Page 132 of Straight to Me

I stop putting the clean dishes Lynn brought back away. “Someone had to tidy it up, the whole house stinks of sick and gone off food. I had to force Lynn out so she didn’t end up cleaning every inch of this place.”

“She didn’t have to do that... I’ll sort it.”

“It’s done,” I tell him as the toaster pops. “Sit down, you need to eat something.”

“Mads, I said I’d sort it.” His tone is rude.

I drop the plate on the side and storm past him to my bag on the sofa. I didn’t have to do any of this either. We’re over. I search for my keys.

“Where are you going?”

“You calledme! And if I hadn’t have come, you might have drowned on your own vomit by now, you fucking arsehole!”

“Wait!” I manage to get the front door open half a foot, before he fumbles into it, banging it shut.

“Dean, let me out!” His eyes tense at his name, his lips tightening. “Oh, stop acting offended when I call you Dean, you’re not my VP anymore, remember?”

The glare he sends me is replaced when a look of regret smothers his face. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” Shutting his eyes, he steps out of my way. He runs his hands through his hair as I open the door.

I assume he’ll try to stop me again. Instead, he cries, tears streaming down his face. He’s never cried in front of me before. My brain tells me to leave, but my heart won’t allow it. “Dean?”

He stumbles to his sofa, sitting on the edge with his head in his hands. I contemplate what on earth the right thing to do is as I close the door gently. I place my bag on the hook and walk to him, where I sit on the edge of the coffee table facing him, placing my hands gently on his knees.

At my touch, he relaxes. “What happened?” Moving his hands slowly through his hair, he looks to me, our faces only a few feet apart.

“Jack, he uh, he didn’t make it. Uncle Ronnie called me Friday. He’d developed a massive bleed on the brain… and… that was it.”

“Wait, Friday? You’ve been here dealing with this since Friday? Why didn’t you call me? Or text me back?”

He fixes his eyes on mine, visibly forcing himself to remain indifferent. “Because we’re not together, it’s not your problem.”

I can’t stop my grief bubbling over. “Not my problem?” I cry. I quickly wipe my eyes dry and stand. If that’s what he wants. “Then I should go,” I sniff.

He grabs my hand as I start to walk away but I swipe it away from his slightly still drunk grasp. “Either you want me here or you don’t. But you can’t say you need me, then push me away like you keep doing. I deserve better than that.”

Even though I’m crying I’m proud of myself for saying it. I do deserve better. Better than how Chris treated me and better than being pushed away by the men in my life.

“I need you. Please, don’t go. I can’t take another day without you.”

“You’ve lived plenty of days without me Dean, you’ll find a way.”

His eyes slowly find mine. “That wasn’t living.”

I consider who else he has and realise the list is growing short. “You need to eat.” I can't think of anything else to say. Smiling with his eyes half open, he slowly stands to his unsteady feet.

His beautifully sculpted body basically bare before my eyes makes my heart ache for a different reason. I point towards the kitchen. He walks semi-aware of his surroundings and sits at the dining table.

I walk back to butter his toast. “How was your first day of work?” he asks. I’m touched that he remembered even in his drunken state.

“Uh, yeah, good. Lauren was great.”

“That’s good.”

“I don’t need to ask how your day went,” I comment, placing the toast on the table. He nods his thanks, picking up a slice. He inspects it closely, his eyes still never fully opening.

“You cut off the crusts.”

I had done it without realising. “That’s how you like it?” He smiles and takes a small bite. I fill up the kettle and wait for it to boil.

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