"I thought he'd be good for you," Leo says, coming up behind me to set a glass of water beside my plate. "Thought maybe he'd make an honest woman out of you. Or at the very least rein in your crazy."
"My crazy doesn't need reining in, thank you very much," I tell him, though I'm not sure he even hears me.
Leo slips his arms around Lex's chair to set a glass of orange juice in front of her. She tilts her head back and he kisses her forehead, as though it's something he can't help but do.
Watching their interactions is like being on an alien planet for me. I always thought people in love were idiots. Their cloudy, awestruck expressions. But seeing my sister in love really shifts my perspective. This wasn't how Lex was with her ex-husband. With her ex, Lex never really let her guard down. The energy between them was a constant tug of war between two people trying to get their way. Each word he spoke seemed double-edged; each response Lex gave was measured and pointed.
But with Leo, Lex is visibly resigned. Visibly relaxed. Visibly…Lex. That's it. I haven't been able to put my finger on it until just now. Leo took crazy leaps to pry off her armor, to secure a future with her, and now, he nourishes what's underneath and she lets him. Lex is letting someone in for the first time, all the way.
After lunch, Lex pulls me into the guest room under the pretense of showing me something she purchased. But I can tell by the sideways glance Leo shoots her that it's about something else altogether.
"Close the door," she says as she walks up to the dresser.
I do so and when I turn back to face my sister, my heart lodges in my throat. She's holding a nearly empty bottle of vodka. For one wild minute, I think it's the same bottle that sat on my counter just a few hours ago. But it's not. There's been more than one bottle over the past two months.
"Emily, I found this under the sink."
"Yeah," I say. "I put it there."
"I gathered as much." Lex stares at me as if she expected me to deny it. "But what I want to know is why?"
I shift my footing, my fingers fidgeting over themselves. "You were keeping tabs on it when I was staying with you. Kept bringing it up. I didn't want you worrying for no reason."
"That doesn't make sense."
"This conversation doesn't make sense, Lex," I say, throwing my hands up. "What's your point?"
Lex lowers the bottle to her side, her face falling somewhat. "Emily, are you having issues? With…alcohol?"
My first instinct is to yell back, 'No!' but the word lodges in my throat. I shake my head and even as I do so, it feels like a lie. "I don't—No, I don't."
"I'm worried you do." My sister's eyes flicker downward then back to my face. "I don't know what things were like in San Francisco, but ever since you've been back, I've noticed you were waking up every morning, hung over. Taking aspirin, needing to sleep in. Every night, another glass in the sink reeking of alcohol."
"That's not true. I don't drink every night."
"Nearly every night, Emily. Come on. Too often and you know it." Lex inches closer and it's as if I grow smaller with every step she takes. "Just tell me. What's going on with you?"
"Jesus," I snap, "I can't believe I'm having this conversation with you, Lex. Really? Are you going to ask me if I'm on drugs, next?"
I'm furious in a way I don't quite understand as I storm into the living room and grab my purse from the armchair. Leo looks up at me from the couch as Lex follows behind.
"Thanks for lunch," I say to him, glancing his way just long enough to register his small, noncommittal nod before I storm away.
"Emily!" my sister calls out.
I turn at the door. "Lex, just lay off, okay? I'll call you tomorrow."
She presses her lips together, holding back whatever it was she wanted to say. I walk outside, hoping the outside air can dilute this toxic anger because I'm barely able to breathe with it seeping out of my pores.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Back in the loft, I lie in bed staring at the screen of my phone. I'm battling the urge to call Owen. Pushing back the need to hear his voice. I'm not even angry anymore. I'm just sad. I want him beside me.
The time displayed on the screen is obscured by an incoming phone call.
Owen, pulled by my thoughts.
The sound of the phone ringing cuts off to silence, then his voice is in my ear. "Hey."
I let it wash over me, hearing him is like taking in a breath of air.
"Hey," I say.
Every crackle of static over the phone intensifies the strain between us.
"Are you home?"
"I am."
"Good. I'm outside."
My breath catches in my chest. I hang up the phone and stand, motionless in my room as nerves wrench my stomach.
When I open the front door, he's there on the landing, looking so defeated and deflated it tears my heart in two.
"I hate this," he says, "I hate fighting with you."
"I hate it, too."
The space between us feels like miles until his hand comes up to stroke my cheek, so tender. The hairs on my arms prickle awake as I lean into his touch, taking a step toward him. He wraps a hand around my waist and pulls me closer, resting his forehead against mine.
His touch strikes the flammable surface of our desire. His lips are on mine before I can take another breath.
We kiss away our frustrations. The door slams shut behind him as he guides me backward into my living room. Until I take the lead and nudge him down onto my couch. He sits back, looking up at me, eyes hooded by the need burning behind them.
"Emily," he starts, half-heartedly.
In his tone, I hear the weight of everything we need to say to each other. But I shake my head.
Let it hang overhead; let it wait.
I peel away my blouse and throw it to the side. Owen rushes to undress himself, too, as I pull my pants off slowly, giving him a show, enjoying the way his face loses every edge and softens under the heat.
