Wicked Games: A Forbidden Romance

by T. K. Leigh

  “Ya think?” I glare at him, a tightness in my chest. “Do you have any idea the damage this has caused?” I manage to say through the frustration building in my throat.

  “But I read that most alcoholics who suffer a relapse come out stronger afterward.”

  “That would be true if her boyfriend hadn’t been giving her the goddamn alcohol!”

  “I wanted to tell you a few months ago, especially when the occasional sip turned to drinking half my glass, then a full glass, but I didn’t want you to hate me. I care about your mother. You need to believe I’d—”

  “You have a funny way of showing that.”

  He pinches the bridge of his nose, his jaw tightening. “I know I fucked up. And I don’t expect you to forgive me. That’s not what I’m asking for.” His eyes float to mine, imploring. “I love your mother. Tell me what I can do to make it right. To help her get back on track.”

  I stare at him, sick to my stomach. “You want to know how you can make it right?”

  “Yes.” He clasps his hands in front of him. “Anything. Tell me and it’s done.”

  “Leave her alone.”

  My words cause him to instantly straighten. “Wha— ”

  “You are her trigger.” I lean as close as I can in the hospital bed, my gaze unwavering. “If you really do care about her, you’ll keep your distance. She needs to get sober, something that won’t be easy if the person who constantly fed her alcohol is around.”

  “I…,” he stammers, chewing on his bottom lip. “Do you think that’s best? Won’t that upset her? Make it even worse?” He blinks repeatedly, grasping at the last straw he can pull. “Getting her sober again will put enough stress on her. Shouldn’t she—”

  “Not have a daily reminder of the man who gave her alcohol? Absolutely. She may love you, but now you’re just one giant alcohol vending machine. And that’s all you’ll ever be to her. That’s all she’ll ever see when she looks at you. A man who will cave and feed her addiction when the people who truly love her would never have even imagined giving her so much as a sniff of their wine. So if you truly do love her, you’ll walk away and let her heal.”

  Jaw tight, I glower at him, my chest heaving. I’m sure this conversation isn’t good for my blood pressure. This entire scenario is shit for my blood pressure. Briefly closing my eyes, I suck in a steadying breath before looking back at him.

  “I can’t make you do anything you don’t want to,” I continue, my voice softer, more controlled. “I can beg for you to walk away, but you’re two adults. It all comes down to how much you love her. Are you selfish enough to stay with her, knowing you’re a crutch? Or are you selfless enough to allow her the opportunity to recover, something she’ll never have otherwise?”

  He stares at me for what seems like an eternity, indecision flickering in his gaze. My heart thrums in my chest, my breathing echoing in my ears, my lips pinched tight.

  Finally, he lowers his head, nodding in resignation. “Okay.” His agreement comes out as a strained whisper.

  I offer him a compassionate smile. It doesn’t go unnoticed how difficult this must have been for him. I hate that I even had to force him to make this decision. But he forced me to put him in this position.

  I just pray my mother understands why this was the only option.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I stretch my leg out in front of me as I work on the couch Saturday evening. It’s been an interesting couple of days since the incident in my mother’s basement. Upon being discharged, she apologized profusely, even went so far as insisting I stay at her house that night. I took her up on the offer. Partly because I was recovering. Partly so I could keep an eye on her.

  To my surprise, the instant we got back to her place, she cleaned up all the empty bottles, then proceeded to pour every last drop of alcohol down the drain, all without me asking her to. The following morning, she was up bright and early, getting ready for work. She even attended an AA meeting on her lunch break. It gave me hope that this little relapse may not be as bad as all the others, which was why I felt comfortable enough to stay at my apartment tonight, since the weekends tend to be busy in my line of work.

  If my mother weren’t coping as well as she is, I would have been at her place. But she went to her normal Saturday Book Club meeting with some of her other AA friends, then texted afterward to say she was crawling into bed and relaxing for the rest of the evening. She even sent a photo as proof. I hate that she thinks she has to provide photographic evidence to back up her statements, but there’s a certain level of trust that’s broken whenever she has a relapse. She’s used to it as much as I am.

