Page 45 of The Monster and the Masochist

“Hey, Jer. Sorry I’m late,” I croaked as I entered.

I tossed my gym bag into one of the two empty folding chairs set in front of his desk before throwing myself into the other one.

Jerry looked up from whatever he’d been doing on his laptop, and I forced myself not to cower beneath his unimpressed glare.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment, and I just sat there, staring at him, feeling like a kid who was about to get grounded for missing curfew or something.

“It’s happening again,” he grunted, and I bristled.

“No. It was just a one-time thing. It won’t be like last time,” I insisted. I expected his expression to darken, or for him to get pissed at me like he usually did when I started crashing out like this, but he didn’t.

He looked almost… sad, or worried, or some other soft emotion I wasn’t equipped to accept in my current state. For some reason, my throat tightened, and I swallowed, trying to push back a painful lump that seemed to be growing without my permission.

After another long, painfully silent moment, Jerry sighed and leaned forward, crossing his arms on his desk and pinning me with a look.

“We can’t keep doing this, kid. Something’s gotta give. It’s like clockwork. You’re fine for a bit, then every three to six months, you go off the rails. I’ve been quiet about it because I know what it’s like to deal with some shit, but you can’t be doing this when we have the fight with the Russian coming up. I need your head in the game.”

“I know. I’m sorry. It was just a small slip. But it’s out of my system. I’m good. I swear,” I lied, hoping like hell that if I said all the right shit, he would drop it.

Jerry pursed his lips and shook his head.

“Do we need to get you in to see one of those head doctors or something? You need a shrink, kid?”

My lip twitched, and I chuckled softly.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to call them that anymore, man. They’re therapists, now.”

He scoffed but didn’t smile like I was hoping he would.

“Whatever they’re called. You need one?”

The thought of telling anyone about what Father Samwell had done to me made me want to bolt out of this room to head straight back to the liquor store. Telling a stranger was even worse. There was no way I would be able to do that.

“No. I don’t. I just… I just need to train. Sweat it out. I’m fine.”

Jerry scowled.

“You’re not fine. You smell like a brewery, kid. I can taste the vodka from here. You think I don’t know what it’s like to chase peace at the bottom of a bottle? I don’t know what you’re running from, Theo, but I know you won’t find what you’re looking for in a bottle of booze. Trust me.”

His words felt like a violent slap in the face.

Was I that transparent?

I was always so careful.

Outside of a few casual drinks with my family, I did almost all of my drinking alone. I waited until Ryan and Iris were out of the house to dispose of the bottles when it got bad, in case they saw them in the recycling.

Besides, it wasn’t like I was an alcoholic. I went through long stretches where I didn’t drink at all. An alcoholic wouldn’t be able to go months without booze, right?

When Cass stayed with me, I hadn’t had anything to drink for her entire six-week stay.

But it looked like I’d fucked up this time. I’d been in a rush and hadn’t been as careful as I normally was covering my tracks… Even though I’d showered and brushed the crap out of my teeth before coming here, Jerry could still smell it on me.

Was the shit literally seeping out of my damn pores?

Shame and terror roiled through my gut, making the muffin I’d scarfed down churn in a queasy rush.

Maybe I wasn’t hiding my little problem as well as I’d thought.