Page 33 of The Light We Lost

He tensed, and I wished I could take the words back. We weren’t shy with one another, nor did we live behind rose-colored glasses. But this . . . this was harder. “I am not quitting.”

“I didn’t say that,” I explained, hating that he’d jumped to the worst-case scenario. “But what you’re doing isn’t working. This dream is not worth what you’re putting yourself through. You aren’t sleeping, Nolan. You can’t relax. You’re constantly anxious, even more than before—”

“Drop it.” His voice was low, and he carefully eyed those around us. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Let me worry about baseball.”

I staggered back a step, though regret immediately filled Nolan’s eyes. Our relationship was anything but perfect, but no matter our struggles, he’d never dismissed me so naturally. But I didn’t scare easily, and he’d have to try harder than that to push me away.

“Okay.” I let out a heavy breath, steeling my shoulders. Later, when he was in a better mindset, I’d tell him how he’d hurt me. It would only make things worse if I started a fight with him now. “I better get to work . . . I can’t miss again.”

As much as I didn’t want Nolan to be home alone, I couldn’t call in if I wanted to keep my job. I’d already done so three times this month, on top of being late for a handful of shifts. “Why don’t you come with me?” I offered. “We can make you a little setup in the booth. You’ll have an endless supply of coffee . . .”

The corner of his mouth tilted up, his fingers brushing the inside of my wrist in silent apology. “I’m just gonna go home and crash.”

I blinked past the burning in my eyes. “Can I drive the truck to the diner? Unless you’ll be awake to pick me up when my shift ends?”

His throat bobbed, and he avoided my gaze as he reached into his pocket and handed me his keys. He left a swift kiss on my cheek before I walked away. I managed a few steps before I glanced over my shoulder—he was already walking in the direction of our apartment.

It felt like he was walking away from me.

I understood he was disappointed. He was hurting. But didn’t he know I felt everything he did? His disappointment was mine. His anger, his sorrow. His dreams—they were mine. I was living for Nolan, for us. But sometimes . . .it felt like I was alone in that.

I stepped into the parking lot, finding Wayne leaning against his son’s truck. It was our only vehicle, and since the restaurant was within walking distance for me or Nolan picked me up—with exceptions like tonight—Wayne was probably waiting for him. But I realized differently when I closed the distance between us and he asked for the second time tonight, “How’s our boy doing, Indy?”

I bit the inside of my cheek, my heart aching as I saw the concern in his eyes, heard it in his voice. Before I could open my mouth, I was reminded of the promise I’d made to Nolan, long before our marriage vows. Maybe I was desperate to keep it, or I was in denial as much as Nolan was, but I assured him, “He’s doing good.”

It was the same thing I’d told myself through the years, even more so the past five months. The same lie I convinced myself was true when I walked in our apartment later that night. The lights were off, nothing more than the glowing stars on the ceiling and the low light of the small television in the corner to see by. But I didn’t need to see to smell the stench of beer.

My stomach sank. The last time he’d drunk had been when he’d injured his pitching arm senior year. That had been a year ago, and I couldn’t help but feel like I’d failed him by going to work. Nolan was underage, and I could count the number of times I’d seen him drink on one hand, but each time I prayed to never see it again. He wasn’t an addict, nor was he a mean drunk . . . He was heartbreaking.

I clicked on a lamp, sighing as I found Nolan sprawled out on the floor beside our bed. Empty bottles were scattered throughout the room, but I smiled at the sight of Eugene cradled against his chest. After picking up, I grabbed a warm washrag and settled on the floor beside him, easing his head onto my lap.

“Mom?”

I swallowed, feeling like my gut was in my throat. “No, baby. It’s just me.”

“Peaches.” I relished the way he said it with such relief and adoration, even more so when he hooked his arms around my thighs. “I was hoping it was you. I thought I lost you.”

I smoothed his hair off his forehead. “Never.”

“Promise? I need you for life.”

“Promise.”

He hummed, seemingly pleased. I leaned back against the bed, running my fingers through his hair. It was silent for a long while, and I was debating whether I should change him out of his uniform when he murmured, “I don’t like drinking.”

“Then why’d you do it?”

“Because it was getting too hard to smile.”

“You don’t have to smile all the time,” I whispered, surprised when I looked down to find him watching me. I held his jaw, hoping this would be the time he believed me. “I love the man who takes off his mask and lets me in. I have a feeling the rest of the world would too.”

He closed his eyes. “They’ll leave.”

I sighed, knowing nothing I could say right now would ease that fear. It could take years to unwind the damage already done. “The right ones won’t.”

“Mom did.”

“Because she’s not the right one.”

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