by L. A. Witt
Anthony was on his way, and not a moment too soon. I’d reached the end of my can function without him tether, but he’d be here this evening. A day early, for that matter—he’d taken a day off so he could come in tonight and we could spend all of Friday and Saturday together.
All I had to do was get through my shift, and I was home free. Not only because I needed to see him, though. I was so glad this week was over. The ships were back from three weeks at sea, and as always, all hell seemed to have broken loose. An officer’s kid busted shoplifting from the Exchange. A car stolen from the commissary parking lot, though that one turned out to be someone who’d forgotten they’d ridden their bicycle. A Seabee arrested for reckless driving. The bullshit fallout from a young cop writing an executive a speeding ticket he absolutely deserved. One fucking thing after the goddamned other.
And to cap it off this afternoon, near the end of shift, some day-drunk Sailor had caused a disturbance at the gate because he didn’t have his ID. I wasn’t in the mood for that shit, and I definitely wasn’t in the mood for his attitude. Few things could sour a good mood—or curdle an already bad one—faster than a combative drunk. This idiot needed to be subdued by me and two of my guys so we could get him to the pier and hand him over to our counterparts on the ship. That fucker had bruised the shit out of my shin while we were taking him out of the car, and I’d never been so happy to wash my hands of someone.
“We’ve got him, Chief,” the ship’s watch commander said as two of his own guys escorted the belligerent asshole from the quarterdeck. “Thanks.”
I had no idea what would happen. It mostly depended on if his chain of command wanted to make an example of him, or if they were bogged down with other shit and just swept it under the rug while warning him not to let it happen again. He was lucky this wasn’t old-school Navy, or he’d be liable to get his ass kicked in a fan room until he wouldn’t even think about behaving like this again.
Well. Whatever. He wasn’t my problem anymore.
And thank God our shift was done, because so was I.
After we’d finished turnover, MA1 Walker said, “Anybody else need a beer?”
Those words were magic to me. I glanced at my watch. Anthony would be landing in a few hours, and he still had an hour and a half to two hours to drive from Portland. That was plenty of time for a couple of beers. Then I’d be relaxed, my bullshit week washed away, and I could focus on him.
“I’m in,” I said.
Chief Lasby nodded. “Yeah, me too. Shamrock’s?”
“Sounds good to me,” Walker said. “I’ll see you guys there.”
I must not have been the only one having a crap week, because by the time I got to the bar, at least a dozen guys from my section were there.
I checked my watch again. Still two hours before Anthony landed. Plenty of time.
So I went up to the bar and ordered my first round.
“Damn, Chief.” MA3 Sanchez laughed as the bartender poured shots for all of us. “Is your liver human?”
I chuckled and lifted a glass in a toast. “Happens when you make chief. They issue you a superhuman liver.” I downed a shot, grimaced, and put the glass on the bar. “It’s part of Hell Week.”
She laughed uneasily. “Is that, uh, optional?”
“I’d like to see someone get through Hell Week and not want to drink.” And that was another memory I didn’t want to think about tonight, so time for more booze down the hatch.
MA3 Sanchez did a shot, then shifted her attention to her phone. A lot of the younger Sailors did that. Drink. Phone. Drink. Phone. How they could focus enough to read anything on the screens, I had no idea. I’d gone ahead and turned mine off because why waste the battery? That, and I’d learned the hard way that drunk texting was a bad idea.
All too soon, it was getting late, and everyone started clearing out. We didn’t usually stay out past eleven or twelve—it was hard to pull a late night when we were all used to being up at a ridiculous hour to go to work. Part of me wanted to keep downing drinks—I felt fucking great, but I was still way too coherent.
My legs already had a mind of their own, though, and my stomach wasn’t sure I’d keep anything else down.
Get a cab. There’s more at home in the fridge.
Ooh, there’s some Jack at home. Already paid for and everything.
This place’s a rip-off. Home it is.
I started toward the door but staggered. Someone held me up. Guided me out. I was vaguely aware of being poured into the back of a car, and then recognized the window between the seats.
