by T. K. Leigh
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.
Officially out of options, I’m about to reach into my purse to call Izzy when I feel a warmth wrap around me. A weight lifts off me and I dart my eyes to my left, disoriented, watching as Lincoln hoists my mother off me and carries her down the block toward a yellow cab idling in front of an upscale French restaurant.
Once she’s secure in the back seat, he returns to me. I want to scold him for not listening when I told him to leave me alone, but the comfort of his wool coat surrounding me is too inviting.
Fishing a handkerchief out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket, he hands it to me. I dab at my eyes and cheeks as he wraps his arms around me, helping me to my feet.
When I limp, he glances down at my leg, but doesn’t ask what happened, as if he can tell I don’t want to talk about it. It only makes him hold me even tighter as we make our way to the cab and he helps me inside before sliding in next to me.
“Where to?”
“My place.” The last thing I want is to sit in a cab all the way out to Brooklyn when my apartment is mere minutes away.
“Which is?” Lincoln arches a brow.
I blink, caught off-guard that he doesn’t even know where I live. I guess we never got to that point.
Turning my attention to the driver, I rattle off my address in the West Village. With a nod, he merges into traffic.
I relax into the seat, closing my eyes as a shiver rolls through me. Lincoln pulls me against him, rubbing my arm, and I rest my head against his chest, the metronome of his heartbeat offering a brief escape from my reality.
“I’ve been where you are,” he says after a beat.
I raise my eyes to his, my brow wrinkled.
“Exactly where you are,” he emphasizes, then looks forward, keeping me in his warm embrace.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“I got her,” Lincoln assures me, adjusting his grip on my mother’s inebriated body as I lead him toward my building. “Go unlock the door, but try not to kill yourself while you do it.”
“Are you her boyfriend?” my mom slurs, her eyes mere slits. The alcohol coming off her breath is pungent. It’s a miracle she didn’t throw up in the cab. Then again, she passed out the second the driver pulled into traffic, not waking until Lincoln started to get her out.
“No, I’m not.” His tone isn’t exactly friendly, but it’s not icy either. Just…indifferent.
“Figured as much. Did he get tired of you like the rest of them?”
“Mom,” I grit out in warning as I climb the front steps, searching my purse for my keys, grateful when my frozen fingers land on them. “We’ve never dated.” I insert the key into the lock, pushing the door open and stepping inside, Lincoln close behind. I head into the living room, kicking off my shoes.
“Now that I do believe. All these years, you’ve claimed you weren’t interested in settling down. But I finally figured it out. It wasn’t you who wasn’t interested in settling down. It was everyone else.”
I draw in a slow, steady breath, keeping my eyes forward, biting my lower lip to prevent myself from flying into a seething rage.
“They saw you for what you really were,” she continues, relentless as always. “Someone who would spread her legs for a story, or a great pair of shoes, or the latest designer purse.”
“That’s enough,” Lincoln barks, his voice echoing. I spin around to see his expression tight, his lips pinched together as he glares at her, not allowing her to escape his words. “Your daughter is the only reason you’re not sleeping on the street or sitting in a jail cell right now. She didn’t have to help you tonight. Or any other time you found yourself in a similar situation.”
“It’s okay. I’m used to it.” I give him a small smile, then limp from the living room and into the den to make up the pull-out couch.
“That’s right. She’s used to being nothing but a disappointment. All she does is ruin things. You’re smart you didn’t get involved with her. She would have found a way to ruin your life, too.”
I peek at Lincoln, the vein in his neck throbbing, his nostrils flaring. The temperature in the apartment seems to rise several degrees. With determination in his stride, he brings my mother over to the reading chair, depositing her harshly onto it. Then he glowers, pointing a finger in her face.
“Don’t. Move.”
A chill runs down my spine. It has nothing to do with my damp clothes, but everything to do with the power and dominance in his voice. I swallow hard, my own heart thumping in my chest, observing my mother snap her mouth shut, nodding quickly.
My mother’s always been tenacious, tough as nails. You don’t get to be a political strategist, then work in crisis management unless you have thick skin. Seeing her obey Lincoln’s command is somewhat surprising.
Although it shouldn’t be.
I couldn’t resist obeying him, either.
I watch as Lincoln stalks toward me, every muscle in his body taut. I return my attention to the task at hand, grabbing a cushion off the couch and tossing it into the corner. As I’m about to add another one to the pile, he stops me, grabbing my hands in his.
