Page 13 of Another Round
I pour myself a glass and tap the edge of hers before taking a long swallow. Allowing her to watch me. Scrutinize my actions and my words. Compare my calm composure contradicting with my ominous contention. While I drink and drip and try to decompress.
We both remain mute when she slides off her seat and walks to the oven. Grabbing the towel off the handle and slowly returning with the peace offering. I accept her unspoken apology and earn a blush while I rub my damp head and body. Nothing I can do for my soaked clothes. “I’ll be right back.”
Surprising the hell out of me when she tugs the cloth out of my hand and slowly drops to her knees. Mopping up the trail of puddles on the floor from the kitchen to the door. She glances back over her shoulder almost as if confirming she won’t leave the apartment to clean the hallway. A small win that somehow still feels like a failure. Instead of overanalyzing our silent actions, I hustle to change clothes.
She’s wiping up the last of the water when I step out of the bathroom. Falling back to sit on her heels, she looks so lost staring up at me. Uncertainty swirling in her expression that I hate. She doesn’t deserve to suffer because of my issues.
She scrambles up quickly when I offer my hand. Easing some of the tension between us. Until she keeps going. Cuddling into my chest with a hug that almost knocks me on my arse. I can’t remember the last time I held someone in my arms and sure as hell never expected there to ever be a next time. Especially not with her.
“I’m so sorry Andy.”
“I know love. Me too.”
Guilt floods through me. She wanted a lazy afternoon of drinking, and I expose her to my nightmare, my insanity instead. Stepping back, I release her except for her trembling hand and lead her back to her seat. “Your bartender has returned. Would you like a refill ma’am?”
“Yes, please.”
Somber and subdued, she doesn’t respond to my attempt at light-heartedness as I hoped. Not that I can blame her. My soul is crushed right now too. Once she sits down, I turn and rummage through my lower cabinets. Searching for my drink of choice since I think she’s going to need her bottle all for herself.
“Did he kill her?”
I grasp the edge of the countertop but stay on my haunches. Can’t blame her for asking when my back is turned. She probably steels herself for another explosion. “No, she killed herself.”
I hear the long breath she blows out and understand exactly how she feels. Steals my damn oxygen too thinking about her suicide. I’m too agitated and can’t let this conversation play out. Impossible to wait for the slow slew of questions that I know will come. So I just go ahead and tell her the story. At least some of it. The parts I can handle right now. “After the attack, she went to counseling. We both did. But it wasn’t enough. Nothing I said or did was enough. After a while she seemed to be getting better. She seemed happier. Or so I thought. I think it was because she just made the decision and…” I can’t admit the truth. That she was happy to be letting go, to be leaving me permanently. “…I came home and found them.”
“Them?”
“She smothered our son Aiden before she hung herself.”
A stuttered sob hitches behind me but I can’t turn around. Unable to console her because I don’t know how to console myself. When all I can do is remember walking into the kitchen and seeing his tiny body so small and perfect while he slept in his pumpkin seat. Except he wasn’t sleeping or breathing or living.
Screaming her name as I tore through the house searching desperately for her. Only to find her dangling from one of the beams spanning across our bedroom ceiling. That she thought gave the room character and made her want to buy the house. And made me never want to step foot inside the cottage again once the coroner took them away.
“How did you go on?”
“I don’t know.”
Honestly, I don’t. I worked until it wasn’t enough to suppress the grief. I drank until it wasn’t enough to kill the memories. I hid until it wasn’t enough to keep me from almost destroying myself.
Now she’s here, and I have to think of something, someone else, besides my own pain. Even though I’m causing her plenty right now. I pour myself more than my usual shot of scotch. Promising myself only one glass so I don’t freak her out any more than I already have. She doesn’t need to take care of my drunk arse too.
“I can’t imagine losing my family or being so broken I’d kill someone I love.”
Sometimes I still can’t imagine it. Or accept it. Or deal with it. “Yeah, that’s the thing. People are really good at hiding things. Hiding the truth from themselves and everyone else until it’s too late.”
I force myself to rise and face her. Regretting the tears I caused that she swipes from her splotched cheeks.
“Like you?”
I down my drink. Welcoming the smooth heat slowly igniting the flames from my tongue to my gut.
“You act like you’re okay, but I don’t think you are.”
A bitter chuckle bubbles in my mouth from her allegation. “Never said I was.”
Rather than argue, she sips her wine. Both of us needing a break from the relentless emotion engulfing us. From the accuracy of her statement in more ways than she can understand.
So I do what she accuses me of—what I’ve been doing for the past twenty-three years—and act like I’m okay. I nod toward the bowl of avocadoes in the corner. “How about I make us something to eat?”