  Just as I’m about to stand and hobble into the kitchen to make a coffee, my phone rings, a number I don’t recognize appearing on the screen.

  “No rest for the weary,” I murmur to myself before answering. “Chloe Davenport.”

  I’m instantly met by loud music, coupled with raised voices. “Is this Chloe Davenport?” a man practically bellows.

  “Yes,” I respond hesitantly.

  “I need you to get to Spring Lounge in SoHo. There’s a woman here. Very intoxicated, argumentative. I was about to call the cops when she begged me to call you instead. I’m assuming this is your mother since you have the same last name. Short. Silver hair. Mouth like a trucker.”

  With a heavy sigh, I pinch the bridge of my nose, fighting against the frustration filling me. Like the other day, I start to blame myself for this, but I can’t keep doing that. I can’t keep putting my life on hold to babysit her. When will it end?

  “Yes. That’s my mother.”

  I briefly entertain the idea of not bailing her out this time. Maybe a night in jail and criminal charges are exactly what she needs. But what will that do to her career? In her line of work as a crisis management specialist, they deal with enough scandals from their clients. The last thing they’d want is a scandal from one of their employees, as well. And I refuse to go back to the way things were years ago when I had no choice but to find more creative ways to earn money to help her pay the mortgage. It takes everything I have to afford my own rent.

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Don’t take all night. There’s only so long I’m willing to babysit her.”

  “All right. All right.” I jump to my feet, wincing from the pain. “I’m on my way.”

  Yanking on a pair of sneakers, I limp out of my apartment without grabbing a jacket, despite the snow beginning to fall, and hail a cab. The drive takes a little longer than normal, thanks to the weather, but after fifteen minutes, the cab pulls up in front of the neighborhood dive bar.

  When I step inside, I’m grateful to see my mother sitting at the end of the bar, a full glass of water in front of her, seemingly calm. I limp toward her, doing my best to forget about the pain shooting through my leg.

  “Mom?”

  Her movements are slow as she lifts her lazy eyes toward me. Then a wicked smile curls her mouth. “There she is. The prodigal daughter. This is her, everyone!” she shouts.

  Several people look in my direction, more out of curiosity than interest. And maybe a little pity.

  “My lovely daughter who asked my boyfriend to break up with me!”

  “Mom,” I hiss, grabbing her arm in an attempt to yank her to her feet. But my injury prevents me from being as strong as I usually am. I wish I’d taken this into consideration and called someone for help. But who? This has always been my burden, and mine alone.

  “You just can’t let me be happy, can you?”

  “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.” I ignore her statement, attempting to pull her off the barstool, to no avail. “The bartender was nice enough to call me instead of the cops. The second we’re outside, you can tell me all about how I’m a horrible daughter for asking the man who provided alcohol to an alcoholic to keep his distance if he really cared about you and your recovery.”

  “Well, your little plan backfired,” she sneers.


  “You’ve got to get her out of here,” the bartender warns as his eyes float to patrons who start fleeing in droves. “I’m losing customers because of her.”

  “I’m sorry.” I wrap my arm under her shoulder blades, but she’s dead weight. There’s no way I’ll be able to get her out on my own. “Can you help me get her outside? Please. She has a problem—”

  “No, I don’t,” my mother interrupts. “You’re the one with the problem.” She shoves a sharp finger into my chest. “You can’t stand anyone being happy.”

  I clench my jaw, drawing in a deep breath before I do or say something I’ll regret and make an even bigger scene, resulting in both of us getting arrested.

  Looking back to the bartender, I implore one final time. “Please. I’m begging you.” My voice trembles, a lump forming in my throat. I’ve been in this situation with my mother more times than I can count. I’ve had to drag her out of numerous bars before they called the cops. But I’ve never felt as helpless as I do right now.

  The bartender blows out a long sigh, throwing the dishtowel hanging over his shoulder onto the bar. “Fine.”

