by T. K. Leigh
“How? I—”
“I think she just got good at hiding it. Probably figured if she did everything she was supposed to — went to work, attended meetings, stuff like that — no one would think anything was amiss.”
“But I already went through her house.” I place my hand on my dresser to steady myself. “The night we were discharged from the hospital. When she was sleeping, I made sure she’d gotten rid of everything.”
He arches a brow. “Hidden bottles?”
“What do you mean?”
“Even though it was her house, she had liquor stashed in places you never would have thought. A flask between the mattress and box spring. Some mini bottles hidden in the top of the toilet. She even cut out pages in a few of her hardcover books to fit a bottle. All places my mother also hid alcohol.”
“But she promised…” I clench my fists. “After I had to quit school because she lost her job due to her drinking. After I…” I trail off, bile rising in my throat at the memory of everything I endured to keep a roof over her head. “She promised. Said she finally realized how it was affecting those around her.”
“And she probably did…until the withdrawal got to be too severe and she started sneaking a sip here and there. Then a glass. Then an entire bottle. My mother did the same thing. The only thing that finally helped her beat her addiction was a full detox, not simply going to meetings and seeing a therapist. I won’t lie to you. It’s going to suck, especially with the length of time your mother’s been self-medicating.”
I shake my head, still trying to process the betrayal and lies, my limbs growing heavy under the truth.
He grabs my hand, running his thumb along my knuckles. “You don’t have to go through this alone. I know you don’t like the idea of depending on anyone, that you want to prove to the world you can handle anything and everything life throws at you, but it’s okay to let someone else carry the burden for a while. That’s all I want. To help you carry that burden. Tell me what you need.”
“What I need…,” I begin.
“Anything. Within reason, of course.” He winks.
“What I need…” I meet his eyes, searching them.
“Yes?”
With a smile, I say, “What I really need is a strong cup of coffee.”
He pushes out a laugh, his shoulders relaxing. Bringing me back into his embrace, he places a soft kiss on my head. I breathe him in, wishing I could stay here all day, maybe forever.
“I can do that. I already figured out how to use your espresso machine…thanks to Google.” He winks.
“Good. Because you’ll need to get used to making me espresso if you want to earn your keep around here.” I lift myself onto my toes, brushing my lips against his.
“And I certainly plan on doing just that.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
I won’t lie and say the next few weeks are a walk in the park, because they certainly aren’t. In fact, I can’t remember a more stressful time, a more agonizing experience. Watching my mother’s body shiver and shake as it fights to rid itself of all the toxins has opened my eyes and made me come to terms with the idea that I failed her. That I should have done more than insist she go to meetings and see a therapist. That I should have demanded more than just her word that she’d quit drinking.
I still have trouble reconciling the fact that she hid it so well from me for so many years. Thankfully, Lincoln’s mother, Wendy, has helped me understand better than any high-priced therapist ever has. Seeing how well she’s doing has given me hope my mother will also make a full recovery. Finally.
I think it’s given my mother hope, too.
“Have you left this place at all this week?” a deep voice says as I stand in my mother’s kitchen, heating some soup Wendy brought over.
I look up from the stove, smiling when I see Lincoln standing in the doorway. He’s been more than understanding of my need to stay with my mother these past few weeks. It’s been a long process, one we’ve dragged out even longer by not having my mother quit cold turkey. At first, I didn’t like the idea of continuing to let her drink a single drop, but Wendy eventually convinced me that stepping down her alcohol consumption over a period of a few weeks would be best. After reading up on the severity of alcohol withdrawal side effects, I have to admit, she was right, especially considering my mother’s been able to detox in the comfort of her home instead of a clinic.
“I have,” I insist, stirring the soup before putting the cover on it, allowing it to simmer.
He arches a brow, tilting his head. “For more than a few minutes to answer a phone call on the back deck?”
I open my mouth, then snap it shut. He’s got me there.
