I am an i***t. I am an i***t. I am an i***t.
The refrain echoed through Cassandra’s brain on an endless loop as she cleaned the kitchen. Who in their right mind invited a man to dinner and then had an almighty meltdown in front of him? Who did that?
You, you i***t.
She blamed the wine. She’d consumed four glasses in quick succession trying to numb the shock of Patrick’s news. Instead of washing the pain away, however, the alcohol had eaten away at her defenses leaving her weak and emotional and unable to control herself when the tide of loss had risen up inside her—as it had on and off all evening.
She’d managed to laugh and talk and put on a good show the first few times the loss had threatened, even though inside she’d been wailing and pulling her hair and rending her shirt. Then she
