Page 162 of The Glass Girl

When I walk out to the front room, Vanessa behind me, Hoyt yells, “Belly!”

He’s holding a bottle of wine and a twelve-pack of beer.

My stomach drops.

I haven’t been around alcohol in a month, except for the bathroom-stall thing at school. But I got myself out of there. I can’t get myself out of here.

My dad gives Hoyt one of those guy backslaps and takes the twelve-pack into the kitchen.

“Belly,” Hoyt says. “You look fantastic, kid. I’m so proud of you. You made it.”

And then, really slowly, almost so slowly I think I might be imagining it, the big smile on Hoyt’s face disappears as gears and pulleys do the magic in his brain.

“Hoyt,” Vanessa says gently.

“I’m sorry, Bella,” he whispers. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Dan,” Vanessa says, turning to the kitchen. “Maybe let’s skip beer and the wine, tonight, okay?”

My dad is already opening a beer for Hoyt. He looks at Vanessa likewhat?

“Yeah, man. My mistake. Let me just take all that back to the car.”

Hoyt heads into the kitchen and starts taking the beer case out of the fridge.

“Hey now,” my dad says. “Hold up. What’s going on? Buddy, stop.”

Hoyt stands in the kitchen, awkwardly holding the beer.

“Dad,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral, “I can’t be around alcohol. I’m not supposed to.”

He frowns, taking a pull of his beer. “No biggie. You don’t even like beer, am I right?”

He winks, like he’s making a joke.

But no one laughs. Hoyt looks at the floor. Ricci is glued to the television.

“It’s my house,” my dad says firmly. “I had a long day. I just want a beer and to hang out with my kids, is that so wrong? I’m not the one with the problem, and I don’t, technically speaking, think my kid has a problem. Hermotherthinks she has a problem. But don’t get me started on that.”

He pulls a plate from the cabinet and sets it down, hard, on the countertop, dragging some pizza slices onto it. “Now let’s eat. I’m starving.”

My dad walks past me and settles on the couch. “Come on, Bella. Eat. You look too skinny.”

Hoyt comes slowly out of the kitchen. He looks ashamed and unsure of what to do.

My heart:You know what you need to do, even though it’s going to suck, hard.

My brain:I support your heart, wholeheartedly. Get it?

I have to keep myself safe.

Because I can feel my stomach getting hot, thinking of all this beer. Because my brain is racing through so many scenarios:he’ll fall asleep later and you can just come out and have one, or just a sip, and he’ll never know, and then you’ll be satisfied. He’s probably got NyQuil in the bathroom, too.

My body starts to tremble, thinking of the night in the pen with Charlotte.

I’m supposed to have six more days here with him.

He called and left messages for me every day in rehab, but he can’t not drink while I stay with him.

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