“Chloe…” He exhales as he strides toward me, running his hands down my arms in a soothing manner. “You need to give yourself a break.”
“I am.”
“Really? You’ve been holed up here for nearly three weeks now. You’ve put your entire life on hold.”
“I’m still working,” I remind him. “My boss said it was okay for me to work out of the office.” Granted, I didn’t give her the exact details. Just said there was a family emergency.
When Evie heard, she’d called, wondering if everything was okay. I told her not to worry, using my mother’s concussion from the nail gun incident as an excuse. I’ve kept her problem a secret for so long, I’m not sure how to tell my friends without them feeling betrayed.
“Yes, but you’re sacrificing everything else.” He licks his lips, hesitating before lowering his voice. “You haven’t been to class in three weeks.”
“Lincoln…” With a warning tone, I push away from him. I’d hoped we could leave the professor-student relationship in the classroom, where it belongs. To his credit, this is the first time he’s broached the subject, although I have a feeling he’s been wanting to bring it up since the first day I didn’t show up.
“I’m worried about you.”
“Well, don’t,” I snap, defensive, my face heating. I spin from him, stirring the soup with more force than necessary, the liquid splashing onto the stovetop. “Once my mom gets through these next few days, I’ll go down to campus and officially withdraw from class. Your mom said the first few days without alcohol are the worst. It’s Friday. We stopped permitting her any alcohol Wednesday, so I—”
“Withdraw?” he interrupts, his voice soft. He touches my shoulder, forcing me to face him. “What do you mean?”
“It’s for the best.”
“How?”
“If there’s ever a question about us, you don’t have to worry about any code of conduct.” I’m unable to look into his eyes as I rattle off the response I’d prepared. “If asked, I’ll say I’d already decided to withdraw. That you had nothing to do with that decision. That a family emergency prevented me from filling out the necessary forms. With me not having been in class since we slept together, it’ll make any appearance of impropriety diminish.”
“Why would you withdraw when you’re so close to graduating?”
“Like my father loves to remind me, it’s already taken me ten years to get my bachelors.” Although the idea of him gloating about being right eats away at me. “What’s one more? My mother needs me—”
“Are you sure that’s the case? Or is it the other way around?”
“I’m the one who’s dropped the ball on this for years now.” My voice rises in pitch, my gaze fiery. “The least I can do is make sure I’m here for my mother so she knows she doesn’t have to go through this alone. Like I should have been when I…” I trail off, collecting my thoughts, but Lincoln interrupts me anyway.
“And how do you think she’ll feel when she learns her daughter, who’s mere weeks away from graduating, withdraws to take care of her yet again?” he shoots back in an annoyingly calm tone. Which only irritates me even more.
I take several steps back as my eyes dart around the room, his analytical stare trained on me. He squints, a puzzle piece falling into place.
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“Unless she doesn’t know she’s the reason you quit school in the first place.” Advancing, he grips my chin, forcing my eyes to his. “Please tell me she knows.”
“I didn’t think it was important at the time.” Pushing out of his grasp, I rummage through my mother’s cabinets for a bowl. This is why I’ve avoided serious relationships as long as I have. People don’t understand. Living with an alcoholic is a constant balancing act — balancing her already fragile emotional state against my needs. All my needs.
“Didn’t think it was important?” he says incredulously, keeping his voice low. “Chloe, that is extremely important. Have you ever been honest with her?”
“What’s that supposed to mean? If you’re trying to tell me this is all my fault, I know it is. I should have seen the signs earlier. I should have known something was wrong the first time she supposedly quit drinking, yet didn’t exhibit any of the normal traits of alcohol detox. I was barely a fucking adult, so I messed up! I get that! But now I can finally do it right! And I don’t need you reminding me I ruined her life!”
Desperate for some fresh air, I storm past him, but he’s in front of me before I can escape. It’s hard enough dealing with the truth of how I’ve constantly failed my mother. How I was selfish enough to just take her word for everything, not wanting to return to the way things were when she was at her lowest because of what that would mean for me. I can’t handle Lincoln’s disappointment on top of this, too.
