But Lo doesn’t reciprocate my confidence. He clenches his jaw and tears well up, turning his eyes to a puffier pink. “Do you really think I can just move on?” He chokes. “Let it go like any other fucking day?”
Oh… “We have to try,” I say in a small voice.
He laughs sadly and it cracks and dies short. He wipes his mouth and lets out a breath. “Ask me.”
“What?”
His eyes flicker up to me and they turn into cold steel. “Ask me why I drink.”
A lump lodges in my throat. We don’t talk about our addictions. Not outright. We bury them with booze and sex and on the occasion where we feel lost we return to the nostalgia of comic books.
Fear steals my ability to form words. I think I know the answer, but I’m so terrified of changing the structure that we have in place. My constant. My Lo. I selfishly don’t want that to end.
“Goddammit, Lily,” he says through clenched teeth. “Just fucking ask me!”
“Why?” The word knifes me.
A tear escapes and he says, “Because I can. Because when I was eleven-years-old and tasted my first drop of whiskey, I thought it’d bring me closer to my father. Because I felt empowered.” He touches his chest. “Because I never hit anyone. I never drove. I never lost a fucking job or lost any friends that mattered. Because whenever I drank, I didn’t think I was hurting anyone but me.”
He takes a shallow breath and rubs a shaky hand through his hair. “That is, until last night. Or maybe for the past two months. Or forever. I don’t know anymore.”
I strangle my sheets in my fists and try to remember to inhale. “I’m okay.” I cringe. “I’ll be okay, Lo. You didn’t hurt me. It was just a mistake. A bad night.”
He pushes off the wall, gaining confidence somewhere and sinks down on the edge of the bed. Still far from me. His eyes pierce mine as he says, “You’re forgetting that I know all the tricks, Lil. How many times have you repeated those words to yourself, hoping they’d come true? I do the same thing to justify every shitty night.” He scoots forward and I’ve petrified, going still as a piece of wood. His fingers graze my bare kneecap and his face cracks like it’s painful to touch me. “But I don’t want any more bad nights with you.”
“Did Rose put you up to this?”
“No.” He shakes his head. He gently rests his hand on my leg without looking so tortured, and I let out another strained breath. “I should have been there. I should have stopped the guy. I should have held you in my arms and told you that everything is going to be okay even if it wasn’t. That was my job, no one else’s.”
“Where does this leave us?” I ask. Please don’t leave me, I selfishly think. It may be one of my more abhorrent thoughts yet. I bury my head in my arms as the tears avalanche. I can feel him leaving me, drifting away like a breeze.
“Hey, look at me.” He touches my arms and tries to untangle my cave. I tilt my chin up after he succeeds. He crosses my arms and keeps his hands tight on my elbows, his chest so close to mine.
His eyes start watering again, and I’m suddenly terrified of what he’s about to say.
“I’m an alcoholic.”
He’s never said that out loud, never admitted it in that way.
“My father is an alcoholic,” he continues, tears spilling down his cheeks and onto my arms. “I can’t just will it away like some fairytale. It’s a part of me.” He rubs my tears with his thumb. “I love you, but I want to love you enough that I never choose alcohol over you. Not even for a moment. I want to be someone you deserve. Who helps you rather than enables you, and I can’t begin to do that until I get help for myself.”
I hear only one thing. Rehab. He’s going to rehab. Far away from me. I am proud. Somewhere, deep down, I know I’m proud. But it’s hiding behind fear. He’s going to leave me. Two things have held me together thus far. Sex and Lo. They never used to mix, but losing both at the same time feels like someone ripping off a vital organ and refusing to hook me to a machine.
“Lily!” Lo shakes me a few times, his voice frantic. I can’t make sense of anything until his lips touch mine. He kisses me and tells me to “breathe” over and over.
I inhale a large gasp of air, and my head spins like I’ve been drowning underwater.
“Breathe,” he coos. He rests his hand on my diaphragm, and I’ve somehow made it on his lap.
I clutch his shirt, silently wondering if I can guilt him to stay. No, that’s wrong. I know that’s wrong. I swallow hard.