Problematic Love (Rogue Series Book 8)

by Lara Ward Cosio

  “Well, what did you say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You? Danny fucking Boy said nothing?” He laughs and finishes off his pint.

  I realize he’s right. It was unlike me not to have confronted her at the time. And I don’t know why I didn’t push it afterward. It’s left me unsettled.

  The cocktail waitress delivers our next round of drinks, taking her time to set them up on our small table as she glances at Martin. When he doesn’t encourage her the slightest bit, she slinks off. I down my whiskey, feeling the burn of it as the amber liquid slides down my throat.

  “So how does this work with your girlfriend slash therapist? Can she still be your therapist to help sort shit like this out?”

  I might think he’s taking the piss, but that’s not Marty’s way. He’s genuine in wanting to help me.

  “I don’t even know, man. I don’t know what the rules are, especially not after what happened at dinner.” I shake my head. “It’s just such a fucking slog, this relationship crap. Is it like this with you and your movie star?”

  “Nah. It’s easy with me and Lainey. We’re hardly together, though. Her work and me being here for the boys keeps us apart a lot.”

  “How long can you go on like that?”

  He shrugs. “As long as need be. I’ll take whatever time I can get with her.”

  I’m struck by his answer. Not because it reveals him to be desperate or in a position of weakness in his relationship, but because he genuinely wants to make it work with her anyway he can, even if that means they don’t see each other very often. It makes me realize the compromises that go on in these things. I find it fascinating because I realize that relationship dynamics are both foreign and attractive to me at the same time. Somehow my understanding of this depresses me all over again. Likely because I don’t know if I’m capable of figuring out a way to “be human” as Gavin joked. Maybe it’s too fucking late to start.

  “If I have any advice for you and your girl, though,” Marty continues, “it’s this: ask for what you need. Don’t let it all go unsaid. Because when too much of that goes on, it all goes to shit.”

  I know he’s talking from experience. He’s been pretty honest with me about what went wrong in his marriage. The advice is good, but I don’t feel like talking anymore. I pour another glass of whiskey instead.

  29

  Amelia

  * * *

  I’m in that delicate state of slipping into true sleep after having hovered near it for too long when I hear shouting in the street outside my bedroom window. Turning so my back is to the window, I try to block out the noise. It’s likely a pair of hooligans on their way home from the pub after closing time, though I don’t dare to look at the time. I’ve already stared at those digital numbers far too often, unable to quiet my mind enough to sleep.

  I’d reacted badly after dinner with Gavin and Sophie was over. I should have taken the opportunity to apologize to Daniel for letting that analysis of him slip out. But I was too shaken over why I’d done it at all, too worried that it meant I wasn’t capable of separating our past therapy relationship with a personal relationship. I chose not to deal with it at all.

  Not that that has worked very well, as evidenced by the fact that I can’t sleep. And now it’s not just my thoughts that are keeping me up, but the persistent yelling coming from down below. Rolling onto my back, I open my eyes and stare at the pale-blue ceiling. That’s when I finally recognize the words that are being shouted in an elaborate sing-song.

  “Ooooooh, Ms. Paaaatterson. Ooooooh, Ms. Paaaatterson. Ooooooh, Ms. Paaaatterson.”

  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Sitting up, I throw the covers off, rush to the window, and pull up the shades.

  Daniel is in the middle of the street, swaying on his feet as he thrusts his arms out to me.

  “There she is!” he says. “There’s my one and only . . . my one and only what?”

  Pushing open the window, the contrast between my warm bedroom and the cold air outside makes me catch my breath. “Keep your voice down,” I whisper-yell. “You’d better come in. Let me just—”

  “What are you to me?” he slurs. “Are you my girlfriend, Amelia? Or are you still playing therapist, Ms. Patterson, just like you did with Felicity?”

  I take in a breath so sharply it hurts my chest. The quick breath isn’t what’s really to blame for the pain, though. It’s his words. His accusation.

