Gretel had her heart beating harder against her ribcage with each step she took towards the parking lot. She pushed through the creaking doors, the heels of her shoes clicking loudly against the ground, her stomach tied in knots. She ached to feel the cool liquid of her margarita down her already burning throat, her anxiety flashing like a caution sign with the words, turn around written above it in thick black letters.
She could always turn around. She didn't have to do this, she wasn't that person. But tonight it seemed like she was. Too bad she couldn't even blame it on the drink she had. Q
