by L. A. Witt
Noah had left some coffee for me, thank God. One cup would wake me up enough to drive, and there was a Starbucks near the highway, so I could get something a bit stronger before I hit the open road.
As I went to the sink to rinse my coffee cup, I halted, and something knotted in my stomach.
Last night, we’d cleaned the kitchen together after dinner, and there hadn’t been a single dish or glass in sight. Now there were a couple of dishes in the sink, which didn’t surprise me. He’d probably had breakfast and made his lunch before leaving.
But . . . why was there a shot glass next to the plate and mug?
A droplet in the bottom of the glass gave me pause. He’d definitely rinsed it recently. Question was, when had he used it? Had he had a drink before he’d come to bed last night? Or was this . . .
No. No way he’d throw back a shot at four in the morning. Before going to work.
Right?
I didn’t have much time to debate the issue, since I needed to get to Portland, and I had no idea what their Monday morning rush hour would be like. So I focused on that—putting myself together, repacking my bag, and getting out the door.
After I’d double-checked that I hadn’t left anything inside, I locked his front door and shut it behind me. Then I slipped the key in through the mail slot, and headed for my car.
As I drove out of Anchor Point, Portland-bound with time to spare, I was uneasy.
This was more than sex. We’d known from the start that nobody flew back and forth this much just for some good dick. We hadn’t fought that connection, but it hadn’t been until this visit that I’d realized how deep it had really become. Not until the world had been reduced to the two of us on a beach, or until I’d blown off a flight to spend a few more hours with him.
From the start, neither of us had tried to stop this from turning into more than sex. With as much as we talked in between fucking—and as much as we fucked—it had almost seemed inevitable. I’d started looking forward to our visits because I wanted to be with him, not just inside him or under him. He was so sweet, and smart, and funny. He could look at me and stop the whole world in its tracks, and the way he’d kissed me on the beach still made me shiver. Whenever I told him I loved him, I meant it. Whenever he said it, I believed it.
But . . .
I sighed, thumping my fist on the steering wheel. I didn’t even try to tell myself I hadn’t fallen for him, or that I hadn’t fallen hard. That ship had absolutely sailed.
As the familiar Oregon scenery flew by, I wondered what I was getting myself into. Because I loved everything about Noah except one thing, and it had bothered me from early on, but I’d convinced myself I’d been overreacting.
Now I wasn’t so sure. Especially since, when I came to town two weeks ago, there’d been a decent-sized bottle of Jack Daniel’s on his counter. Open, but mostly full, with an unopened one sitting right behind it. Last night, when I’d helped him put away leftovers after dinner, I’d glanced toward it, and there’d only been one bottle left. The amber liquid hadn’t reached the bottom edge of the label.
When he’d gone to the kitchen to take the trash out to the curb last night before we’d turned in, maybe it was my imagination, but I swore he’d joined me in the bedroom with the distinct smell of alcohol on his breath. Except he’d stopped to brush his teeth before getting into bed, so I’d assumed it was mouthwash. Was it?
Or was that where the shot glass had come from?
Or was that from this morning?
My blood turned cold. Or had he used it both times?
Shit. He did have a problem, didn’t he?
Except he was obviously doing all right. He was a cop, for God’s sake. Every time he’d been behind the wheel with me in the passenger seat, he’d been rock steady. His texts were usually as clean as I’d expect from anyone. Well, not clean, or they wouldn’t have been as fun. Not perfect spelling, not bothering with a lot of punctuation because who the hell bothered, but coherent. Weren’t they?
And, no matter what, every time I thought about how functional and together he seemed to be, or how minor all those signs were, my mind went back to the shot glass in the sink this morning. Last night had been amazing and well worth irritating my boss and rescheduling my flight. But had he been sneaking booze the entire time?
Fuck. On one hand, I loved being with him. Fully dressed. Naked. In private. In public. It didn’t matter. The red flags were popping up whether I liked them or not, and they were getting harder to ignore. I didn’t want to believe it, but I was struggling to convince myself Noah didn’t have a drinking problem.
I needed some advice, so as soon as I was at the airport, past security, and settled in at the gate, I took out my phone and called my sister.
“Hey, sweetie.” Mandy sounded cheerful, which was good. “What’s up?”
“Hey, um . . .” I swallowed. “Do you have a few minutes? I need to talk to you about something.”
“Sure.”
“It’s kind of personal.”
“Does it involve me picturing you naked?”
I snickered. “God, I hope not.” Trust her to get a laugh out of me even now.
“Okay. Go on. As long as it’s nothing that requires brain bleach.”
“Nah, you’ll be fine.” My humor faded. “I, uh . . .” How exactly did someone lead into a question like this? Oh fuck it. Blurting it out was always a good place to start. “When did you realize Clint was drinking?”
“Oh.” She paused for a few long seconds. “What do you mean? Like, when it started becoming a problem? I mean, he drank the whole time I knew him.”
“But he wasn’t a drunk. Right?”
“Oh God no. A beer at a party or a glass of wine with dinner.” She exhaled hard. “It didn’t become an issue until after . . . well, whatever happened at work.”
“So it happened overnight?”
