I lean my head against the cool windowpane, staring out at the darkening sky. Ruth is right, of course. Stone and I have a lot of crap to work through. I feel terrible that Zeke overheard the cruel words his own father said, but I also know Stone didn’t mean any of it. He’s drunk, stressed and probably feels very alone. I have to find a way to help them both, starting with Stone.
I just don’t know how I’m going to get through to him.
I slam the fridge door closed and walk out the door onto the back porch. There’s still a steady drizzle of rain left over from last night, and the air has a slight chill. I feel goose bumps rise on my forearms as I open my beer and lift it to my lips, the fight leaving my body as the cool alcohol runs down my throat. I move to sit on the two-seater couch, swallowing another mouthful of beer before placing the open bottle on the small table in front of the couch. The table has various books and magazines scattered across it, a habit I picked up from Grandma. “Always make sure you have something to read when you need to relax,” she’d taught me. I’m still fuming from my fight with Shannon. I can’t believe she said those things in front of my son. What business is it of hers how much I drink?
I’m angry, but is it at Shannon or myself? Was she right? Do I drink too much? I know I’ve had a hard time coping since getting back home, but surely I can’t be that bad, can I? If you have to ask, you already know the answer, my mind taunts.
I groan as I sit back on the couch, picking up my beer and taking another swig. Just as the bottle touches my lips, a loud crack of thunder shakes the porch and I jump, dropping my bottle as I drop to the ground behind the table and cower with my head buried in my hands, fearing the bullets as they kick up the dirt around me. I sit there shaking for a few minutes until I can slow my breathing. I gradually lift my head as the tightness in my chest eases and my hazy vision starts to clear. I hate these flashbacks. I never know when they’ll occur, and they always seem so real.
I lean down and pick up the bottle, cursing under my breath as I see it’s now empty. I briefly contemplate getting another one. It would be so damn easy to have another, to lose myself once more in the amber liquid that seems to give me all my courage as of late.
But I can’t bring myself to do it.
I sit back with a small growl of disgust as I run a hand over my head. This is ridiculous. I can’t even have a beer now without feeling fucking guilty for it. This is my house, dammit, my rules. If Shannon and Zeke can’t respect that, then I’m not forcing them to stay. But you are, the rational part of my brain reminds me. You won’t let Shannon leave until her leg’s better. I close my eyes and rub my temple with my index and middle fingers, a headache coming on. Why did all this crap have to happen now? I’m not ready for a kid or a woman. A fire starts low in my belly, slowly licking upwards as it burns, consuming all coherent thought and igniting an anger in my heart. Who the fuck does Grace think she is? She can’t just leave me hanging for fourteen years then waltz back in like nothing happened with a fucking kid.
I stand up so suddenly I flip the small table in front of me, scattering books and magazines everywhere. Another clap of thunder passes overhead but I hardly notice, and I don’t care. I run my hands over my face as I pace back and forth in front of the couch. Why the fuck didn’t she tell me? So many years have passed, and she couldn’t be bothered writing a letter? Making a phone call? She’s nothing more than a selfish bitch who wants to play with my head, punish me for what I did fourteen years ago. I fucking hate her.
I walk down the stairs and into the rain, the biting cold doing nothing to dissuade the fire burning hotly inside me. What the hell did I do to deserve this? Did our time together, however short, mean absolutely nothing to her? I loved her.
I loved her as much as any real man loves his wife. What I did, I did for her. I did for the family we might have one day . . . for our son.
Our son.
All at once, the fight leaves my body. I collapse to my knees in the rain, ignoring the familiar twinge of pain in my injured leg. Tears spring to my eyes and I don’t try to stop them as they pour down my cheeks. It’s a relief to finally unburden myself this way. I can feel the top layer of fourteen years wash away, mixed with the rain and my tears. My chest heaves with exertion and my lungs seem as though they might burst.
I can’t do this. I’m not ready. How am I meant to look after a kid when I clearly can’t even look after myself? I need help. Oh, God, won’t someone help me? I’m drowning in so much emotion, my mind is screaming and no amount of closing my eyes will stop the voices. Am I going mad? Have I finally completely lost my mind?
I lie back against the cold ground, the smell of wet grass filling my senses as the rain continues to fall around me. Water goes into my eyes, but I just blink it away. I’m past caring, beyond physical pain. I’m numb.
Overhead, the storm intensifies, but it’s nothing compared to the storm that’s raging inside of me. The wind howls through the trees, swaying the branches dangerously close to the ground. The rain hits me mercilessly, sending rivulets of water running down my face, my abs, my arms. I welcome the cold. It mirrors the emptiness inside me.
Night falls, yet I stay right where I am. My clothes are soaked through, plastered to my skin as it continues to rain, but it doesn’t convince me to move indoors. A bolt of lightning streaks across the night sky, lighting the entire area around me. I turn my head against the sudden light, blinking away the rain drops from my eyelashes. I blink again as a figure in white appears on the porch. I’ve never believed in angels, but right now I’m pretty sure I’m looking at one. She’s dressed in a long, white gown, her golden curls cascading around her tiny waist. Through my drunken haze, I can see she’s struggling to walk with a crutch. Anger washes over me at the thought that she might be injured. Who would harm such a delicate and beautiful creature?
She steps out into the rain, leaning heavily on a wooden crutch. I want to call out, tell her to get out of the rain, but my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, making words impossible. I can do nothing but stare at her helplessly as she approaches. She doesn’t look like an ordinary angel. Her lips are formed into a tight, thin line, and her brow is creased as she frowns at me. She’s saying something, but I can feel myself slipping away as the alcohol takes its toll on my body. I can see her lips moving, but I can’t make out the words. Her hand stings as it connects with my cheek and I open my eyes fully to see her standing directly above me, her hand raised to strike again.
She’s clearly pissed off . . . at me.
What the hell is he doing out here, and how the fuck am I meant to get him inside?
I brace the crutch under my arm and lean down, grabbing his hand. “Come on,” I mutter to myself, uselessly trying to pull him up without slipping over. The bandage on my leg is making things increasingly difficult. I’m just glad I had the foresight to wrap it in plastic wrap to stop it from getting wet. I finally manage to get Stone to sit up, and I put his arm around my shoulder to help him to his feet. He’s so heavy, it takes an almost inhuman strength to move. I grit my teeth against the pain in my leg as I contemplate dropping him back to the wet ground and going to bed . . . it’d be so easy.
He stumbles against me but thankfully doesn’t fall as he leans heavily against me and we move inside. I get him into his bedroom, but it’s a slow process because of my leg. He sits on the edge of the bed as I hobble around, gathering a towel from the bathroom and turning on the heat. I return to the bed and maneuver myself to sit in the wheelchair opposite him. He’s sitting there silently, his head downcast. The earlier anger I felt begins to dissipate. He looks so helpless, so lost.