Page 63 of Screwed (Dad Bod Contracting 4)
“That you’re crying?” I wipe at his face with my fingertips, so gently, so carefully. “No, James. I don’t care.”
He nods, captures my wrist and peers at my fingertips, glistening with his tears. “Weeks of therapy. Months. Three times a week, talking it all out. Hoping for some…some…” He shakes his head. “What’s the word, for when you suddenly realize something life-changing?”
“Epiphany,” I say.
He nods. “That. Ephi-f…epip—fuck. Epiphany. There you go.” He sighs. “I thought I’d have one of those. But I haven’t.”
“No?”
He shakes his head. Holds up his left hand again and stares at the ring on his finger. “That ring. She put it on my finger more than twenty years ago.” He swallows hard. “She died on our anniversary.”
I choke. “You’re fucking kidding me.”
He shakes his head sloppily. “Nope.”
“Holy hell, James. No wonder this weekend is hard for you.”
“She was gonna have our baby on our anniversary. I was excited about that. Thought of all the presents I’d buy every year, a birthday and our anniversary on the same day? So many presents. And then she died, and our little baby boy died with her, and our anniversary became the anniversary of the day she died and the day our baby died. Too much on one day. And usually I spend it alone with Jesse. We drink a little and talk about Renée and get sad and that’s it. Today? I couldn’t do that. There’s more than sad inside me, and I’ve been keeping it bottled up, Doc Rich says. I’ve got to let it out, he says.”
“He’s right, you do.”
“You’re the punching bag,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m strong. I’m tough. I can take it.”
“Shouldn’t have to.”
“Let it out, James.”
He shakes his head again, and a weird look crosses his face. “Whoa. Maybe—oh god. I haven’t puked from drinking since I was fourteen.” He grabs the bucket, gags, and then pukes into it, again and again and again, and I rub his back until he’s done. “Jesus.”
“Feel better?” I ask.
He nods, wiping his mouth. “Yeah. A bit.” He shakes his head. “God, that fucking sucks.”
I hand him another bottle of water. “Drink. Rinse and spit and then drink.”
He does so, and then sighs. “I’m still really drunk.”
“Puking it up will help, but you’re gonna be hammered for a long time.”
“Benny.” He mutters this, his eyes closed, head resting back against the cabinet. “Our boy. We were gonna name him Benny. After Benny Goodman. Renée was a big band freak. Loved that shit.”
“It’s not just about her, is it?” I say.
He shakes his head. “It’s about him, too.” He squeezes his eyes closed. “I held him. He was stillborn. So tiny.” He holds out his cupped hands. “This big.”
I crack. “God, James. I’m so, so sorry.”
He’s quiet a long, long time. “I think about you constantly,” he says, eventually.
“I think about you, too,” I whisper.
“I didn’t know I was going to end up here.” He’s tilting sideways, sliding toward me.
“James?”
He slumps. His head hits my shoulder, and his weight drags him further downward. His face scrapes down my chest, smashes against my breast, and then he lands in my lap on my bare thighs.
“James?”
He groans. “Sleepy.”
“Should I be worried about you?”
He grunts a negative. “I’m indestructible. Wish I wasn’t. I’ll wake up and remember everything.”
“Let’s get you up.”
He grunts a negative, but then makes a valiant effort to get upright. I scramble to get my feet under me, crouching with my shoulders under him, and use all the power in my thighs and core to leverage him up to his feet.
“You’re a fucking beast, Nova,” he says.
“Well, I’ve been powerlifting since college,” I say. “Gotta be good for something.”
“It’s fuckin’ hot,” he mumbles. “Everything about you is hot.”
I laugh. “You’re just drunk.”
“Yeah. But that doesn’t make you not drunk. I mean, hot. It doesn’t make you not hot.” He opens one eye and peers at me. “I mean it. You’re so fucking beautiful.”
I half carry him out of the kitchen—a single glance at my couch tells me he’ll never fit there. The only option is my bed—I have the extra bedroom, but I use it as storage. So that’s where I take him—to my room, staggering under his weight. I get him onto my bed. Untie his muddy boots and haul them off. And holy shit, his socks stink—those go too, and both socks and boots get tossed out into the hallway. I undo his jeans and tug them off, trying to avoid getting dried mud on my bed. He’s a deadweight, but he’s mumbling under his breath, so I know he’s not passed out yet. Once his jeans and boots are off, I take them out of my room and toss the boots outside and the socks and jeans into the washer with a load of my clothes that have been sitting there since last night. When I go back into my room, James is more fully on the bed, on his back, his left hand across his chest. He’s still mumbling.