A cop car? Shit!
I sat up so fast I almost puked, but steadied myself. Then I realized it wasn’t a cop. It was a cab. Thank fuck.
“You know where we’re going?” My tongue felt too big for my mouth, but the words kind of came out clearly. I thought.
“Point Heights Apartments, yeah?”
“Yep. Tha’s it. Number . . .” I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to think and not puke at the same time. “Eight. Num’er eight.”
The cab stopped in front of a building that looked familiar. Oh yeah. My building. Home. Where the booze was.
I handed the guy some bills. Couldn’t quite make out the numbers, so I’d probably just tipped him half my paycheck, but whatever.
I stumbled out of the car, and the parking lot listed under my feet. Shit. When had Anchor Point turned into a carrier during a hurricane? Gripping the open cab door for balance, I wobbled as I tried to get something—anything—into focus.
“Hey, you all right?” the cab driver asked from miles away.
“Y-yeah. Good. I’m good.” I took a step away from the car and slammed the door, the motion nearly knocking me sideways. “See?” I laughed. “Good.”
He shook his head, and the car rolled away.
Okay. Now to get to the door. And in the door. And to the kitchen. Jack was waiting in the kitchen.
I still had my keys, right?
Yep. There they were.
Okay. To the kitchen. The door. Then the kitchen.
Something caught my eye, and I halted, almost tripping again. There was a person at my door. Wait, was that my door? Or was I at the wrong apartment again? Shit. I started to look around, trying to focus my eyes and orient myself.
“Noah?”
The voice jarred me, and I turned again, my balance wobbling. I blinked a few times as he came closer, and the overhead lights caught a glint of red hair.
The world jerked to a halt. So did my heart.
“An’ony,” I slurred. “Shit. What time is it?”
“What time is it?” he growled. “Apparently you didn’t even know what day it was if you forgot I was coming.”
The ground lurched again. I’d forgotten . . . what? What was going on?
“Jesus Christ,” he snarled as he came toward me. “I came back to make sure you were all right.” He stopped for a second, but then continued past me. “Obviously you’re fine. Nice of you to check your fucking phone.”
“Wait, wait.” I reached for his arm, but he jerked away enough to stay out of my grasp. “Let’s talk.”
He laughed bitterly. “Call me when you sober up. Or don’t. I really couldn’t care less.”
And, with that, he was gone.
I was on autopilot after I left Noah’s place. I’d driven all the way out of the Anchor Point city limits—twice—and had to drive forever to find a place to turn around. I’d been here for hours, and I’d gone back three times to see if he was home. Each time I’d been closer to freaking out and calling the police or the hospital, thinking the worst had happened.
And then there he was—drunk.
Why was I surprised? Was I surprised? Fuck. And what the hell did I do now?
What I needed to do was stop and regroup. Find a room for the night. Collect my thoughts.
But I drove right by three separate motels, and didn’t realize where I was headed until I slowed to a stop in front of a house I hadn’t been to
in months. It wasn’t a place I particularly wanted to be, but at the moment, I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.
So I parked, got out, walked up to the front porch, and rang the doorbell.
A moment later, Travis opened the door. “Oh. Hey. I . . . didn’t realize you were in town.”
“I know. I . . .” I waved my hand. “Is Clint around?”
“He’s on his way home from work.” Travis stood aside. “Come on in.”
“Thanks. He have to work late or something?”
“We both do. Fucking audit coming up.” As he shut the door behind us, Travis asked, “Can I get you a beer or—”
“No.”
He blinked. “Okay. Um.”
“Sorry.” I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “I’d rather not look at anything alcoholic right now.”
“Gotcha. Coffee or anything?”
I chewed the inside of my cheek, and admittedly, coffee did sound pretty good. “Yeah, sure. Coffee would be nice. Thanks.”
He led me into the kitchen, his limp more pronounced than I’d seen it before, and added over his shoulder, “I was right in the middle of cooking, so you’re welcome to hang out in here, or take a seat in the living room.”
