“Hey,” she says softly, closing the door behind her.
“You shouldn’t be here.” The words slur together. “You’re mad at me. You should be—you should be at your mom’s house. Being mad.”
“I was mad.” She sets her bag down, moves toward me slowly like I might spook. “I’m still mad. But Dex called and said you weren’t answering and today is—” She stops. “He told me about Matty. About the anniversary.”
“Shouldn’t have.” I try to stand, to tell her to leave, but the room spins and I sit back down hard. “It’s not—it’s not your problem.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Very observant, Dr. Walker.” The bitterness in my voice surprises even me. “Excellent diagnosis.”
She crouches in front of me, hands on my knees. “When did you start drinking?”
“Morning? Noon? Does it matter?” I wave vaguely at nothing. “It’s all wrong anyway. The whole day. Every year. Always wrong.”
“Okay.” Her voice is calm. Clinical. “Can you stand?”
“Don’t want to.”
“Roman, please.”
“I fucked up.” The words tumble out. “With you. With him. With everything. I keep fucking up and people—” My throat closes. “People leave.”
“I’m right here,” she says quietly.
“For now. But you’re angry. You should be angry. I lied. Kept secrets. Made decisions about your life without telling you. Just like I—” I can’t finish the sentence. Can’t connect the dots between what I did to her and what I failed to do for Matty.
“We’ll talk about that,” she says. “But not when you’re drunk. Come on. Up.”
“Where?”
“Bedroom. You need to sleep this off.”
“Can’t sleep.” The truth tastes like ash. “Every time I close my eyes I see—I’m back there. Back in that hospital room. Back to?—”
“Roman.” She stands, pulls me up with surprising strength. “Don’t go there. Not alone. Not like this.”
I let her guide me because I’m too drunk and too tired to fight. She gets me to the bathroom, hands me water. “Drink.”
I drink. She refills it. “Again.”
I drink again, and the room spins less violently.
She gets me to the bedroom somehow. Helps me out of my shirt. Doesn’t comment on the way my hands shake. On the smell of whiskey. On any of it.
“Lie down.”
I do. The ceiling spins slightly above me.
“I’m going to get more water. Don’t move.”
She disappears and immediately I’m back there. The hospital. The machines. The doctor saying words that didn’t make sense?—
“Here.” Marnie’s back, pressing a glass into my hand. “Drink half. Then sleep.”
“You’re staying?” It comes out sounding more pathetic than I want it to.
“Yeah.” She climbs into bed beside me, still fully clothed. “I’m staying.”
