Page 87 of Whiskey Throttle
“Looking good, Hollister,” she calls after me.
The condescending tone and accompanying laugh are deserved. I make it a point to limit our interactions, afraid I’ll say something stupid again. She doesn’t seem to mind. Neither do I. But Diego bristles every time we are in the same room together.
“I said the same thing to him.”
I hear Diego murmuring to her, sharing in her laughter. So that’s what it means. Somehow, I doubt both were for real about it. The door falls shut behind me as I walk to the elevator. It’s only when I hear his heavy boots fall that I know he’s coming.
“If Dom’s there, don’t start shit. This is for Em and Massi, not you.”
CHAPTER 22
BABS
Sunday sunlight slants through the living room windows. Every beam cuts through the gray sadness that clings to me. The explosive confrontation in the hospital was far worse than I could have imagined. I knew Dom would be difficult, but the heinous and unnecessary harshness of his words hurt. The pain is so fresh and lingering that I’ve been worthless today.
Walking around my house, waiting for him to call to bitch me out more, or some angry, aggressive lash out. The eerie quiet brings flashbacks to the long days spent alone after Violette ran off to New York. Dom has always required a lot of time to calm down and process things at his own pace, all things that have been told and reinforced to me by various counselors and therapists.
I should know the drill by now.
Yet it still doesn’t protect me from the disappointment settling deep into the same wounds forged from him years ago. Scarred over on the surface but infected at the core. I’ve called him half a dozen times already. Straight to voicemail. Left a few messages.
Now I wait. Wait for him to come around, which could take weeks. Months that one time. I should be used to this and accustomed to being pushed away and ignored. Another thing I did wrong. Another betrayal for him to recover from.
This is my fault. I’m not hiding that fact. But yesterday I didn’t get a word in. Hollister, raised with good manners and respect for women, jumped to protect me. That part warms my heart and awakens something in me that hasn’t felt this way in a long time. Yet as fast as that feeling arises, it’s quickly doused in the gasoline that lit the fire.
Dominic.
All questions and answers start and end with him.
He’s been my constant source of angst, heartbreak, and second-guessing everything in my life related to him. If only I were the mother he needed me to be. If only the professional help we both attended could have trained me to nurture him.
Everything I tried was rebuffed. Many times, I thought it was just too late, too far gone. That all pales in comparison to how I feel now. How damaged we are. Leaving me to wonder, can this even be repaired?
Then there’s Hollister.
Fun.
Free.
Wanting me.
I haven’t heard from him either. Long hours have passed without a single call or text. While he’s occupied my thoughts in the swirling complications of that confrontation, my phone sits silent. On the table in every room I go to, I look at it far too much to be good for my sanity.
Yet every time I think of the start of this weekend, how he laid himself bare to me, hope blooms in my chest. Wishing we could continue. Wishing things didn’t fall apart. Yet, knowing this, the prudent thing to do is to put my needs aside for the good of my child. Chin up and look back on this brief moment for what it was, a decadent indulgence that I once deserved to partake in. That leaves my stomach even sicker, thinking I’ve lost both of them for good.
I rise from the chaise lounge where I’ve been anchored for the last hour, placating myself with a book. My eyes travel over the words, yet none enter my mind. The surrounding silence is lonely, save for the occasional interruption from the chef inquiring about lunch and the house manager requesting time to go over some maintenance items.
My fingertips trace over the smooth sea glass still pressed against my skin, a reminder of how close we were and how far apart we are now. I don’t know how we will get past this. Whatever happens, Dominic comes first, even if he hates me anew.
Enough.
I can’t wait any longer for my son. I know he needs time, but I need to explain myself. My heart pounds with adrenaline, knowing I’m walking into the lion’s den. I stand, grab my keys from the hall table, and stride out the door. Determined to face him on his turf before this silence kills us both. Getting there is a blur. A mess of tangled thoughts, rehearsing what I’m going to say and how I’ll respond to his various insults.
Motherfucker
Fucking my mother.
I replay all the vile words spewed in anger. Trying to control mine, as I should demand he respect me. Yet my anger will only be met with his rage. Something I can never top and don’t want to try. I did once. It was a disaster. No. Calm is the way to proceed.