“Hey…” He wraps his arms around me, bringing me into his chest. As much as I want to be alone, I can’t help melting into his embrace. “You did not ruin her life.” He tilts my head back, our eyes locking. “I blamed myself, too. Thought if I paid more attention to my mother, maybe I would have prevented it. But the truth is, nothing either of us could have done would have stopped any of this from happening.”
“But I’ve known she’s struggled with alcohol most of my life. Hell, I lost count of the number of times I lied to my father when it was my weekend with him, telling him I was sick so I could stay and take care of my mother.”
He pauses before asking his next question. “I know you’ve hidden this from your father and pretty much everyone else, but have you spoken to someone about everything you’ve been through?”
With a sigh, I push out of his embrace, heading back to the kitchen. “Izzy knows,” I answer as I grab a ladle, scooping the soup into a bowl. “I talk to her about it.”
“Anyone else? Maybe a professional?”
“I used to go to Al-Anon meetings, but it’s been a while.” I steal a glance as he lingers in the kitchen, a formidable presence. “I guess I wanted to think everything we’d been through was in the past. That it was just something I could lock away and forget happened.”
“It did happen. You can’t pretend this isn’t real. You’re surrounded by friends who love you, friends who would love nothing more than to help you through this. You don’t have to do this alone.”
I swallow hard. “I don’t know how not to be alone,” I admit. It’s one of the most honest statements I’ve made in a long time. For as long as I can remember, it’s just been me and my mom. I’ve kept her secret for years. Isolated myself for fear it was the only way to protect her, to keep her safe.
Lincoln approaches, enclosing me in his arms. “You are a remarkable, strong, resilient woman, albeit stubborn. But it’s okay to let others hold you up once in a while.” He slowly lowers his mouth to mine, his soft kiss leaving me wanting more. “It’s okay to live your life.”
“I don’t even know how to do that anymore,” I breathe.
“Then let me show you how.” His lips press more firmly against mine as his hands go to my hips, their grip resolute and needy. He swipes his tongue along my bottom lip, and I open for him, reaching up and threading my fingers through his hair as I melt into the kiss, all the noise in my head alarmingly quiet.
When he pulls away, his expression is light and carefree. “You can start by finally coming back to class.”
I huff. “Why do you care so much?”
“This may sound like a foreign concept to you, but I care about you. I want you to succeed.” A salacious smile crosses his mouth as he steps back and leans against the counter, his brows waggling. “And I’d be lying if I said the past three weeks of not having you in class have been excruciating.” His heated tone forces a shiver to roll down my spine. Foreign, yet so welcome.
“Is that so?” I ask in a husky voice, approaching him, running my fingers up his crisp shirt.
He slowly nods, his eyes darkening to a hunter green shade. “That’s so.”
“And why’s that?” My hand wraps around his tie and I pull him toward me. He tries to lean in for a kiss, but I remain just out of reach.
“Even though you weren’t there, I was still able to smell your perfume. Like it’s permanently engrained in my senses.” Looping an arm around my waist, he drags me to him, grinding his hips against me. “And I can’t tell you how hard just the smell of you makes me.”
“I don’t think you have to.” Releasing his tie, I stand on my toes and nuzzle the crook of his neck, flicking my tongue along the skin. “I can feel how hard it makes you.”
Muscles tensing, he grips my face, fingers digging into my skin, about to press his mouth to mine when the sound of footsteps breaks through.
I jump away, snapping my gaze to the stairway at the exact moment Lincoln’s mother appears. She comes to a stop, looking between us, smiling slyly. Now I know where Lincoln gets his smile from. Actually, I see a lot of him in her. While his six-foot-three frame has a solid ten inches over her, she has the same green eyes, dark hair, and compassionate personality.
“Mrs. Moore.” I lower my head, shifting uncomfortably on my feet. Lincoln, however, appears just as calm and collected as ever, amused by my reaction. “How’s my mother doing?”