“Cooking? This late?”
He laughed dryly. “The hours they’ve got me and Clint pulling these days, you better believe it.”
“Yikes.” I took in a deep breath through my nose. “Wow. Whatever you’re cooking smells amazing.”
“Thanks.” He chuckled. “Hopefully it doesn’t smell like I didn’t know how to cook until recently.”
“Not at all. So, what? You finally decided to learn?”
“Clint taught me.”
My heart and my stomach got all weird. Clint had always been a great cook. Before his collapse, anyway. Why was it so strange to imagine he still was? After all, he was still Clint.
I cleared my throat. “He does know what he’s doing in the kitchen.”
“Good thing one of us does,” he muttered. “Or, well . . . I do now, I mean.”
Travis poured me a cup of coffee, and I leaned against the dishwasher while he tended to a couple of pots and checked on something in the oven. As he cooked, we shot the breeze, which was a nice break from being pissed off and devastated. I hadn’t expected to take a breather from it, but it was certainly welcome.
Then the front door opened, and my heart sped up. Break over.
Booted feet came down the hall, and a second later, Clint appeared in the kitchen doorway in his uniform. He saw me and did a double take. “Oh. Hi, Anthony.” He put a couple of plastic grocery bags on the counter. “When did you get into town?”
“Uh, well.” I shifted uncomfortably, suddenly not sure I should finish this coffee if I didn’t want to get sick. “That’s kind of why I came here to talk.”
He and Travis exchanged glances.
“Go ahead.” Travis touched Clint’s hip and kissed him softly. “I’ve got things under control in here.”
Clint hesitated but then nodded. He gave Travis another quick kiss before motioning for me to come into the living room with him.
I took my coffee with me, though I doubted I’d drink anymore. At least it was something to do with my hands, and I didn’t want to be rude to Travis.
In the living room, I took a seat. Clint stopped to pull off the button-up blue camouflage shirt he was wearing, revealing a Navy blue T-shirt underneath. I struggled to look at him, and not for the usual reasons. The uniform reminded me too much of Noah’s.
Draping his discarded shirt over the back of the sofa, Clint sat down too. He faced me, but kept a comfortable distance between us. “So, what’s up?”
I chewed my lip, not really sure where to start. Finally, I swallowed hard and rubbed the back of my neck. “I’ve been seeing this guy here in town. Noah. He’s . . .” I gestured dismissively. “Anyway . . . I’m worried.”
Clint slung his arm along the back of the couch and cocked his head. “About?”
I chewed my lip. “I think he’s got a drinking problem.”
“Oh.” He paused. “I guess that answers the question about why you came to see me.” There was the faintest note of contempt in his voice, but when our eyes locked, his expression softened. “What do you need?”
“I don’t know. I’m not . . . I’m not even sure why I came here.” I wiped my hand over my face. “Like, I’ve seen the signs for a while, but then seeing how bad it was tonight . . .”
“What happened?”
“Tonight? Or the signs I’ve seen along the way?”
Clint shrugged. “Both.”
I avoided his eyes. “I . . . kind of started thinking he had a problem. There were signs here and there. Like when we’d talk on the webcam and he’d slur a bit, or when I thought he had alcohol on his breath.” Exhaling hard, I raked my hand through my hair. “And then this afternoon, I flew in so we could spend the weekend together, but he wasn’t there. I texted him, called him, waited for him, and finally he shows up . . . well, about half an hour ago.” I lifted my gaze and met Clint’s. “Absolutely drunk off his ass.”
A breath rushed out of Clint. “You know it’s getting bad when he doesn’t hide it anymore.”
“Yeah.” I forced my voice to stay even. “I don’t know if he forgot I was coming and decided to go out drinking, or he decided to go out drinking and got drunk enough he forgot I was coming.”
“Could’ve been either.”
I stared into my coffee cup.
“Listen,” he said after a moment. “This isn’t going to be easy to hear, but . . .”
