"Holy shit, Aidan..."
"I know. I didn't tell you this part at first because I thought that it would be all you'd ever see in me--the lowest part. I thought it would scare you away. I didn't want to tell you because it isn't me."
"Of course it's not."
"My addictions had sucked me dry." His voice quivers. "I didn't think I could ever stop drinking. I was sure I couldn't. I was more messed up then I'd ever been. I was with different women every night, my business was starting to fail because I wasn't doing the work to keep it going--I was too busy partying and I didn't even care. All I wanted to do was feel good, but I got to that place where no amount of anything could even make me feel just okay anymore. That night I met you, it was like a death-row inmate's last meal. I was going to do everything and do it up big, come home, and swallow a bullet."
The tears stream down both our faces, but we stay on our opposite sides of the couch, connected only by his memories and my empathy.
"But then, I met you. We came back here and had sex. It was phenomenal. I felt it, but then you passed out and I didn't want to leave. I wanted to wake you up and feel what you made me feel all over again. Then, in your sleep, you started to cry. But when I held you, you stopped crying. I realized that it wasn't just about what someone else could make me feel. I could get a bigger rush by making someone else feel good. It changed how I was thinking about everything. I never went back to Marta's. I went to Shane and Natalie's house and met Leonard. I've never thought about doing anything like that ever again."
"Until last night." I can hardly say the words, but Aidan moves across the couch, taking my face in his hands.
"No, not even last night," he says. "But I got overwhelmed. I was scared that I'd ever gotten to that point before, that either of us might ever be where Natalie is. I started to panic, thinking about what I would do if it ever happened and the thoughts kept going. I let them pile up. I should've called Leonard, but instead, I caved. I got a fifth and I fucked up."
"You should've called me," I say, wiping away his tears as he wipes away mine. "You can't do that again. You call me if you're in trouble. I need you to be stronger than that."
"I will."
"But what's going to stop you from doing that again?"
"Me," he says. "I feel like shit. I choked down every swallow last night and it didn't help anything. I'm still sick about it all this morning and I have this hangover on top of it--I fucked up and it wasn't worth it. It didn't change anything."
"Not a thing," I say. "I'm glad you see that."
He sits back on the couch. I pick up his bowl of cereal and hand it to him.
"Thank you," he says.
"Friends make friends eat breakfast, right?"
My words make him miss a beat and I immediately start searching for what I said wrong. He frowns, softly stabbing his spoon into the bowl.
"Yes," he says a little tightly, "that is what friends do."
I realize the mistake instantly, but the vibe in the room is suddenly too steep for me to go back on what I said. He's probably thinking that I'm friend-zoning him because he screwed up, but to say it out loud might be shaming. After all he's done for me, I didn't think anything could be this awkward between us, but it is.
And then another thought chimes in: it doesn't have to be awkward. I've got the ability to turn this all around, just like Aidan has done for me, time and time again.
"So do friends who are a lot more than just friends," I say. His eyebrows lift a tiny bit.
"What are you trying to say?"
"I'm just saying, people like to--should--help each other out. You know."
"That's not what you said before, you didn't say people," he teases, leaning toward me, over the middle cushion.
"You know what I meant."
"I'm not sure I do." He smiles. "Tell me."
He catches my wrist and pulls me toward him. We clunk foreheads but stay there, cross-eyed as we stare at each other. I giggle. When have I ever giggled?
"I was saying...we're a little more than friends."
"A little?" he asks. I feel the crinkle of his eyebrows as they rise.
"Maybe a little more than that."
"I am hoping for a lot more than that," His irises widen, drinking me in. They search for my answer, jumping between my eyes.
I can't answer. What do I say to him?
I'm still somebody else's wife.
I haven't figured myself out yet.
And yes, God, I want you, I want you more than I want to be whole.
"We're a couple of drunks." My laugh whispers away as I close my eyes. His thumb grazes my jaw bone.
"More or less," he says. "But don't let that be all we are to each other, Lydia."
There he is, my sober Aidan. The man who sees beyond the moment and rises to it. I open my eyes, allowing myself to swallow down every detail of him. The endless depth in his dark eyes, his caramel skin, even the equator of his facial hair--the angular lines drawn between the areas where it is smooth and where there is stubble. I reach up and run my fingers over the rough patches. My tattoo glances at me. Aidan takes my hand and moves my fingers higher, so they glide across the soft skin of his cheek bones instead.
I smile and he smiles back, as though neither of us needs my answer anymore.
<<<<>>>>
Shane shows up at my door that night. He looks like hell partially digested him and spat him back out.
"She's going to be okay, whatever that means," he says, dumping his phone on the coffee table. He's never been in my apartment before, but his level of fatigue and distress has him dropping onto my couch like he lives here. He leans forward, his head in his hands.
"When did you eat last?" Aidan asks.
"I don't know," Shane says. It's pretty obvious that all he's been chewing on is his misery.
"You've got to eat. I'll get you something." Aidan gets up and goes into the kitchen. I move a little closer to Shane, quietly stalking around him. I don't know what to say to him and I know it's not reasonable, but getting in too close, the guilt of Natalie's attempted suicide is too contagious. I think of her, after the meeting, running after Aidan and I in the snow, asking me to let her help. Letting her sponsor me might've been the help she needed and I turned her down.