“This is not okay, Chloe,” he says in a choked voice. “Nothing about this is okay.” He drops his hold on me, ripping the remaining cushions off the couch before yanking out the mattress, taking out his aggression on it. Pausing for a beat, he runs his hands through his hair before facing me. “Nothing about the way she spoke to you is right. Don’t you realize that?”
I’m about to argue once more that it’s not a big deal, when he cuts me off.
“I know. She’s your mother. If you don’t take care of her, who will?”
I shrug. It’s the truth.
His jaw twitches and he shakes his head, his distressed expression hitting me hard. Why does he seem so invested, so hurt by the things she said?
“Go change into some warm clothes. I’ll get her comfortable. You’ve done more than you needed to.”
“You’ve already done more than you needed to. I can handle this. This isn’t my first rodeo.” I start to turn from Lincoln when his fingers wrap around my arm. I lift my eyes to his, so much hurt and understanding within.
“I haven’t done enough. And for that, I apologize. Let me do this for you.” His Adam’s apple bobs up and down in a hard swallow. “Please.”
I part my lips, struggling to form a response. I should stand my ground, insist I’ll be fine on my own, that it’s not the first time I’ve been here. But the idea of having someone to lean on, even if for just a minute, lifts a weight off my shoulders.
“Okay,” I murmur.
“Okay.” He smiles a small smile, but doesn’t release me, lightly dragging a finger down the length of my arm. My gaze remains transfixed on his, the feel of his touch sending a bolt straight to my core. When he reaches my hand, he squeezes, his thumb brushing across my knuckles.
“Okay,” I say again, hypnotized.
“Okay,” he whispers, curving toward me, his lips lingering just above my forehead, grazing my skin. I don’t move. Hell, I don’t even want to breathe, blink, anything. “Okay,” he repeats, almost like an affirmation to himself. Then he releases me, heading to where he’d left my mother on a chair in the living room.
At first, I remain still, the tingle of his small kiss still trickling through me.
“I told you.” He glances over his shoulder as he’s about to hoist up my mother, who’s passed out once more. “I’ve got this. You need to warm up.”
Snapping out of my stupor, I limp toward my bedroom, hyper-aware of the heat coming off Lincoln’s eyes as I pass him. Once I’m alone, I blow out a long breath.
I’m still not sure what to make of tonight’s dramatic events, of Lincoln being in my apartment, but I’m not going to think about it. Right now, I just want to slip into something warm and allow someone else to shoulder the burden for a change.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Bottles clanging against each other rouses me from sleep. I bolt up, my eyes flinging wide. Disoriented at first, I hurriedly scan the living room, trying to remember how I’d fallen asleep on the couch. Then the events of the night trickle back. Working. Getting a phone call. Having to drag my mother out of a bar yet again…
Shit.
I jump to my feet, wincing as I hobble into the kitchen, expecting to see her raiding all the booze I was too tired to get rid of just yet. But when I round the corner, I’m surprised to see Lincoln pouring bottles of alcohol down the drain, the sleeves of his crisp button-down shirt rolled up, his suit jacket lying neatly across the counter.
Sensing my presence, he glances over his shoulder, offering me a sweet smile as he continues to drain the contents. When he’s finished, he wipes down the sink, then fully faces me.
“I’m sorry. I hope you don’t mind. If I were in your shoes, this is what I’d want.”
“I was planning on doing it. I just needed a minute to decompress. I guess I dozed off. Did my mother give you a hard time?”
He shrugs. “She’s fine. Tomorrow will be a completely different story.”
I playfully roll my eyes. “You’ve got that right.” The last thing I want to think about is the state she’ll be in when she wakes in the morning.
“I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“It’s okay. I need to get some work done anyway. My voicemails and inbox are probably overflowing with messages.”
“Ah, yes…” He leans against the counter, crossing his arms in front of his chest. I avoid staring at his biceps as I limp past him toward the one-cup brewer, trying to ignore the heat coming off him. It’s impossible to escape it in such close quarters, my kitchen no bigger than the galley of a boat. “The gossip mills must be running full force, correct?”
“Celebrities seem to enjoy getting into trouble on the weekends.” I grab a mug and place it underneath the spout, popping a pod into the brewer. I glimpse at Lincoln. “Want one?”
He worries his bottom lip, seeming to weigh the pros and cons of staying for a coffee, before finally answering. “Sure.”
