Fiona hasn't told anyone about the walks she takes late at night when it's too much to handle. When she's up late, unable to sleep because of the thoughts that are keeping her awake. When she's alone, stressed out, her anxiety in high-gear.
The first night she does it, she's just going out for air. Or, at least that's what she tells herself. But, her feet wind up carrying her the path to the liquor store. The socialite stood on the sidewalk outside the small store, it looming above her seeming to be about fifty feet tall. The breeze whipping her hair around her, cooling her warm skin. Walking up to the window, staring in at the bottles; thinking how easy it would be to slip, and how hard it is keep strong.
Pressing her forehead to the glass, she closes her eyes; breathing in and out slowly. Trying to calm her nerves. Eventually deciding that all the progress she's made is not worth losing to a bottle of sparkling wine. No matter how bad of a day, or week, or month she's had; it's not worth it.
She walks the path back home. Feeling a bit stronger for having resisted her vice. She makes a call to her sponsor, or a friend. Sometimes both. Talking with the person on the other end about her feelings; telling them what's bothering her because that's what they told her to do in rehab. She doesn't tell them about her walks; no, that information is just for her.