"How are you doing?" I finally ask. Shane pulls up his head, as if he didn't realize anyone else was in the room. He clears his throat, but it does no good. His voice still cracks.
"I'm okay. I'm going to be okay."
"She's conscious?"
"Yeah. She has been all along, for the most part. She was out of it when they brought her in, but she didn't like having her stomach pumped."
"She was awake for that?"
"Yeah," he says. I sit on the edge of the chair, furthest from him. He scrubs his head with harsh fingers.
"Do you know why yet? Why she did it?" I ask and he lets out a long sigh. Maybe asking is going too far, but Aidan sets a hot bowl of Mrs. Lowt's soup on the coffee table and answers for his friend.
"It's pretty common for addicts. Part of the disease."
Shane eyes the bowl, but doesn't lift the spoon. "She was in a bad place for a while, I knew that. I just couldn't figure out why. I could see her sinking, but I didn't know what to do for her. I should've tried harder to figure it out."
"Figured out how to fix it?" Aidan asks. "Come on. We've all been at the low spots before. You know you're the only one that can get you out of it."
"I was sixteen," Shane says. "It was completely different. And you were the one that straightened me out."
Aidan shakes his head. The two of them have entered into a private world, a past that I can only observe from the side lines. This is part of Aidan's history that he hasn't told me yet and it intrigues me.
"Overwhelmed is overwhelmed," Aidan goes on, "and you straightened yourself out. The only thing I did for you was need my best friend."
"I need her."
"I know you do."
"But
I've always needed her," Shane says, his tone collapsing, the breaks in his thought process mirrored by the way his voice fails him. "It hasn't been enough, or we wouldn't be here."
"I turned her down," I blurt. "Natalie asked me to be my sponsor. She wanted to guide me and I turned her down. I think I contributed to this..."
Her husband's eyes find mine. "I guess we all did."
"Knock it off, both of you," Aidan admonishes us softly. "No one knew Nat was in this bad of shape. She made her own decisions." He wipes his mouth with his hand, as if he's wiping away the memory of last night's fifth. "We can't blame ourselves for what someone else chooses to do."
Shane's gaze sinks to the floor. "But I should've..."
"You couldn't have."
In the break of our voices, Christmas carols and laughter permeate the wall from some other neighbor's apartment, and Shane begins to cry. Aidan and I move in, surrounding him, leaning and being leaned on, like a tepee of souls, trying to kindle enough faith to send up a genuine signal of hope.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
WHO I AM DEPENDS ON WHO YOU ARE
The day after Christmas, I give Aidan his Christmas gift. My most elaborate, heart-shaped, salt-dough ornament. And I'm wearing lace lingerie with thigh-highs when I do it.
Three days after Christmas, Aidan gives me a gift. A pedometer, to keep track of how much I walk. That's what I do now. I bundle up and walk the streets like a sober, post-visit Scrooge.
Five days after Christmas, Shane texted to say that the hospital released Natalie. He asked if we would take her to the meeting with us in a couple of days.
Six days after Christmas, Aidan decides to run some food over to them.
"You don't want to come?" he asks, but I still feel partially responsible for what Natalie did and I don't know what I'd say to her.
"We're not friends and with everything that's happened..."
"I get it," he says, kissing my forehead. "I'm not going to stick around too long."
It occurs to me that I don't have to have him in the apartment. I don't need a constant babysitter to keep me from the booze anymore. I'm doing that for myself now. "I'm going to go walking anyway."
He chuckles. "I don't know if you want to do that. Have you looked out there? It's not just freezing--it's windy today too."
Once he leaves, it takes about ten minutes before I'm pacing. I need to keep busy. I suck at baking and making ornaments has lost all its appeal now that Christmas is over. My eye catches on a film of dust on one of the shelves. Aha! Spring cleaning. I've got all the supplies, but the last time I did it was...when I moved in? I've got all this energy and without being able to walk it off, I know by now that I've got to do something to keep my mind off of what it always floats back to: fucking up.
I tie back my hair with a bandana and it takes me only a half hour in the mirror to be sure that I am dressed correctly enough to clean. I laugh at that as I drag out my bucket and mop, turn on my music, and get to work. Within five minutes, the first unhappy neighbor is pounding on my door.
I swing it open, ready to apologize, but it's not a neighbor.
Des shoves his way inside, slamming the door behind him. He whips my music port off the shelf, shattering the thing in pieces on my newly cleaned floor.
"What the fuck, Lydia!" he shouts. He's got the divorce papers wadded in his hand. "Do you know what you just did? DO YOU?"
His anger is contagious. "It had to happen sometime..."
"It NEVER had to happen! We were fine, until you did this!"
"You were fine--I never wanted to live like this!"
"Well, you sure as shit don't have to worry about living like this anymore!" He waves a hand around my apartment. "Claudia's legal team is crawling up my ass with pliers!"
"Did she throw you out?"
"Listen to me, dumbass," he snarls, "people as rich as Claudia don't throw you out. They throw your ass in a dungeon and cover the whole thing over with cement!"