She didn’t answer right away. “To be honest, I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, it seemed like it happened overnight. I knew when the incident happened, and he was rattled, but the drinking came out of nowhere a few months later. At least . . . at least I thought it did.”
“You thought it did?”
“Yeah.” Some bitterness laced her tone, but it was almost lost under the heavy fatigue. “He was really good at keeping it out of sight.”
My stomach somersaulted. “How did he do that?”
“He’d drink when he was out with his friends. Or when the kids and I weren’t home. Eventually he stopped trying, though. He drank himself senseless and didn’t care who saw it.”
I gritted my teeth at the memory of a few too many tearful calls from my sister when Clint was shit-faced.
“What brought this up, anyway?” she asked.
I sighed. “Because of Noah.”
“That’s the guy you met when we were in Anchor Point, right?”
“Yeah.” I rubbed my eyes, heart sinking at the mere thought of saying the words. “I think he’s got a problem.”
“Oh shit.”
“Yeah.” I blew out a breath. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Well, you could . . .” She hesitated. “All right, you might not like my advice, but promise me you’ll at least give it some thought.”
“I’m definitely curious now.”
She laughed, but without much feeling. “You might try talking to Clint.”
I would’ve laughed too, but my breath stuck in my throat, so I coughed instead. “You’re serious.”
“Who else do you know who’s drunk himself to absolute rock bottom, and then recovered?”
She had a point. I hated it, but it was valid. And, in a way, it kind of put things in perspective. Maybe Noah didn’t have that big of a problem. If the person I needed to call for input was someone who’d gone as crazy as Clint had, then maybe it wasn’t such a crisis after all.
Or maybe I just wasn’t ready to call Clint. About this or about a
nything. Maybe if things got desperate, if Noah seemed to be getting out of control instead of simply drinking more than a normal person—more than a normal Sailor—I’d call my ex-brother-in-law.
Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that.
I sat back and stared up at the terminal’s ceiling. “What would you do?”
“Have you tried talking to Noah?”
“Not recently.” My guts clenched at the prospect of that conversation. “I’m starting to think I need to, though. I can’t keep ignoring it.”
“No, you can’t.” Her voice was firm. “And you shouldn’t.”
She was right. I couldn’t argue with her.
“So what do I do?”
“Talk to him,” she said. “He might deny it. In fact, he probably will.”
“And then what? It’s not like I have a bunch of incriminating photos to parade out in front of him. I only see him a few days a month, so if he says he doesn’t . . .”
Mandy exhaled. “Then . . . you might have to make some decisions you don’t want to make.”
Fuck. I was afraid of that.
The conversation with Mandy didn’t help. I could barely focus at work, and not for the usual reasons. It was one thing to be blissfully distracted by Noah, either from a recent visit or an upcoming one. This was another thing entirely, and I didn’t like it. Now that I’d committed to talking to him per my sister’s advice, I was dreading our chat tonight. Whenever my phone lit up with a text, my stomach did a flip, and not a pleasant one. And if chatting with him on the webcam had me this spun up, how was I going to feel the next time I got on a plane and headed for Oregon?
By the time I got home, the ironic temptation to pour myself a drink was almost irresistible. I didn’t, though. That would’ve made me a colossal hypocrite. Even if it would have settled my nerves and given me the courage to broach the subject, I couldn’t do it.
Sitting in front of my laptop, waiting for him to log on, I nursed a bottle of water just for something to do.
After that first time I’d nudged the subject of Noah’s drinking, he’d all but stopped. A glass of wine with dinner once in a while, but that was it. At least, when I was in the same room. Lately I’d wondered if, between visiting me or chatting with me, he’d been making up for lost time.
It was impossible not to be uneasy when I started adding together all the things I’d been trying not to notice for the last month or two. The longing looks at a restaurant’s drink menu, even if he didn’t order anything off it. The faint slur in his voice if I called him late at night. I’d written that off as him being tired—he did get up for work at an obscene hour, after all—until I’d realized he was always articulate and coherent when I visited him. How he’d mention how much he hated early morning meetings because they were miserable when his head was already throbbing. The red in his eyes that wasn’t always there, but didn’t seem to accompany any other “allergy” symptoms.
So had I been right to be worried in the beginning? Thinking maybe he had a genuine problem? I’d brushed it off as my subconscious trying to scramble away from anyone who might, on any level, be like Clint, but now I wasn’t so sure. Clint had left me with a sour feeling toward alcoholics that was admittedly not entirely fair, but did that mean I wasn’t justified in being concerned—maybe even angry—over what Noah was doing?
We needed to talk about it. I needed him to be honest with me about his drinking. About the shot glass in the sink and about the alcohol on his breath that might or might not have been mouthwash. About everything. All damn day, I’d been rehearsing how I’d do this.
Noah, I’d say calmly, I’m not making any accusations. I’m only bringing this up because I love you and I care about us. But . . . I’m concerned about your drinking.
There. Easy. Open the door. Get the ball rolling.
My Skype window lit up. Incoming call from Noah.
Cursor hovering over the green camera button, I took a deep breath. I could do this. I could fucking do this.
Then I tapped it.
