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I’m already awake when my mom knocks on my door the morning after I fly in.
Not sure if I’m sober.
But I’m awake.
When I got in last night, Dad was already in bed, and Mom was dozing on the couch. She yelled at me for coming. Said I didn’t need to upend my life for them. I didn’t have the heart to tell her my life had already been upended. Instead, I locked up after she went to bed and broke out the bottle of shitty old scotch Cross and I had hidden in the basement over a decade ago and decided to crack it open.
That’s a decision I’ll be paying for today.
Shitty booze leaves you with a shittier hangover.
I knew it but didn’t care enough to not drink it anyway.
Gracie is numb, so I figured I’d give it a shot and see if that works for me.
News flash. Booze might numb the pain, but it magnifies the problem. At least for me it did. Can’t say I felt like a winner sitting in my parents’ kitchen, drinking cheap scotch from a coffee mug, wishing things were different.
Not exactly a highlight.
A low point . . . Maybe.
But in all fairness, I’ve done worse.
Just haven’t felt worse in a long damn time.
“Ares,” Mom calls out from the other side of the door. “There’s coffee.”
Very, very, very fucking slowly, I get up from my old twin bed and answer my bedroom door. “Thanks, Mom. I’ve got to take a shower. Then I’ll be down.”
“Oh, sweetie.” She wrinkles her nose and takes a step back. “You smell like a distillery.”
“Thanks, Ma.”
“Your father is having coffee on the porch. He shouldn’t need anything. I’m going into town to run a few errands. Do you need anything? Maybe some new shampoo? Deodorant?”
“Very funny. No, I’m good. I’ve got that stuff. Nothing a hot shower and some strong coffee won’t fix.” At least what can be fixed.
“You going to tell me what’s hurting you, honey? I hope it’s not worry over your father because he’s as strong as a bull. You don’t need to worry about him.” She reaches out to run her hand over my head, then changes her mind. I must look like flaming dog shit—or worse.
“Just wanted to see you guys. I didn’t like the call the other night, and we don’t get back up here enough.” I drop a kiss on her cheek, and she smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
“If that’s what you say.” She lightly taps my cheek, then wipes her hand on my t-shirt.
I’ll be back in a little while. Go shower. And don’t let your father talk you into making bacon.” She turns to leave, mumbling something under her breath about stupid, stubborn men, and I’m pretty sure she’s talking about Pop and me.
I lift my arm to close the door and get a whiff of myself.
Shit. Iamripe.
Shower first. Coffee after.
I’ve got this.
I turn to grab my dopp kit and trip over my sneakers, suddenly less sure of my level of gotting this.Getting this...Having this. Yeah. Having this.
Fuck. I think I’m still drunk.
Ahot shower and a fresh shave help enough that I no longer feel the alcohol seeping out of my pours. Swear to God, I’ve lost my touch. I didn’t even finish the bottle. There was a time I would have said that move was for quitters and I’m no quitter. Now I quit three-quarters of the way through, and I still feel like fucking ass.
