Page 7 of What We Broke

Alone.

It goes against every fiber in my being to watch him looking like that, but curiosity and anger keep me rooted to the seat.

Is this what he does when he’s out? While I’m at home, alone with Raine, trying to be there for her, worrying about him and trying to maintain my own sanity; is this what he does?

Lately, I’ve been of two minds; full of both empathy and resentment toward this man. Because we have both loved and we have both lost, we are both hurt and broken, we are both sad and angry.

More nights than not, I too wanted to get lost in the bottom of a bottle. For a few single moments, I would love to forget that bad things happen and that we were victims to one of life’s cruel jokes.

But as I acknowledge the shake in his shoulders as he sits on the cold sidewalk in the bitter night air, I would trade the bottle to be able to wrap him up in my arms. I would haul him onto my lap and let him bury his head in my neck as I tell him, over and over, everything will be okay.

Not today.

Not tomorrow.

But if he was by my side, I would make it okay. Eventually.

I would try.

For him I would.

For him I would move heaven and hell or die trying.

Movement in my periphery interrupts my thoughts, and my eyes dart over to see a man exiting the bar, looking left and right, searching for someone. My blood begins to simmer beneath my skin as I watch recognition and relief wash over his face before he walks toward my husband, plants his body beside him, and rests his hand on his knee.

Leo turns his head, and the familiarity that fills his eyes at the sight of this man, paralyzes me.

What the fuck?

My body is moving before my mind has a chance to talk me off the ledge. Climbing out of the car, I slam the door, and that causes enough of a disruption for both men to look up and notice me.

My gaze is trained on Leo, searching for guilt and suspicion. But all I’m met with is his usual vacant, desolate stare, and when that bothers me more than the possibility of my husband cheating, any sliver of hope I felt about us “working it out” disintegrates into dust.

When I finally reach them, I keep my eyes trained on Leo and speak to the stranger. “You can leave now.”

Huffing, he reluctantly drops his hand off Leo’s knee and stands up. “He needs water and food.”

Clenching my jaw, I step closer to him. “How about you don’t tell me what my husband needs.”

He bites the inside of his cheek and glances down at Leo, who couldn’t look more broken if he tried.

“You’re right. Not my monkey, not my circus.” He raises his eyes to meet mine and adds, “See you tomorrow, Leo.”

Knowing he just threw a lit match on our already burning house, he smirks at me and retreats back inside.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask who the fuck he is and how the fuck he knows our business, but when Leo tries and fails to stand up, my attention is diverted tothiscrisis.

I watch him stumble and fall again while slurring, “I didn’t call you.”

“No.” I run a hand over my face before extending my arm out, waiting for him to take my hand. “It seems I’m the last person you would call.”

Ignoring my attempt at assistance, he slumps his body back down on the concrete. “Why are you here?”

“Gio texted. He doesn’t want to be the drunk man’s taxi anymore.”

“I’m not drunk,” he argues. He finally manages to pull himself up off the ground and stand toe-to-toe with me, as if to prove his point. “And I’m not going home with you.”

“Leo.” I sigh. “Please.”

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