Finding Freedom by Erin French

Finding Freedom by Erin French

Author:Erin French
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Celadon Books


18

KICKING, CLAWING, FALLING

The Saturday-evening hum had finally come to a quiet halt at the restaurant. No more clinking of glasses, no more laughter, no more chatter. The stove had been scrubbed down with a thick, soapy lather; the cash-out completed; the dining room swept; the last candle snuffed; and the staff clocked out and departed. It was just me and the last of the echoing tunes from the evening’s playlist bouncing around the dining room. I walked over to the bar and ran my fingers along a row of red wine bottles resting on the counter. The unsold pours that I hated to see go to waste. There was maybe a glass or so remaining in each bottle, and it would do just fine to top off my already glowing buzz. The wine would be no good come Tuesday, and the frugal Yankee in me was wicked good at persuading myself to consume the leftovers, not leaving a drop to be wasted. The intensified alcohol cravings that the drugs gave me coaxed, Take another drink, babe. I grabbed a bottle, pulled the loose cork from the rim, and raised it to my lips, swigging sweet currant sips as if it were water, gulp after gulp, until there was nothing left. I was drunk on wine, high on prescription meds, but mostly feeling free and high from a successful Saturday night at the restaurant and the thoughts of a lazy Sunday ahead of me. I grabbed another partial bottle, tucked it under my arm, and took a seat in the corner of the room to take in the sight of the empty dining room. I sat, sipping and staring at the space. Over the last few hours I had pumped out sixty-eight dinners, dozens of apps, and sold out of every homemade dessert from that tiny kitchen in back. I was elated that not a dish had been sent back, felt warm all over from the joy I saw on people’s faces as they had sat leisurely in the dining room that had become so nice and cozy over the course of the evening. The tables Tom and I had built by hand, the chairs that I deliberated over (too hard, too soft, just right), the dark gray paint I had labored over all those late nights until the shade looked just right, the old wooden floors that I had sanded and varnished on my hands and knees, the antique mirrors on the wall with the reflection of one forgotten candle still quietly flickering on the verge of going out. Every bead of sweat that went into this space felt so well spent. After more than a year, I still pinched myself over the reality that the place was working. I had pulled it off. This giant and nearly impossible dream had come to life, and it was a success. And I was drunk-buzzed-high-proud and thankful about it all. All the hard work, the muscle aches, the burns, the cuts, the anxiety, the self-doubt—it all disappeared into the waning flickering light of the room.



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