Page 96 of Love What's Left
“My brother.” I hook my arm around her waist, spinning us and backing her against the wall. I speak against the shell of her ear. “Ask the real question, Walsh.”
“What were you drinking?”
I hate her distrust. Resent it. But even Henry asked, because I left the house at midnight like a man on the edge.
I move, my lips millimeters from hers, waiting for the hitch of her breath, for her eyes to close, and the subtle tilt of her chin that meansacceptance. When it comes, my mouth meets hers. I hold her steady, cradle her head in both palms, and I invade, thrusting inside the moment she opens for me.
Her tongue moves against mine, her body instantly relaxing the moment she tastes me, her hands sliding up to hold my shoulders.
I lift away and glare into her eyes. “I don’t drink alcohol. I don’t do drugs. I don’t have sex with anyone but you. Ever.”
Her breath shudders.
“You could have called me. You could havejoinedme. I know you checked the app,” I say.
“I didn’t look at it. I’m not chasing after you.”
“You can’t chase me when I’mright heregoing fucking nowhere. Talk to me. Call me. Track me down. I don’t care. You’re never finding me doing anything that would hurt you. We had a fight. I left to give us both time to cool off, and you jumped straight to packing a bag.”
“Because I’m bad for you. I thought . . .”
“I know what you thought.”
She covers her eyes and rubs. “The last thing my father said to me was ‘Shoulda let you drive.’ I was eight years old. You said you’d have had Bronwyn find her own ride, and all I could hear was his voice as he died, telling me that if he could have done things differently, he wouldn’t have stayed home. He wouldn’t have refused to drink. He was sorryhe hadn’t put his responsibility onto me so he could keep doing what he wanted to. He was dying, and never saw that he was the problem. But that was him. It wasn’t you. You didn’t keep living like that.”
Every bit of my resentment drained away the moment she started speaking. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It was his job to take care of you, not the other way around. You don’t need to save me, Sydney. I can save myself.”
She shakes her head. “I woke you up and drove you out of our house. I can see that I’m hurting you. Don’t lie and say I’m not. If I make you start drinking again, I’ll never forgive myself.”
“If you think anything you say or do could make my choices your responsibility, you’re wrong.”
“I can’t fix another person,” she says. “I know that.”
I brush the tears from her face. “If you’ve accepted that you didn’t cause it, can’t control it, and can’t cure it, then the answer is staring you in the face.”
She frowns and shakes her head.
I take a deep breath. “Accountability is everything for an alcoholic. You can’t cure me, but you also can’t make me act outside my own will. A man beats his wife, then claims she made him do it because she pushed his buttons. He says that’s not his fault, right? If she would just stop pissing him off, then he wouldn’t lose his temper. Is that the truth?”
Her full lips tighten. “Of course not.”
“A woman wears revealing clothing. Is it true a man can’t control his sexual urges? Is he entitled to sex becauseshe made him want it?”
“That’s disgusting.”
“I agree. But what about ‘Life is too stressful. I need to drink because my boss sucks. Because my wife is a nag. Because I’m under too much pressure? Because I just broke up with my girlfriend.’ When you hearthat, do you have the same reaction? Or does it make sense to you?”
“It’snot the same.”
“It is exactly the same. I’ll bet your father taught you that his drinking was everyone’s fault but his own. The first thing any addict likes to do is make his problem someone, or something, else’s fault. I drank to go numb. I told myself I needed it because life hurt too much without it. But I will face any pain and feel every cut a thousand times before I go back to being that man. You could break my heart, Sydney. You could tear me to pieces with grief. But not even you are powerful enough to make me drink.”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“No it isn’t. The only person responsible for my decisions is me, and I have too many reasons to stay clean and sober. You’re one of them, but not all of them. My family matters. My employees matter.Imatter. I called my brother because I wanted someone to talk to. If he couldn’t make it, I’d have called my counselor, then I’d have found a book to read until I was too tired to keep my eyes open. Do I crave it? Not often, but sometimes. And when I do, I have anchors. Unless someone holds me down and dumps that shit down my throat, everything else is my choice and my responsibility, and I choose to never go back to that life. You can’t fix me, but you can’t break me either.”
“Not everyone would agree with you,” she says.
“I don’t need everyone to agree with me. I only need you to believe in me.”