  Gratitude fills me, the bald man akin to a guardian angel at this moment. “Thank you.”

  He simply nods, then comes out from behind the bar and hoists my mom to her feet with ease. Thankfully, she doesn’t fight it. Once we’re outside, I gesture to an empty bench at a nearby bus stop, and he brings her over, depositing her onto it.

  “Thanks,” I say again.

  “You bet.” He begins back inside before pausing, looking over his shoulder. “You did the right thing by asking that guy to stay away from her. I would have done the same.”

  I smile, savoring his words. It may not seem like much, especially considering he’s telling me something I already know to be true, but living with an alcoholic, loving an alcoholic is a constant battle of doubt, second-guessing yourself, and wondering if you handled a situation correctly.

  When he retreats into the bar, I dust some of the snow off the bench, then plop onto it, ignoring my mother’s venomous stare. Opting to order an Uber instead of trying to hail a cab, I pull my phone out of my purse. Maybe if I offer a big tip, the driver won’t mind helping a severely inebriated woman into the car.

  “You must feel proud of yourself,” she taunts. “Huh? You’re responsible for Aaron leaving me, then decided to come here to gloat.”

  I shake my head, looking at my Uber app to see the estimated arrival time of the car, as well as the model and license plate. Thankfully, it’s only a minute away.

  “You’re the one who called me,” I remind her through gritted teeth. “If I didn’t come, that bartender was going to call the cops.”

  “I should have let him.” She wavers on the bench as she tries to sit up straight. Placing my hand lightly on her shoulder, I push her back. She barely notices. “I would have been better off spending the night in the drunk tank instead of having to sit next to someone who only wants to ruin everything good in my life because she can’t hold down a relationship for anything.”

  I pinch my lips together, briefly closing my eyes, just wanting to get her home so I can put this night behind me. Like so many similar nights that came before it. Thankfully, the Uber I’d ordered turns the corner, and I wave the driver over.

  “Okay, Mom. I need you to cooperate for a minute and get into the car.”

  “You want me to cooperate?” she retorts, barely able to even enunciate the word. “Like you wanted Aaron to cooperate with your plan to destroy my life?”

  My hands ball into fists as I remind myself not to apologize for any steps I take to remove a trigger from my mother’s life. Instead, I try to focus on the immediate task at hand. There’s no rationalizing with her when she’s like this.

  “I understand your frustration. And I’m happy for you to make a long list of all the ways I’m a shitty daughter—”

  “And you are.”

  “But when we’re home,” I plea in a strained voice, feeling like I’m trying to bargain with a three-year-old who doesn’t want to take a nap. “Okay?”

  “Hey, lady,” the driver calls out. I lift my eyes to his. He points to my mother. “Is she drunk?”

  “She’s just a little under the weather.” I return my attention to my mother, ignoring the curious stares from passersby on the street of the popular restaurant and bar area in SoHo.

  I wrap my arm around her body and use every ounce of strength I possess to pull her up, gritting through the ache in my leg. When I realize I’m successful, I exhale, holding onto her as tightly as I can to prevent her from falling.

  But the massive quantity of alcohol she consumed, coupled with my unsteady balance from my injury and the snow-slickened sidewalks, makes this a difficult task. She wavers on her feet before crashing to the ground, taking me with her.

  When I land with a hard thump, I cry out in pain, which only causes my mother to laugh hysterically.

  “This ain’t worth it,” the driver says. “Find another ride.”

  I don’t even look up to watch him drive off. I can’t. I fear I’ll lose what little hope I’ve miraculously held onto through everything.

  I’ve dealt with my mother in this condition for what feels like most of my life. I never thought twice. It was just always something I had to do. I honestly believed if I did everything right, if I focused on keeping the stress out of her life, regardless of the personal cost to myself and my own dignity, she’d eventually get back on her feet, eventually stop drinking.

  But now I’m exhausted. Broken. Defeated. And for the first time since I realized my mother had a problem, I allow my tears to fall, allow the emotions I’ve kept locked inside to flow out.