  “Well?” he calls.

  I shush him and say, “Just go, now. I can’t do this.”

  He leans over, and I can tell he’s doing that disturbing thing where he slaps his open hand against the side of his head. I want to go to him to stop this behavior, but I’m still stinging from his apparent effort to hurt me. Because he has to know he’d be hurting me by claiming I’ve done with him what I did with Felicity. He’s suggesting I’ve manipulated him into a relationship, all so I can covertly give him therapy. I know I’ve done no such thing, but the fact that he’d entertain the idea, especially knowing how distraught I’ve been over my mistakes with Felicity, stings.

  Dropping his hand, he straightens up and I can see tears shining in his eyes. “I can’t do that. I can’t leave. I need to say it. I need you to say it.”

  He’s not making sense. His thoughts are coming out in fragments. I should close the window, pull down the shades, and leave him be. Instead, I engage.

  “Say what?” I ask.

  “Tell me why. Why did you do that to me?”

  His words are marred by too much alcohol. There’s no way we can have a proper conversation with him in this state. “I won’t do this. We can talk when you’ve sobered up.”

  “You owe me. You owe me an explanation. You humiliated me in front of my friends.”

  “Go home, Daniel,” I say, my voice cold even to my own ears.

  He hunches over again, now with both hands pressed to the side of his head. “No, I ain’t going nowhere. Not until you say you’re sorry for what happened. You never said you’re sorry!”

  His voice rose to a furious shout with that last bit. I want desperately to end this encounter before it escalated further. “You need to stop this.”

  “Why did you leave it unsaid? When you leave things unsaid it all goes to shit!”

  I scramble to think what might diffuse his anger. Finally, I tell him, “Daniel, Roscoe needs you at home.”

  That has the effect on him I’d intended. His head whips up and he stares daggers at me. Despite how drunk he is, it’s obvious to him that I’ve invoked Roscoe to both guilt him into leaving and to remind him of the comfort that dog provides for him when he’s flailing against his inner demons. He and I both know what I’m saying with this is that I won’t be the one to help him.

  I watch as he staggers forward and a few steps down the street. For a moment, I’m relieved that he’s decided to go home to sleep it off.

  But then, he disappears from my view and I’m confused. There’s nowhere for him to have gone. I can see clearly up and down the street both ways. The street lamps illuminate the night just fine.

  It’s only when I hear scrabbling coming directly below me that I realize where he’s gone. I look down along the ivy-covered walls of my apartment building and see that he’s using a drainpipe to climb up to me at the third floor.

  “Daniel! Please don’t. It’s too dangerous!”

  He doesn’t answer, only keeps climbing and gaining at a remarkable pace.

  “I’ve called the Garda,” a man shouts from another window above me.

  “Fuck off, wanker!” Daniel yells back.

  “I’ll let you in downstairs, I promise. Please just go down now,” I tell him. “I know we have more to talk about.”

  Now he looks up at me. He’s made it just past the second floor and my heart skips seeing the distance he’s come because of how far he has to fall.

  “You’re saying that as my therapist, yeah?” he asks.

  “I’m saying that as someone who care
s about you.”

  “That’s not a fucking answer.”

  I can hear sirens. The Garda will be here in minutes. “Please, Daniel. You’ve worked yourself up, I can see that. But if you think I’m anything but your girlfriend, then you’re only letting your fears get the best of you. Take a breath and remember what we’ve started together. It is real.”

  He shakes his head and the motion throws him off balance. I watch as he reaches to steady himself by grabbing onto what looks like a solid tangle of vines.

  But it snaps, and he loses his grip entirely.

  I let out a yelp as he goes crashing down to the ground.

  I don’t wait to see what the damage is. Instead, I race through my apartment, grabbing my coat along the way, so I can get downstairs to him.

  Four hours later, I’ve got Daniel set up in what he calls the Man Cave at Shay’s house. His black and blue ankle is swollen to three times its normal size, but it’s not broken, only sprained. I’ve got an ice bag on it where it’s elevated off the end of the sofa.

