Page 20 of Blackout-

Peeling my eyes away from the T.V., I look at him. He keeps his head straight but tosses me a wink.

“I love you,” I blurt, watching the smile play on his lips.

“Then we’re even because I fucking love you more than anything,” he replies, giving my foot a squeeze. “Now, watch the movie, Lacey, before I shut it off and spread you out on this couch.”

It’s a tempting offer and I contemplate it for a second before I see the smile fall from Blackie’s face. His eyes narrow as he takes in the scene playing on the screen. Turning to see what’s got him so enthralled, I go completely still as it registers.

Bradley Cooper’s character sits in the back of a car, slurring his words and clutching a bottle of booze. The scene continues to play out on the screen, and I realize I just compared my husband, who is very much a struggling addict, to a man portraying a character battling the same demons. Quickly, I fumble with the remote and pause the movie. Silence fills the air and out of the corner of my eye, I watch Blackie drop his head into his hands. I move to sit up, swinging my legs off his lap and crawl towards him.

“Blackie,” I whisper. Reaching for him, I close my hand around his wrist and pull his hands away from his face. His hair hangs in front of his eyes as he keeps his head down.

“Baby, I’m sorry…I…”

The words die on my tongue as he lifts his eyes to mine. I’ve seen that look before. It’s the look of a tortured soul. Sometimes I see it when I look in the mirror, other times I see it in the eyes of the man I love, and it splinters my heart every damn time.

“Ain’t nothing to be sorry for,” he says, pushing his fingers through his hair. I watch his throat as he swallows and tips his chin towards the television. “Put it back on.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “When I said he reminds me of you, I didn’t mean—”

Touching his finger to my lips, he silences me.

“I know,” he assures me. Dropping his finger, he turns his head and draws in a deep breath. “Look, Lace, there’s something I have to tell you.”

I wait for him to continue but all he does is clench his jaw and remain silent.

“Hey,” I call softly, cupping the back of his neck. “Look at me, Blackie.”

He hesitates for a beat before he slowly turns his head and gives me his eyes.

“You can tell me anything,” I whisper.

He shakes his head and bites his lip.

“Anything,” I repeat.

“I fucked up,” he confesses, keeping the tone of his voice so low, I barely hear him. Kneading the back of his neck, I cock my head and wait for him to elaborate. “The other night, when I came home late, I wasn’t riding.”

“Okay,” I murmur.

“I was drinking.”

The second the words leave his lips, they hang heavily between us and for a split second the past resurfaces and the future dies.

His.

Mine.

All our dreams crumble under the weight of three words.

I wait for tears to sting my eyes, for the disappointment to flood me, but it doesn’t. I don’t get mad and I don’t wish for a different life or a better man. It’s not about me and I think that’s what people sometimes don’t realize.

I once heard someone at a meeting say, to love an addict is to run out of tears. At the time, I thought it was a callous thing to say, but loving Blackie has made me understand the concept. Crying won’t fix him, it won’t change the fact he relapsed. If anything, my tears will only bring him more shame. More pain.

Like nobody grows up wishing to be an outlaw, they don’t wish to be an addict. Bad things happen to good people. It doesn’t make them any less deserving of love. In fact, I’ve come to believe the broken people are the ones who deserve the most love. They’re the ones who tend to have the biggest hearts.

I know what you’re thinking, you think if I forgive him, I’m enabling him. You’re shaking your head and calling me naïve.

He’s only going to do it again.

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