“I told you. Call me Wendy.”
“Right. Wendy.”
Turning from her to hide my embarrassment, I head toward the refrigerator and hoist myself onto my tiptoes, reaching for the breakfast tray on the top, but my height works against me. Seeing my struggle, Lincoln approaches, standing unnervingly close. I attempt to get out of his way, but he places his hand on my hip, keeping me in place as he reaches past me and takes down the tray.
I expect him to let go of me once he sets it on the counter, but he doesn’t, snaking an arm around me and pulling me close. Wendy’s smile only grows in response.
“Your mother’s doing as well as can be expected. She’s had a few bouts of heart palpitations, but they’ve seemed to settle.”
“Will we be able to keep her here?”
“She’s not exhibiting any extreme symptoms that would require constant medical supervision. I’ll continue to monitor her, but because we didn’t detox cold turkey, I don’t foresee the effects to be as severe as they otherwise would have been.”
I blow out a breath, grateful I had a few voices of reason to help me make decisions about my mother’s treatment plan.
“She asked to see you,” she says after a few moments of silence.
“Oh. Right.” I step out of Lincoln’s grasp, hesitant. While I feel compelled to be here during this process, I’ve tried to keep my distance, not wanting to sit through another verbal battering. At least the outbursts and angry shouts have decreased the past few days. “I’ll bring her soup up.”
I place the bowl onto the tray, along with a bottle of water and a baguette.
“And, Chloe?” Wendy calls out just as I’m about to head up the stairs.
I glance over my shoulder. “Yes?”
“There’s no need to jump away from my son whenever I enter the room. You’re more than welcome to kiss him anytime you’d like. In fact, you’re welcome to do more than just kiss him.” She gives me a conniving look.
My eyes widen, my cheeks burning, and I face forward, continuing up the stairs as Lincoln’s deep chuckles fill the house with warmth. Fill me with
warmth.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“Chloe? Is that you?” my mother calls out as I timidly approach her room.
I push open the door, peeking inside. I swallow hard at what appears to be a shell of the woman who raised me. The strong, tenacious woman who didn’t take shit from anyone. Who would fight tooth and nail for a cause she believed in. Who, on more than one occasion, had gotten arrested during a protest. It’s difficult to see her so weak that she can barely support her head, her hands shaking every time she attempts to bring a sippy cup to her mouth. All from drinking too much for more than a decade.
“Hey, Mom,” I greet weakly. “I brought you more of Wendy’s soup.”
“Thanks, sweetie.” She waves me over, the motion seeming to take all the energy out of her.
I set the tray onto the table beside her and prop her into a sitting position, placing a few extra pillows behind her to keep her head upright. “Can I get you anything else?” I step back.
“Actually, yes.” She pats the mattress, smiling. It reminds me of my younger days when she’d beam, bestowing praise on me for accomplishing something ordinary and unexceptional, like help her decorate a cake, or set the table, or sing a song. She never berated me for not living up to my true potential, as my father would. “Sit down, baby.”
With a nod, I lower myself onto the edge of the bed. She grabs my hand in hers. I have to swallow through the lump forming in my throat when I feel how cold they are, how violently they shake. I do my best to steady them, covering her hand with my own and holding her tightly, wishing I could fast forward through this part.
“Chloe, sweetie,” she begins with a sigh, peering into my gray eyes. “You remind me so much of your father.”
“What?” I stiffen, heat washing over my face. “I’m not anything like that man.”
“Maybe not the man he is today, but back when we first met…” Staring into the distance, a nostalgic gleam fills her eyes. “I see a lot of him in you. You’ll fight for something you strongly believe in. You’ll bend over backwards to help a friend in need.” Her smile fades and she pulls her hands from mine, leaning back against the pillows, her gaze slowly lifting to mine. “You’ll sacrifice your happiness and well-being for those you love, often without them knowing.”