Naked, I walk over to him and sink my knees onto the cushions on either side of him. His skin sears the surface of my palms as I press my hands against his bare chest, and my hips down onto where his hardness pushes back from beneath his underwear.
"It's been a while," I whisper.
"I know," he breathes, as his lips brush over my collarbone. I lean back, letting his mouth taste the skin of my breasts, his tongue flicker over my nipples. "How do you do this?" he asks, almost to himself. "Your smell…drives me crazy."
I can barely hear his words, feeling them instead. Feeling his warm breath on my breasts as he kisses them between deep inhales as though getting high from my skin.
He teases my nipples, even as I turn my upper body toward my side-table, reaching into my purse for a condom. I prop myself up on my knees in front of him, his lips brushing the skin just under my breasts as he removes the last bit of fabric separating us. All without pulling our bodies away. The thought of separating my body from his, even by a centimeter, hurts in ways I can't explain.
Our mouths find each other again, tongues caressing and chests touching, as I lower myself onto him. I melt around his length until I'm weak by how delicious he feels and how completely he fills me.
He breathes out, letting his head fall back somewhat, eyes threatening to close but holding onto mine. Then I start weaving my hips over him, his warm hands gripping me, helping my movements. I'm on the edge of orgasm almost as soon as we begin. I keep myself right there, enjoying the incredible urge for release.
The air around us chars my lungs and singes my skin. My eyes drift down his gorgeous, sculpted chest to where our bodies connect, absorbing the sight of him sliding in and out of me. I pick up my pace, grinding furiously against him as his fingers burrow into my hips in warning that he's close.
My breathing grows heavier and our moans grow wilder. As I'm thrown into bliss, my body shivers and reels from the sensations just as he bites his lip and allows his orgasm to bring forth a low groan that carries over me. My body go
es limp over his, my head collapsing over his shoulder, nose at the nook of his neck. I breathe in his scent, and the effect it has on me, even with my lust sated, scares me a little. It fills every part of me, making me miss it even as I inhale it.
Owen takes us to bed but as he lies down on his stomach beside me, a heavy silence falls over us. We are no longer distracted by the lyrical sounds of our breathing and moans or by the storm of desire between us.
He strokes my hair and, though he's looking right at me, the expression in his eyes is distant. When he presses his lips to mine, the guarded way he kisses me ties my stomach in knots.
This isn't right. Something isn't right.
"I want you to stop," Owen says into the silence.
"What?"
"Drinking. I want you to stop drinking."
I smooth out the sudden tension between my eyes and a streak of defensiveness roars to life so quickly, I'm powerless to stop the words that burst out of me. "I didn't have a dad growing up, Owen. And I don't need one now. I don't need you telling me what to do."
Silence.
I cover my face with one of my hands. Regretting my tone. Regretting how Owen and I are tainted by something I can't get a grip on. Things haven't been the same since the morning Owen found me on the side of the road.
We can't shake it off. The grime I spent all morning trying to scrub away from every surface of our loft covers our entire relationship. No, it's all over me.
He pulls his hand away from my hair, his jaw flexing, though he keeps his tone even. "You had your mom. Is that who you want to be?"
That's a low blow and he knows it. He lets out a breath, as though acknowledging his lapse. I sit up in bed and he does the same, the sheets around our waists, our bodies no longer touching.
"We're not okay, Emily. I don't know how to fix it, but we're not okay."
"If you're looking for a way out—If you don't want to do this anymore..."
He hesitates. "The problem isn't that I don't want to. Don't you get that? The problem is that I do. The problem is that I can't resist you. And as long as I give in to you, you'll never see a reason to change."
My head pulls back in surprise. "There it is. I need to be something different for you? I thought you said I didn't."
"I meant that. I meant you could stop pretending for me. That stuff last week, all this drinking. It's you pretending."
I have no clue what he means, but his words pick at scabs I didn't realize I had. It's the implication of one of my deepest fears. That I'm not good enough. That there's something really, deeply, and fundamentally wrong with me.
I'm torn between my pride screaming at me to defend myself and the painful swelling in my chest.
"Do you know why I don't drink?" he asks.
My response is a slow head shake.
"Like I told you before. I went through a bad phase after high school. I was heartbroken and reckless. Then college came around and I was drinking way too much. You know, the way a lot of college kids do. But there's something no one told me. My father being a chronic alcoholic? It meant I wasn't like everyone else. I had a predisposition, halfway to being an addict before I ever had my first drink. Things got out of hand pretty quickly for me. Didn't realize how much I was drinking until I put myself in the hospital, needed to get my stomach pumped. Before then, I thought I had it under control, I thought it was just fun. But there I was, an alcoholic at twenty-two."
"You were an alcoholic?" The revelation stuns me and yet makes perfect sense all at once.
"No," he says, "I am an alcoholic. You don't stop being one just because you stop drinking. And you don't stop drinking until you admit it to yourself."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I guess I didn't want you looking at me the way you are now."
I blink. "Sorry, I…."
"It's fine, Emily. It was selfish of me not to tell you sooner. I guess I just like the way you look at me, like I'm—" He cuts off for a beat, then starts again. "Look, I'm telling you now so that you understand why this conversation is important to me. It's not that I can't be around people that drink, I can. But what you're doing? Watching you go down this road? I can't, Emily. I can't be part of it."
