Page 56 of Whiskey Throttle
Worry carves up his face.
Only when I’ve slightly recovered does he offer me my wine glass to take a drink.
“I didn’t mean for that to happen. I just assumed it was kind of similar to this place, but for your family.”
I continue clearing my throat. Then drink half the glass until the tickling recedes. How do I explain that house? It holds so many dark memories. The lonely nights waiting for the ex to come home from so-called late nights working at the office. Battling Dominic over everything. Schooling, studies, tutors, all the doctors’ visits, and testing to figure out what was going on with him. Trying to rein in my daughter and her rebellious nature.
If I weren’t exhausted and losing my wits with one of them, then the other would start up. Being a single parent in my marriage was lonely, frustrating, and overwhelming. I became a dry well with nothing to give anyone.
The burn in my throat fades, but the ache in my chest does not. I lower the glass and set it on the counter, avoiding his gaze.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“No, it’s okay, I just wasn’t expecting it.”
He stays standing, unsure whether to sit again or give me space. I glance up at him, the soft glow of the kitchen lights catching in his hair. He looks so young at that moment. Not naïve but untouched by the weight of decades that I carry in my bones.
“Barrettmoor isn’t like this place.” I push a piece of pita around my plate, needing something to distract me. “It’s cold. Dark. Formal. Looks good in photographs and architecture magazines, but living in it . . .”
I trail off, unable to finish, eating the pita that’s mushy against my tongue. He waits. Not pressing or prodding. Just slides back onto the stool beside me.
“I spent years walking on eggshells in that house. Years trying to hold everything together. Dom was . . . difficult as you know.”
He nods. It’s enough not to have to travel that troublesome road again.
“My daughter, Violette, was . . . a rambunctious teenager. Wanted to grow up fast, drugs, and looking for the male attention she didn’t get from her father from other men. I’m sure you heard her reputation.”
If he did, he doesn’t say either way. Keeps his expression neutral but leans closer without touching.
“Always tension, fighting. Some of the roughest years for all of us. If my ex had been home . . .” I exhale a tired laugh. “Let’s just say he liked the appearance of a family and what they do for his company, but not the actual work it took to keep one.”
“Some men of industry are selfish assholes.”
Despite his blank face, his inflection is full of bitterness. A hint at an undercurrent in his world or my ex, I don’t know.
“I learned that lesson the hard way. I used to think that if I just worked harder and made everything perfect, everyone would get better. Or maybe we could be a better family. Counseling, rehab, therapy, you name it, and I did it, saying it was for the greater good. Convinced that if I kept pushing the kids and myself in the right direction, things would shift and change. It never did. Made everything worse. I burned myself down to the wick trying to make everyone happy.”
I shake my head, the sting returning to my throat, but this time, it’s emotional. Tears careen down my face. Hot and fast.
“I ruined my family. Ruined it in that house.”
I will not make a complete spectacle of myself by crying. Just a silent stream of pain flowing from my eyes down my makeup-less face. Hollister puts his arms around my shoulders and draws me in, holding me as I let it out.
His face rests in my hair. Light kisses to my head while his fingers tangle with mine. It’s more comfort than I’ve ever received about this situation. It only makes me cry harder. Not ugly cry, but enough to see the raw pain that still resides deep within my soul. A river of guilt and regret that will never cease to flow into an ocean of self-loathing as a parent.
His thumb strokes the top of my hand.
“You didn’t ruin your family. They are strong, like you, because of everything.”
The words are whispered like a prayer, like he’s not even sure I’ll hear them. But I do. They settle somewhere deep in my chest, where my shame lives. The part of me that still wonders if I broke my children just by trying so hard to hold them together.
He pulls back only enough to look at me. His hand comes up, wiping one tear with the back of his knuckle. My lip trembles, and I swallow down another sob before it can rise. I pull away gently, needing air. Needing space to recover what little composure I have left.
I dab at my eyes with a napkin, blinking through the haze.
“Thank you.”
He watches me for a second, then shifts his weight.