And the instant his face appeared on the screen, smiling sleepily like he often did after a long day, all my resolve went out the window.
“Hey.” He grinned. “Long time no see.”
I smiled, but it took work, and I could see on my own screen that it looked as half-assed as it felt. “Yeah. Long time.”
His grin faded a bit. “You all right?”
I was going to ask you the same thing.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m good. Just, uh . . . work. Distractions.” I waved a hand. Admittedly, I felt guilty for lying, but I wasn’t ready to broach the subject. Not yet.
“I hear that.” He paused. “Hey, while I’m thinking about it—the base’s Christmas party is coming up. Do you, uh, want to go?”
I laughed despite the sudden knot of dread in my gut. “Aren’t those like prom for adults?” That was how pre-alcoholic Clint had described them.
“No, that’s the Navy Ball.” He shuddered. “No, thank you. But the Christmas parties are a lot more low-key. And they hand out some pretty cool gifts.”
I quirked my lips like I was genuinely considering it. And I kind of was, but at the same time, Mandy had told me stories about base Christmas parties. Clint had turned his nose up at them over the years because they were basically an excuse to get absolutely shit-faced around your coworkers.
“Um, well.” I cleared my throat. “We’ll see how schedules line up. And, I mean, airfare that time of year can get a bit stiff.”
He nodded. “It can. Let me know either way. It’s no big deal if you can’t go, but they start selling tickets in early November.”
“Okay. I will.” I smiled, but deep down, I was admittedly praying the airfare would be too expensive that particular week. Noah was good about not drinking much around me, but would that be an exception? Was it something we should hold off on until I’d worked up the balls to ask him about his drinking when I wasn’t there? Or, at least, when I wasn’t looking?
We drifted into easier topics, and shot the breeze like we often did, talking about work, commutes, and idiot coworker shenanigans. Every time there was a pause, my heart sped up as I tried to work up the courage to fucking say it, but every time, I wussed out.
After almost an hour, Noah glanced at his watch and scowled. “Shit. I’d better call it a night.” His eyebrows flicked up. “See you soon?” As if there was any question. Well, any question he knew about. The tickets had been purchased, anyway. And they were nonrefundable.
I smiled, though it took effort. “Yeah. See you soon.”
“Can’t wait. I love you.”
“I love you too.” Just saying those four words made my chest ache. I wasn’t lying. I absolutely meant it. But why couldn’t I make myself say the other words that I also meant?
I’m worried about you.
I need you to be honest with me.
I think you have a problem.
We signed off, and I sank back against the sofa, rubbing my eyes with the heels of my hands. Why was I such a fucking coward?
I dropped my hands and stared at the screen. There was nothing left of our video chat except the time stamp and the notification that the call had ended. Where was he now? Pouring himself a drink? Heading out with his friends? Going about his evening like a normal person who didn’t have a problem aside from a boyfriend who thought he had one?
Fuck. What do I do?
Nothing, apparently. Between my fear of being right and some really creative mental gymnastics to rationalize away all the signs, I didn’t bring it up over the next few days. I finally resigned myself to waiting until we were in person, but still couldn’t spit out the words the next time Noah was in Denver.
Coward. You’re a fucking coward.
And now I was mere hours away from my next trip to Anchor Point. I sat staring at my email inbox. The airline notification had just come in, saying that I could check in online for my flight, so I went ahead and clicked on it, but as I went through
the motions, I didn’t feel all giddy and excited about seeing him tomorrow. I was kind of dreading it. I knew we needed to talk, but if I hadn’t worked up the nerve after all this time . . .
I sighed, glaring at the confirmation as it processed my check-in. Maybe in person I’d be able to work up the courage to talk to him. The webcam technically counted as face-to-face, but sometimes physically being in the same room—or the same bed—made the words come more easily. Except I’d seen him recently and still wussed out.
You have successfully checked in for your flight.
I blew out a breath. Okay. I’d do this. I’d go to Anchor Point again. I’d see how things went.
But I was nervous. In fact, if I was honest with myself, I was scared. It had been weeks since I’d found that glass, and I hadn’t been able to let go of the bad feeling in my stomach. Something didn’t feel right, and Noah’s insistence that everything was fine only made me think it was worse. I kept hearing my sister tearfully telling me that Clint was going through a hard time, but he’d get it together. He’d be okay, and they’d be okay.
He hadn’t been. And they hadn’t been.
Now that he was, it was too late for his marriage. He and Mandy had both moved on, but nothing changed the fact that Clint had drunk their marriage away. It didn’t undo all the damage he’d done to my sister and those kids.
So was that where Noah and I were going?
Thing was, I didn’t care if Noah drank. He was an adult. I drank too.
But under no circumstances would I stand by and watch our relationship circle the drain like Mandy’d had to watch hers.
I stared up at the ceiling. We’d see how things went, but I promised myself I wouldn’t let things drag out like Clint and Mandy. They’d had no choice. There’d been kids and history. Noah was a boyfriend I’d been seeing for a relatively short time.
So I silently vowed that things would be different.
If he drank, fine.
If it became a problem, though, I’d be gone so fast, he wouldn’t know what hit him.
