Entice (Hearts of Stone #2) (28 page)

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.

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
.

A cold feeling envelops my stomach and nausea rolls through me. Heart beating fast, I take the bottle of vodka from my counter and dump the remaining liquid down the kitchen sink. I throw the empty bottle into the bin so hard I hear it crack. I pull open the refrigerator, yank out the newest pack of beer, and pour each of the bottles down the drain before chucking them in with the others.
 

Taking the large bag of clinking bottles to the dumpster outside feels like a walk of shame. I'm overwhelmed by how absolutely pathetic I am, carrying a huge bag of empty bottles. When I go back inside, I lie face up in bed with my pulse still quick in my ears. My stomach churns with disgust at the very discernible dryness in my mouth. At the way my mind's eye still envisions all of the beer pouring down the drain. At the sickening way I wish I hadn't done that. Because I want one. I want a beer so damn bad, I'm tempted to drive to the store and get a new pack.

And that's when I realize I do have a problem.
 

I can't believe I allowed this to happen. How could the need to drink have rooted in me? Just a few months ago, back when I lived in San Francisco, I'm certain I wasn't drinking this regularly. This started after I was fired. I see that now. I tried to numb my nerves, my restlessness, bending the world around me to match my perceptions. Lying to myself.

How long does it take to build a habit? Twenty-eight days? I think back to how many days since the night I opened the first bottle of vodka at Lex's condo. Over sixty days.
 

Jesus.
 

I've been drinking every single day for the past two months. No wonder I'm missing it. I've trained my body to expect it. To need it.

My phone is heavy in my hands. Warm. It's silently luring me to call Owen. My eyes sting and the urge to hear his voice overwhelms me. It's stronger than my urge to drink. I want him so much it scares me. Everything feels better with his arms around me. But even as my finger hovers over his number, ready to call him, a realization trickles in, cold and thick.
 

Owen was wrong when he said we're finally in the same place. We're not. We're in completely different places. Our priorities are different. Owen's priority right now is his son. And me? I'm just another complication. More weight for him to carry on his shoulders.

How could I possibly fit into the picture, the way I am now?
 

I like Landon. Really, I do. He's a good kid and his issues with Owen are misunderstandings and overreactions on both their parts. But I'm not in a position to be anyone's role model. Except that's the problem—I
can't
be a neutral person in Landon's life. Not if his father and I continue to be involved to the extent that we are. The deeper I get into things with Owen, the deeper I bind my commitment to Landon, as well.
 

That scares me. No. It
terrifies
me. The responsibility of it. The hypocrisy of it. To go along pretending I'm this put-together adult. To allow him to confide in me in a way he can't even confide in his dad. To build a connection with him that could influence him for the rest of his life. I know what the kid is looking for because I was looking for the same thing when I was his age. Someone to trust. Someone to look up to.

But how can I have Landon looking to me for answers when I don't know what the fuck I'm doing myself?

I can't fix things with Owen and I shouldn't want to.
 

Not until I fix myself.

I have a problem.

The phrase leaves my lips and my sister holds her concerned look, though I know she's relieved to hear me say it. Lex goes into crisis mode, overwhelming me with information and suggestions and a plan. A solution. It seems she's collected a lifetime of information on managing addiction, everything she's ever wished she could do for our mother, and unloads it on me instead. All at once.

I'm grateful. I'm overwhelmed. I'm exhausted.

It's too much. Too soon. I tell her that I'm still processing it all. She seems hesitant, but agrees that perhaps I should take it a day at a time and see how I manage.

Time crawls to a near stop in the week that follows. Days are longer than before. Maybe because I don't drink. Not a drop. And though I expect myself to feel better with each day, I feel worse.
 

More and more miserable. Anxious. Restless.

When the sun is out, thoughts of Owen crowd into a corner of my mind. I make my job a priority. I've been skating on thin ice since my misstep. I overcompensate, as much as I can. Taking on more work and more responsibilities.
 

But every night, thoughts of Owen creep over me with the moon. And my phone ends up in my hands as I stare at the screen for long periods of time. The metal body heavy and warm in my palm. Daring me to call him. Every part of me itching to feel the comfort his voice will bring me.