The door fell closed behind her with a thud. She hummed a few words of the song stuck in her head, bending over to untie her laces. For some reason, Jeanie hadn't believed she was still capable of it, insisting that they wake up someone to help her. That hadn't seemed like a good idea. For one, no one in this house would ever let her live it down, and secondly, she was fine.

In fact, with the buzz in her head and her cheeks tense from all the laughing from the past week, it'd been a long time since she'd been this fine.

Smiling to herself, she ran her hand along the wall. The light switch had to be around here, or was it further down the room? The buzzing made it difficult to think, and the warm fuzzy feeling in her core said there was no need to hurry.

"What the hell are you doing, Mary?" a shadow called, and the lamp flickered on, casting the room in a soft glow that was harsher on her eyes than she remembered. She shielded them, stumbling sideways.

George had his fist against the switch. He was squinting at her with bleary eyes, one leg of his checkered pajama pants hiked up, revealing a hairy ankle.

She stifled a giggle. If only Jeanie could've seen this too. They'd be on the floor, clutching their stomachs.

He stepped forward into the light, sizing her up. "Are you drunk?"

Now, she couldn't keep it in anymore; the round, open mouth completed his disheveled look perfectly, and she laughed.

"A little," she conceded, crouching down to make work of her laces, "I reasoned Jesus did turn water into wine, so I'm sure he'd be happy to know I'm appreciating his craft."

The logic was flawless. After all, the folks in the scriptures indulged in alcoholic beverages all the time. She didn't drink, usually, not after the disastrous night that brought her her first child, with the rare exception here and there. Losing control like that made her feel ashamed. Part of her feared what truths or regrets would come spilling out of her mouth once she was over that edge; it was harder to push Jeanie out of her mind then, and one wrong comment could ruin her entire life.

She'd told Jeanie she didn't drink, and seeing as how she'd adapted to keeping her faith mostly to herself, Jeanie had said she would stay away from the alcohol too, in that case, out of solidarity. And she had. But tonight, Mary hadn't.

"A little, huh? That why you seem to be unable to take your shoes off?"

It could've been a joke if it wasn't for the bitter tone in which it was uttered. She abandoned her attempts, glancing up to see him watching her, head down, thumb grazing his chin. Years ago, she sometimes encountered her father like this when sneaking back into the house after doing God knows what with Jeanie, but she'd never expected George to react like this. Granted, she hadn't given him much thought, though this hardly seemed fair considering all of his own boys' nights out during the entirety of their marriage.

The smile slipped from her face. Holding his gaze, she kicked the back of her shoe with the other, sending it flying toward him.

"Jesus, Mary."

She ignored him and knocked the other one off with her bare foot. She'd barely seen him these past few weeks, and still, he managed to sour her mood within a two-minute conversation.

"It's two in the morning. I was considering calling the cops to report you missing."

"Oh, don't be overdramatic," she said, stumbling past him towards the kitchen. Jeanie had told her to drink at least one glass of water before bed, and that seemed far more constructive than arguing with her suddenly overbearing husband.

"What's going on with you?" Unfortunately, he'd followed her, leaning against the kitchen counter as she scoured the cabinets for a clean cup. "Hey, keep it down, will ya? You'll wake your mother and Mandy across the street if you keep slamming the doors like that."

"I am not slamming the doors —"

"For God's sake — here. It's this one. Same cabinet it's been in for about fifteen years."

She sent him a look, yanking the glass from his grip. If only she had been a little quieter, maybe he'd have been asleep still, like most nights lately when she'd gotten home after spending the evening with Jeanie. "There's nothing stopping you from just going to bed and leaving me be, y'know."

He nodded slowly, already turning around, when he halted and took a deep breath. He watched her intently, almost scanning her, like she was a football strategy to study before the next game. She recoiled; it'd been too long since he'd examined her this closely, and she didn't welcome it now. "Maybe," he said then, dragging the word out, "you should try a different church tomorrow. Heard the Presbyterians on Main have a funky new preacher. Might be worth checking out."

She had tried going back. She wasn't sure why she'd even bothered — by then, the whole congregation must've heard about her publicly hugging the town lesbian at a kids' baseball game, and of course, they weren't going to accept it. Maybe a small part of her had hoped for leniency. For all people knew, she was trying to bring Jeanie closer to God.