  The last few hours have seen him sober up, but he’s been asking for something to drink so he can renew the buzz. This time it’s for the pain of his ankle since I haven’t allowed him any drugs beyond ibuprofen.

  “Just try to sleep,” I say. When he starts to protest, I run my hand over his forehead and into his hair repeatedly. It soothes him almost immediately and he closes his eyes. Before long, he’s drifted into a sleep deep enough that he’s snoring.

  I don’t dare stop from petting him this way—the same way I pet my cat—because I don’t want him to wake up. I need the peace to think, even though I’m just as exhausted as he is.

  I had to perjure myself and tell both the police and the hospital staff that he was a client under my care. I said he’d had a mild breakdown, but I had it under control. Luckily, Daniel heard none of this. If he had, I’m not sure I would have been able to convince him to go along with it even though it meant keeping him out of jail. The suspicions and insecurities he revealed outside my apartment tonight are still just under the surface and I suspect it wouldn’t take much to set him off all over again. Whether he’d talk to me again after finding out what I’d done, I don’t know.

  What a mess. He hadn’t been able to explain his thought process during all the drama with the Garda and the ambulance and the doctors. Knowing him as I do, I can guess, though, that he’d obsessed over the episode at dinner to the point where it became a reality of his own making rather than the truth. He took it to mean I couldn’t possibly be in this for him, that I was only continuing to act as his therapist. That “reality” made more sense to him because it is still easier for him to devalue himself than to believe he is worthy on his own merits.

  As gently as I can, I slowly lift the pressure of my hand away from his forehand and step back. Though Roscoe stirs, Daniel does not. I go to the opposing sofa and curl up in the corner, pulling a flannel blanket over me.

  I don’t know what will come after we’ve had some sleep. But exhaustion has taken over and I don’t have the energy to try to unravel it all anymore.

  When I wake, I have no sense of how long I’ve been asleep. All I know is that Daniel has dragged himself over to the floor beside me. He’s asleep, one hand on mine and the other on Roscoe’s back. I blink back tears, thinking of how all he wants is to be close to me. He just doesn’t know how to truly let himself.

  30

  Danny Boy

  * * *

  Being an idiot has its perks. The current one is Amelia making me breakfast as I rest my ankle on a stool while sitting at the kitchen island.

  We haven’t spoken of anything more than the superficial since getting up. I’ve got a raging hangover and can’t get enough water in me, but rather than comment on that, she just refills glass after glass.

  The smell of sizzling rashers, potatoes, and eggs has me alternating between wanting to eat it straight out of the pan and feeling like I’m going to throw up the liter of water I’ve just had. I’ll risk the vomit just to be sure she knows I’m not rejecting her efforts. Lord knows I’ve got to tread lightly here.

  When she places the plate in front of me I can tell the yolks of the eggs are poised to ooze everywhere at the slightest touch, and my stomach lurches. Closing my eyes, I poke at them and then blindly stir it all together so the gooey yellow yolks get absorbed into the potatoes.

  “Are you okay?”

  Opening my eyes, I see she’s been watching this grand plan of mine. Then I see the slices of buttered toast on the plate in between us and grab all four pieces. I tear them into bits and add them to my breakfast stew.

  “Yeah,” I tell her. “Thanks so much for this. It’ll fix me right up.”

  She gives me a slow nod. Clearly, she knows I’m not okay, but she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she takes the seat opposite me, with just coffee in front of her.

  “You’re not eating?”

  She shakes her head.

  “I’m happy to share.” I push the plate toward her. The food is a brownish-yellow slimy mess. It looks horrible.

  “Daniel,” she starts and stops.

  “I know, I was off my head. I took it all too far.”