"Give me a break. She's not mafia--"
Suddenly, he shuts his mouth and clasps his hands in front of him. Ducking his chin, his words growl from between his bared teeth, as dangerous as a feral dog guarding his food.
"What the fuck are you not getting here, Lyddle?" he asks. He takes a step toward me and I quickly wish he was yelling again. His anger rolls from him. "They want to charge me with extortion and bigamy. They're going to charge me with so much shit, I'll never see the sun again. And I told you, I would never go down alone. So, I'm going to make sure they get you too. How do you like that? How do you like knowing you fucked us both, you little cunt!"
His eyes dig into me like drill bits, trying to drive into my core and ignite. He stalks me and I stagger backward, falling over the pail, sloshing small, dirty rivers across the floor. When he's standing over me, he is as ominous and solid as any impending prison.
He spots the Christmas tree Aidan insisted on, still sagging with my handmade ornaments. Des's smirk is savage as he reaches down and snatches the bandana off my head.
"Are you playing house, you little bitch? Is that why you did this to me?" he shouts, and then the blows rain down on me, his feet, his fists, one after another without hesitation.
Cunt, bitch, whore, slut...he snarls the words as he beats me.
I get a glimpse of the door and imagine Aidan bursting through it, but as the hard toe of Des's designer shoe catches me in the face, the hope of rescue dims. His attack pauses at my moan and I pray to pass out as I hear Des's belt slither from his waist.
He doubles the leather in his fist and strikes me across the stomach. I curl up, flipping over to protect myself. He whips my back, the buckle digging into the flesh at the base of my neck. I feel the welts rising up beneath my shirt as I try to scurry away.
Someone has to come.
Someone has to save me.
He's going to kill me.
Des lands a kick to my thigh with so much force that I tumble across the floor.
Someone has to come.
Someone has to save me.
But the door is locked. Mrs. Lowt would be pounding on it, if she heard, or calling the cops. I don't hear any sirens.
No one is coming.
Des slips as he tries to cross the wet floor and crashes down a few feet from me.
I see the fury of his veins popping up on his face.
My God, no one is coming.
If I'm getting out of this, I'm going to have to do it on my own.
Des crawls across the floor toward me, the belt still trapped in his fist, spitting words at me that my brain won't translate. It doesn't matter what he's saying--I know what he means.
He means to kill me, if he can.
And I'm not going to last until a hero gets here.
I plant my hands on the floor. Something hot and stinging runs into one of my eyes, but I still make out the words on my bloody ring finger. Stronger Than That.
As I watch Des inching toward me, his broad shoulders tight against his tailored shirt, I realize I might not be stronger than that.
But as I get to my feet, I know I'm stronger than this.
My body takes over. My foot fires out, landing a kick to Des's jaw. The sound out of him fuels me as I kick him again. He lands on his back and I tower over him, my hip raising my whole leg, ready to send it down like a dull guillotine on his neck.
He grabs my sole.
He shoves me backward. I land with a grunt, but my body plunges adrenaline through my veins.
"You little bitch!"
I skitter out of the way as he grabs for me. I make it to my feet before he does. I make it to the door.
"You ruined my life!"
I twist the knob.
His footsteps are behind mine as I whip open the door and burst into the hall.
He grabs a handful of my hair, ripping locks from my scalp.
But my body doesn't run away. It doesn't cry. It turns and fires me straight at him like a cannonball.
His eyes
are wide as I bear my teeth. The blows rain down on him, one after another, until I've pressed him against the wall.
"Do you know what you've done to me?" I feel the words shriek out of my chest. "You ruined my life!"
I drive my knee up between his legs, sinking it hard and giving an extra jerk at the peak.
His groan rushes into my ears and the blood rushes out.
My hearing returns.
Des collapses onto the hallway floor. I stand above him, waiting for him to attack again. My breathing fills my ears. I glance up. Mrs. Lowt's door gapes open, Mrs. Lowt is behind me, a frying pan clutched in her hand.
"Lydia!" she shrieks. It is the last thing I hear before I hit the floor.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
BRING IN THE NEW
The addiction is a hollow spot that sits like a dust valley, waiting for the deposits of all my rotten luck. Everything that I used to dump there rusts and decays, sending up a choking dust. The only thing that used to help keep down the suffocating proof of my imperfection and weaknesses and mistakes was to pour booze all over it. Bottles full of hot, wet, numbing liquor was all I needed to keep the rot from wafting into my consciousness and whatever brain cells resisted my attempts, I smothered by the pint.
I was sure that after what happened with Des, the valley would be calling out to me. Clawing at me, even. I thought that what just happened would need taming and suffocation, but it doesn't.
Maybe it's because Des broke my nose. Maybe it's because my face is so bruised. But I think it's because I've filled in the valley myself, topped it off the minute I kicked Desmond's nuts into his throat.
"How are you feeling?" Aidan asks. He hasn't left my side since the moment he tore into the emergency room, shouting at the nurses until he insisted that he was my husband and they let him in to see me. He broke down, sobbing at the side of the gurney I was laying on, until I rested my hand, with its chipped fingernails and bloody tattoo, on his head.
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