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“I had a bad dream and my dad isn’t in his room. I don’t know where he is.” She sounded scared.
“I’ll be right there,” I said.
“Wake up,” I hissed quietly at Brandon.
He opened one bleary eye and said, “Go away. I’m dying.”
There was no denying he looked like total hungover shit. I could practically hear the throb in his head. “Go die in the bathroom. Poppy is looking for you.”
In my sleep shorts and T-shirt, I went to the bedroom door and managed to slip through the smallest crack imaginable to enter the hallway without Poppy seeing her dad in my bed.
“Hi!” I said, cheerfully. “I think your dad is in the bathroom. He stayed out too late with Mr. Matt and Carson and he doesn’t feel so hot.”
She looked like she needed a hug, so I put my arm around her and led her down the hallway, pulling her in tight to my side.
“Does my dad need rehab too?” she asked, sounding terrified.
“What? No.” Poor kid. My heart shattered all over again. “There’s a big difference between drinking once in a while and it becoming a problem.”
Poppy chewed her bottom lip. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. Your dad is fine. He just doesn’t go out with his friends very often so he stayed out too late.” The air in the apartment was chilly. We were in that transitional period of fall where neither the air-conditioning nor the heat is running and where mornings are chilly and afternoons are warm. “Do you want some hot chocolate?”
She looked like she needed some liquid comfort herself.
“I don’t like hot chocolate.” She climbed onto a stool at the island.
“What? You don’t like hot chocolate. That’s bonkers.”
Poppy shrugged. “I don’t really like chocolate.”
I pretended to gasp. “That’s outrageous. A vicious lie.”
She giggled. “No, it’s true.”
“How about hot apple cider, then?” I had bought some two days earlier in a moment of nostalgia for being a kid and going to the apple farm and watching them fresh squeeze the cider.
“I've never had apple cider.”
“That all changes today,” I said, dramatically. “The success of the perfect mug of apple cider hinges on the cinnamon stick.” I went to the refrigerator. “Do you want to talk about your dream?” I asked.
She shook her head. “No.”
Poppy was sipping her cider a minute later, but mostly stirring the cinnamon stick in it, when Brandon came into the kitchen. He didn’t look much better, but he did have a shirt on and was rubbing the stubble on his chin. His hair was sticking up and he had dark circles under his eyes. His forehead and hairline were damp, like he’d splashed water on his face.
He bent over and dropped a kiss on Poppy’s head, then looked like the motion had done him no good. “Oh, God,” he muttered. Then, “You okay, Pop? What’s wrong?”
I knew he would go for the coffee, but I thought apple cider might actually be better for him. I’d made myself a cup, but I dropped the cinnamon stick in and handed it to him. “Here, drink this.”
He obeyed, and made a face but said, “That actually tastes delicious. Wet and juicy.”
He was so hungover he even missed his own sexual innuendo.
Watching Poppy’s face, I sensed she wasn’t going to talk in front of me. She wanted to be alone with her dad.
I went into my room and made the bed. I couldn’t stand to look at the side of the bed where Brandon had slept. But I did that thing, that thing that everyone swears they’ll never do. I picked up the pillow he had slept on and breathed in the scent of him.
Then I dropped it like it had burned me.