  “That’s true, but—”

  “I won’t do anything like that again, I promise you.” When she hesitates, obviously trying to decide what she’ll say next, I continue. “It wasn’t even one of my best fuck-ups, to be honest. Almost an improvement, if you think about it. I mean, I broke Shay’s wrist that time and now all I’ve done is bruise up my own ankle. It’ll be a quick recovery.”

  “That’s not the—”

  “The point, I know. Listen, I know you’re upset. And I don’t blame you. I—”

  “Just stop for a minute.”

  The curt tone of her voice shuts me up. I sit back and wait for my tongue lashing.

  “I’m concerned about the uneven response you had last night,” she says carefully, gently.

  So, it’s not to be a tongue lashing. More of a “disappointed parent” lecture. I sigh but know I have to take this, too.

  “I’m sorry for what happened at dinner. I’ve been trying to figure out why I said any of that, and the best I can figure is that I can’t help but want to know you and your motives better. I just didn’t realize how analytical I was getting about it.”

  “Apology accepted. See—”

  “But, your reaction was still so much more powerful than what it should have been. You chose to go out and get blind drunk and then confront me.”

  I shrug. “I didn’t choose any of that consciously. It’s just . . . what happened.”

  “You basically accused me of manipulating you. Do you remember that?”

  I have, unfortunately, an uncanny ability to remember everything I do while high. That’s a big part of why I’d developed such an exceptional ability to slough off responsibility for my actions. Denial is always preferable to admitting the error of my ways. But in this case, I find I’m compelled to admit the truth.

  “Yeah, I do,” I say.

  Nodding, she takes a deep breath and turns her eyes away from mine.

  “But I didn’t really mean it, baby. I was just lashing out.”

  “You mean to say there isn’t some part of you that doubts my intentions in being with you?”

  “What? What does that mean?”

  Looking back at me, her eyes have gone mournful. “Because of what you know about Felicity and how I went wrong with the way I tried to help her.”

  I laugh, which doesn’t do much to help, I know. “No, that has nothing to do with it. To be honest, I think you’re making more out of this whole Felicity thing than it needs to be. I already told you, I don’t care what kind of methods you used with her—or me—as long as it got the job done. No, the reason I got trashed and confronted you is because of what Marty said.”

  Now she looks understandably confused.

  “I went out with Marty last night. Rang him after I dropped you
off,” I explain. “We got to talking and he said that you shouldn’t let things go unsaid in a relationship. And so, I went and said a whole lot of shite last night outside your window. So, really, it’s all his bloody fault.” I laugh again, but she’s still not finding any humor in it. Straightening up as much as I can, I hope my expression shows my new seriousness. “What can I do to make this right, Amelia? I’m asking you to tell me exactly what you need. I’ll do it.”

  The silence goes on so long as she searches my eyes that I begin to lose any hope that she’ll keep me on. But then she speaks and I’m relieved by what she says because it’s something that I’ll do in a heartbeat if it means I get to have her in my life.

  “I want you to stop drinking.”

  “Done,” I tell her with a grin.

  “I mean, really. No more alcohol to numb the things that you don’t want to confront. No more alcohol to inflame your worst fears either. No more alcohol to incite you to do things like climb the walls of a building—”

  “Yes, I get it. I know what you’re asking and why you’re asking. I’ll do it.”

  “Just that simple?”

  “I’m not an alcoholic.”

  “You’re too dependent on it when you’re upset.”

  “Fine, true.”

  “But you’ll do it? Can you do it?”

  “Absolutely. I mean, if I quit heroin, I think I can quit the drink.”

  Again, she examines me for a long, silent moment. This time, my seriousness must really be obvious because she nods.

  “And I won’t drink either,” she says.

  “You do whatever you want. This thing is on me, okay?”

  When she moves around the island to my side, I breathe a sigh of relief. My whole body loses the tension I’d been holding. And it feels good. Even better when she touches my cheek tenderly. I have visions of hobbling to bed with her to have some hot make-up sex, but she’s got more to say.

  “You scared me last night.”