Delusional. If they weren't going to accept her grandchild, there was no way they would ever accept her friendship with a woman like that.

The community she'd been a part of for half her life, that she'd put her blood, sweat, and tears into, cut her off at the drop of a hat, no trial, no apologies.

"I'm not going back to church, George." She chugged back her water, almost wishing she was back in the car with Jeanie, breaking the rules. Drinking. Dancing. Singing. There was so much music to listen to and catch up on, and yet there was one cd in the car radio that she kept popping in time after time. She liked to imagine it to be a possibility; leaving town, a tank full of gas, sleeping while Jeanie drove. Their original plan, just executed eighteen years too late. In the dark, on the highway, she could dream of it, as long as it was gone in the morning.

Still, it lingered enough that going back to church, any church, wasn't an option anymore. Her choices were gnawing at her, infiltrating her nightmares, and if she were to step into a holy building, she would at least be consumed with shame, if not the eternal flames of hell itself.

"Then what?" George asked, and he was one to talk about loud noises, raising his voice like that. He was much more awake now, eyes wide open, wild hair giving him a slightly desperate look. "You gonna be like this now? Cruising from bar to bar with some loose woman, spending all kinds of money we don't have? Before she arrived, you were thinking about getting a second job. Sheldon threw a tantrum today 'cause he couldn't find his Saturday socks."

He couldn't be serious. She put down the glass, water splashing over the rim, and placed a hand on her hip, using the other to balance herself against the counter. "Hold up," she said, "when you go out to town drinking with your buddies and watching the game, coming home late, even when the kids were babies — that was fine —"

" —Now, hold on..."

" —that was fine," she spoke over him. "But when I, for once in my life, go out a couple of times with a dear friend I might not be able to see again when she goes home — when I have some fun, like you and my mom always badgered me to do — that's when you think you have any right to complain?"

She'd felt guilty earlier. It must hurt him to see her try for Jeanie, to know he hadn't been able to make her laugh uncontrollably for ages now and witness her keeling over when some woman from a whole different life was around.

It was absurd, the lengths she went to to hold Jeanie's affection, as if she didn't already have it. She still remembered a time when she did the same for George, folded herself to perfectly fit into his sweetheart-shaped box. It'd never come easy to her, and she'd sighed in relief after they got married and she could be a wife and mother instead.

She'd never desired to be fun. Not until tonight, when Jeanie had been watching some people on the dance floor in the Irish pub they'd had dinner at, clapping and encouraging them with her loud, captivating laugh, and she'd been suddenly overcome with an entirely new fear. What if Jeanie thought her boring? She knew her husband and mother did, which was offensive at most, but the idea that Jeanie saw her the same took the air from her lungs. She'd seen the women twirling their skirts and had been overcome with the want to be one of them.

So, she drank, and then she danced. Wasn't like one more misstep was going to matter in the grand scheme of things.

George scoffed at her and shook his head. The leg of his pants had finally slid down, and instead of comedic, he suddenly looked old. "I've never left you alone night after night after night."

"No, you're right. How silly of me." There was no guilt now, only smothering anger that was slightly contained by her drunken state. She was shaking, head to toe, and she'd have loved nothing more than to stomp on his toes or or or, something else really painful. "Next time I leave, I'll be sure to stay gone for a couple of months, like you did."

She yanked open the dishwasher and wedged the glass in there, forgetting to empty it first. The water spilled all over the inside, and she shut it quickly. It was a wonder it'd even been filled up. Probably had Sheldon to thank for that.

"I'm going to stay at my mom's. I'm sure you can handle being a parent a little longer."

She stomped away, lips trembling with indignation as he called after her: "You're drunk. We'll talk in the morning." She told herself to ignore him, regretting taking off her shoes while she looked for a pair that didn't have any laces, and without hesitation, stormed outside, crossing the street.

The chilly air jolted her awake, and she halted on the porch. The neighborhood was asleep; all cars stationary in their driveways, curtains closed. Not even the wind was present, no, she was the only disturbance in as far as her eye could see.

It was the most lonely feeling.

She swallowed, and without thinking, set off for an entirely different house.