  “What did I ever do to deserve this?”

  Despite the pain, I clutch my legs to my chest, wanting to hide from the world, to press that imaginary reset button on my life. Sirens wail, horns honk, happy voices converse as people pass, not one soul stopping to help the poor, injured twenty-something struggling with a drunk. I shouldn’t be surprised. I learned long ago the only person I can count on is myself.

  “Karma really is a bitch, isn’t it?” my mother slurs. “This is what you get for ruining my life. For always ruining my life.”

  I shift my eyes to hers, tears obscuring my vision. I should just leave her here, should let her fend for herself, but I can’t. No matter what she’s done, no matter the vitriol she spews, I’ve always put up with it, refusing to abandon her like my father did.

  “I would have been better off if you were never born. Then your father never would have left me. We were happy until you showed up.”

  “I know.” I nod, swiping at my cheeks, my throat closing up. I don’t have the strength to fight her anymore. Life has sucked everything out of me. I don’t even have the energy to return to the bench, my limbs too heavy to move.

  Instead, I stay on the sidewalk, my teeth chattering, my fingers growing numb from my lack of any winter attire. Another reminder of how I can’t do anything right.

  I pull my legs tighter against me, feeling like it’s the only thing keeping me glued together. I try to cover my hands with the sleeves of my thin shirt, but my clothes are wet from the snow, my body shaking from the combination of my sobs and frigid temperatures. I’m not sure tonight could get any worse.

  “Chloe?” a deep voice cuts through.

  I stiffen, unable to breathe, to move, to think, wanting to wake up from this nightmare that keeps getting worse with every passing heartbeat.

  I thought I’d hit the lowest of the low, sitting on a dirty New York sidewalk, too weak to drag my drunk mother into a cab, snow falling around me, my body shivering because I didn’t have the wherewithal to protect myself from the elements. But no. Fate or karma or whoever had to make sure the one man I didn’t want to see me like this bore witness to my breakdown.

  “Chloe,” he repeats when I don’t react, keeping my head buried in my legs. This time, his tone is less confused, more
sympathetic.

  “Please go,” I manage to get out through my wheezing breaths, my tears falling even more relentlessly.

  His hand touches my shoulder. I snap my head up, shrugging him off. I have no idea what I did to deserve being saddled with an alcoholic mother for the past fifteen years of my life. But I took it all in stride. I didn’t break down when my mother failed to show up for my high school graduation. I didn’t break down when I had to quit college to work so she didn’t lose the house. I didn’t break down when I saw that first property tax bill and knew I no longer had a choice but to sacrifice the last shred of dignity I had in order to pay it. But this right here, having Lincoln look at me this way, his eyes glassy with emotion… It fucking destroys me.

  He licks his lips, shaking his head, speechless.

  “Please. Go,” I say again, this time louder, my words drawing the attention of several passersby. “The last thing I need right now is you gloating about what a fuck-up I am,” I sob, my entire body quivering, but no longer from the cold. From the raw emotions filling me. “I know I am. I’m trying so fucking hard. I just… Please. Leave me alone.”

  When he doesn’t make any move to retreat, I bury my head back in my legs. “You’re the last person I want to see right now.”

  “Chloe,” he says again, just as Professor Gordon’s familiar voice calls out to him.

  “Linc, the car’s here.”

  Without looking at him, I can sense his hesitation. I bring my legs closer to me, sending a silent prayer to the big man upstairs to grant me this one favor and make Lincoln leave. Seconds pass, seeming like hours. Finally, he exhales deeply. When I hear the crunch of his footsteps retreating in the snow, I steal a glance and watch him walk away. It’s what I wanted, but it makes me cry even harder. Makes me feel even more alone.

  Burying my face once more, my tears continue to fall, releasing everything I’ve kept hidden for years. It doesn’t seem to faze my mother. She keeps her head on my shoulder, berating me. I tune it out. I can’t listen to it anymore.