“Just say it.”
He didn’t speak immediately. “If he does have a problem, you’re not going to be able to fix it.” The words were blunt, but his voice was gentle. “I know you, Anthony, and I know you’ve been trying to figure out how to fix this, but you can’t.”
A lump rose in my throat. He was right, wasn’t he? “So what do I do?”
“There isn’t much you can do at this point,” Clint said. “He has to be willing to do the legwork himself, which means he has to realize it’s a problem, and that it’s a problem he doesn’t want to live with anymore.” He paused, and when I looked at him, he added, “Which means he has to be fixing it for himself. Not for you.”
It stung, but I couldn’t argue. Silently, I nodded. It was so weird to be this angry with Noah—to the point I’d have lost my shit if I’d been face-to-face with him—and still hurt so bad at the realization that I was losing him. That he was slipping through my fingers, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.
Or that I’d already lost him.
That maybe I’d never really had him at all.
Sure, we’d flown back and forth. We’d had tons of sex and countless hours of conversation, and I’d fallen in love with him, and he’d said he’d fallen in love with me.
But what about in between seeing each other? How long would we have lasted if we’d been around each other more, and he hadn’t had to only be on his best behavior for a couple of days at a time?
My heart sank even deeper.
“Oh my God.” I buried my face in my hands.
“What?”
“I feel so stupid. Fuck.” Lowering my hands, I sighed. “When we first started dating, he told me he hadn’t had any long-term relationships except long-distance relationships. Like he’d start seeing someone, and one of them would transfer, and they’d go until it fizzled out or whatever. And he never ‘connected’ with anyone who was in the same town as him for any length of time. God, how did I not see that huge fucking red flag?”
“Anthony.” Clint put his hand on my arm. “You know that shit about hindsight being twenty-twenty? It’s totally true. A lot of stuff is impossible to see for what it is until you know all the other details.” He gave my arm a gentle squeeze. “You didn’t have any reason to believe he was an alcoholic at that point.”
“I just wish I had,” I muttered. “Then I would
n’t have invested so much in this relationship.” And had I ever invested in this. Time. Money. Emotions. He’d eaten my time alive—if he wasn’t with me, he was on my mind. And what had been on his mind during those periods? I cringed at the thought. How many nights had I spent grinning like an idiot or jacking off to fantasies of him, totally oblivious to him drinking like a fucking fish?
For that matter, when I drank a lot, I got stupid. He obviously did too. If he’d forgotten I was coming to town, how much of a stretch was it that he might forget I fucking existed sometimes?
If a man bangs a stranger, and he’s too drunk to remember he has a boyfriend, is it still cheating?
I rubbed my face again. “This is such a mess.”
“Sounds like he’s a mess.”
And now I am too.
“I . . . Listen, I’m sorry to come and dump all this on you. I didn’t know where else to go.”
“It’s okay. I’m happy to help.”
“I just don’t know what to do now.”
“Catch your breath,” he offered softly. “Sleep on it. Talk to him.”
Talking to him didn’t hold a lot of appeal, but now that Clint mentioned sleep, I was fucking exhausted from traveling, worrying, and reeling from seeing Noah fall-down drunk after he’d forgotten me.
I rubbed my eyes. “We’ll see about that last part, but sleep sounds good.” I rested my hands in my lap. “I guess I should go find a room for the night.”
“Well, you . . .” Clint hesitated. “You can stay here if you want to.”
My shoulders sagged as I turned to him. “I kind of feel like an ass, imposing like that.”
“Not at all. We, uh, don’t have a guest room or anything, but you’re welcome to crash on the couch as long as you’re in town.”
I mulled it over, and as much as I desperately wanted to insist I was fine on my own and go find a hotel, I was exhausted. And, pathetically or otherwise, I kind of didn’t want to be alone. “Are you sure?”
He smiled, and it was a lot more reassuring than I’d expected from him. “Of course.”
I managed to smile too. “Thanks, Clint.”
