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Fear, not anger is etched into his handsome expression. Everything about him reminds me how damaged he is. Everything but the booze coming off of him.
“Are you drunk?” The accusation in my tone is evident.
He breathes out heavily. Slamming the front door and moving around me to go to the kitchen sink.
I can’t believe the sight of him. Never taking my eyes off of him, I toss down my keys and purse. Seth’s busy washing his face at the sink as I take a look around the room. He couldn’t have been here long, but still, there’s a hole punched into the drywall that leads to the hall.
“You hurt your hand?” I bite out, feeling angrier by the second. What the hell is wrong with him?
His shoulders are hunched over the sink still as he braces himself with his forearms after wiping off his face. “I thought someone took you,” he admits to me. His breathing still hasn’t calmed and guilt quickly replaces the anger.
I never know what to feel when it comes to Seth. Right now though, I feel sorry for him. He’s still in his suit pants but his shirt is disheveled and I can see from here the bruise already covering his battered hand.
“I should have texted sooner; I just had a bad night.” I apologize with every ounce of sincerity I can muster. I know the wars he fought, both physical and emotional, have left scars on Seth.
“You had a bad night,” he huffs out humorlessly and then covers his face with both of his hands, leaning his head back.
It’s so fucking insulting. Like I can’t have a hard night because I don’t do what he does. It’s hard not to be angry. It’s more difficult than anything not to engage and let him know punching holes into walls and yelling at me because I’m late—even though he was too—isn’t acceptable.
“I’m sorry you thought something happened to me,” I say, speaking up to make sure he can hear me as I grab my keys. The sound of them jingling finally brings his gaze back to me.
He looks like he’s gone through hell and back. I get that. I do, but I didn’t sign up for this shit.
“I’m going home and when you’re sober—”
“The hell you are.” Seth’s tone is demanding and desperate all at once. “Get your ass over here.”
My feet are cemented where they are, undecided on whether or not I should have a backbone and leave, or whether I should go to him. The fluttering in my chest and the way my throat goes tight when he looks at me like that, desperately from across the room, that’s what makes me put my keys back down and make my way to him.
The second I put a foot in the kitchen, he pulls me in tight and hugs me to him. Yes, he smells like booze. He smells like him too. This deep masculine, heavy scent that I used to dream of. A scent I swore I could smell on one of my shirts once so I refused to wash it until I could no longer make out his fragrance.
“Please don’t treat me like that,” I breathe into his shirt, my eyes still open. His are closed though. Both arms wrapped around me, he rocks me right there in front of the sink.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs and then kisses my crown.
It’s then that I remember a similar night. A night like this. One where I was ready to leave, but I didn’t. Because I love him. I love the way he holds me; I love the way he smells. I love what he does to me and what I can do to him.
But as I stand here, too sober, too exhausted, too wrung the hell out, I remember very clearly something I told myself for years as I cried myself to sleep.
If I’d left that night, Cami would still be here.
That thought is why I push myself away from Seth, not wanting to cry anymore. His rough fingers brush my skin when I back away. The counter hits my lower back and with both of my palms pressed to my eyes I walk out of the kitchen. The silence behind me proves he doesn’t follow me.
Fuck, I can’t take any more today. I swear I can’t take any more.
“What’s wrong?” he asks me, clearly having no idea.
“I don’t know where to start,” I say and breathe out heavily. Wanting to sit on the sofa, but also looking toward the door. Therapy taught me a lot when I was in school. It taught me I should be by myself when I feel like this. When it gets to be too much, I don’t communicate well. I know I don’t. “I had a really bad day and I just… I can’t do much of anything right now.”
