hand and jumped up two feet high onto the fountain wall in between an older couple and a small group of NYU-clad students. I looked up at him. He looked like a childish king standing on the seat of his throne. He was wide-eyed and smiling. Laughing nervously, I asked, What are you doing you crazy man? David projected his voice over me: What does it look like I’m doing, woman? I’m asking you to marry me?

I completely lost my breath, my bearings, and all of the feeling in my legs. My jaw dropped, so I covered my mouth with shaking hands. My eyes filled up with tears—through them, I watched David as he shouted out to the sky, Annabelle Taylor, please be my wife! He then took a huge breath in and hunched over towards me. He quieted his voice and addressed me face-to-face.

Please marry me, baby? He jumped down off the ledge and bent down on his left knee. His right knee supported one elbow as he slowly opened a Harry Winston ring box. Right before me kneeled the man of my dreams, asking me to marry him with a glistening, five karat, cushion cut ring.

Will you? Please? He pulled the ring out and held it up for me to slip my finger through.

I couldn’t speak, I could only cry. The whole crowd was watching with anticipation. I nodded my head yes, slid my left ring finger through the ring, and threw my arms around his body, falling into his chest and almost toppling him over.

Yes! Yes, yes, yes, yes.

The crowd cheered and clapped. He stood up with my body dangling off him; my heels fell off my feet as he swung me around in circles. He then sat me down on the fountain ledge, bent down,