"You think I have a problem?"
He pauses a moment. "Do you think you have a problem?"
"Honestly, Owen, I don't." I shut my eyes, realizing my words don't do anything to help my case. "Look, I can cut back on my drinking if that's what bothers you so much. But I can't admit to a problem I don't have. I'm sorry."
"You're just not getting it."
"What am I not getting?
"If it were just me, I'd get in the mud with you, Emily. I'd fight for as long as it took. But it's not just about me. I can't have my son around you when—"
"When what?"
He hesitates.
My teeth grind together as I wait. "Say it."
"When you hit rock bottom."
He looks me dead in the eyes when he says it and something about that causes his words to stab at something mean and ugly in me.
"I'm sorry, but this is ridiculous," I snap. "You're projecting your issues onto me, connecting dots that don't exist."
"I don't think I am."
"So, you're done?" I ask. "Just like that, huh? Got tired of fucking me so quickly?"
"Damn it, Emily." Anger darkens his eyes at my words. "That's enough. Don't you see? If it weren't for my drinking, I might've been told about my son from the beginning. I might've been in his life all along. And who knows, maybe if his mother would've told me, it might've been enough to pull me out of it. I just want you to understand. This…it can make you lose everything you care about. But I can't force you to see that."
We stare at each other until he shuts his eyes in dread at my lack of response. I know it's dread because I feel it too; it pours out of us both and makes my eyes burn.
He's going to walk away. He's going to leave me. And I'm not sure if I should stop him.
Some relationships are toxic. Trying to maintain them for the sake of it is like allowing a disease to eat away at you when you hold the antidote.
That's what it boils down to, isn't it? I'm going to ruin this. I am ruining this. Because I'm just like my mother. I set things on fire just to watch them burn, pretending not to know how the match lit in my hands.
"I'm trying to make things right with Landon," he goes on. "Every decision I make, every person I bring into my life, it affects him. It impacts his life."
"You should go," I say.
"Emily…"
"Owen, let's not make this harder than it has to be, okay? I get it, I really do. Your son needs to be your priority. I don't hold that against you. I just…please, go. Let's just end it now." The words come out hoarse and desperate. A pang of embarrassment accompanies them because I realize how much they hurt me to say. My pulse quickens and I turn my back to him, bringing my legs over the opposite end of the bed so he can't see my face. I'm terrified he'll see it all written there, everything I feel. Everything I am.
The only sounds are the rustling of clothes as he gets dressed. I shut my eyes tight when I sense him go still, hovering somewhere on the other side of the bed as though trying to think of what to say.
I hear him fumbling over items on my nightstand. Paper ripping. The unmistakable sound of pen scratches. Then, nothing. The silence stretches out for what feels like an eternity. Each second packs onto the next, compacting into something dense and solid, until I'm sure when I look at Owen again I'll see a solid block of ice separating us.
But I don't look. When he finally walks away, each one of his footsteps is a punch right to my gut.
I sit there, facing the wall, until I hear the front door close, then I turn to see what he left on the nightstand. There's a white envelope. On top of the envelope, there's a small, satin black box, shielded by a piece of torn paper.
I reach for the paper and read the word scribbled there. Just one word.
Always.
<
br /> Not knowing what to expect, I open the black box and see a glint of silver, or maybe white gold. A necklace. The pendant on it is a small, curving shape I recognize immediately.
My thought erupts from my mouth. "Is this a fucking joke?"
As I say it, I realize what today is.
Valentine's Day.
My body shakes with laughter, somehow, my brain disconnected from the laugh, not finding an ounce of humor.
Snapping the box closed, I take it, the unopened envelope, and the piece of torn paper, and shove them all into the nightstand drawer, slamming it shut.
CHAPTER FORTY
My dreams are uneasy and I toss and turn all night. Sunday I occupy myself in any way I can. Cleaning. Organizing. Tackling the last few moving boxes I've neglected to unpack. When there's nothing left to do and my thoughts start bouncing around my head, gathering traction as they go, picking up more things that just intensify each one, I grab my keys and head out the door.
Calling Lex on the way, I ask her if I can go through the boxes in her storage shed. She and Leo are out somewhere having lunch. Her tone is overly formal and pulled taut. She's upset with me for the way I stormed out yesterday. But that's just another thing I'm trying not to think about today.
For hours, I pour through boxes of inconsequential items from my past. Things that bring me no comfort but keep my hands busy as I sort and pull aside what I want to take with me, not allowing my body to slow down long enough to catch up to my thoughts again.
In the evening, I gather items for trash collection, which comes on Monday's every two weeks. Pulling back the lid of my recycling container, a sobering sight crashes into my world.
There are bottles, lots and lots of bottles. Beer bottles. Have I not been counting beer? When I think back to the nights I drink, I seem to only consider the nights I drink vodka. Which isn't every night. Somehow, I seem to have filtered out the fact that, judging by my vast collection of empty bottles, that I have at least three beers a night. Every single night.
Entice (Hearts of Stone #2) Page 20