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“Because I didn’t want to talk to you!” His voice is sharp enough to cut, and that’s exactly what it feels like he’s doing—cutting me open without a care.
My heart is frantic in my chest as I try to form a rebuttal, and that’s when I smell it. Whiskey.
“Are you drunk?” I ask, the smell causing me to wince. “Did you drive home like this?”
“Fuck no.” His voice has lowered some, but he’s still pacing around the room like a caged lion. “Drake threw my keys in the fucking parking lot somewhere and had to drive me home. I’m never going to find the damn things.” He abruptly turns toward me. “You didn’t need to call him. I already told you I don’t need another mother.”
“I’m not trying to mother you, Chase. I’m worried about you!”
“I’m fine!” He tugs at his hair and groans so deep that it sounds almost animalistic. “I’m allowed to have feelings, Addison. I’m allowed to be fucked up about my best friend being dead.”
Even in the turmoil, I feel myself deflate, all the anger inside me washing away to sadness. “I know you’re hurting. Talk to me. Or better yet, go talk to a professional—”
“I don’t need to talk to a fucking professional, goddamn it,” he grumbles. “I don’t need any of you hovering over me with this bullshit.”
“Well, it’s great that you don’t need anyone, Chase, but I do. I need you. And you’ve just left me here all on my own these past few days. I’m not telling you that your pain doesn’t matter, but stop pushing me away,” I plead.
Ignoring me, he leans over and begins unlacing his boots with a huff. I’m at a loss for words as he pulls one off, then starts working on the other, swaying the entire time. When he’s almost done, he loses his balance, tipping backward and plopping straight down on his ass. He hits so hard that it seems to rattle him as much as it does me.
I reach out a hand to comfort him before thinking better of it and pulling it back. I can’t handle him shrugging me off again, not right now.
“I’m fine,” he grates out anyway, like if he keeps repeating the words, they might somehow become true. He pulls his legs up slowly, one boot still haphazardly stuck on his heel. He gives it a yank, but his movements are weak, and the boot stays put.
With a sigh, I move forward and kneel before him. “Stop saying you’re fine. You’re so fucking far from fine it isn’t even funny.” I stick my finger under the laces to pull them looser, then tug on the heel of the boot to remove it. When it pops off, it throws him off balance again, and he falls to his back. His eyes meet mine for just a second before he closes them.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
“Sleeping.” His voice is hoarse.
“Are you kidding me? You can’t just sleep there.”
“Go away, Addison,” he mutters.
I pull back as his words slam into me. I struggle to even breathe through the rejection eating away at my chest. “Is that what you want?” I say breathlessly. “You want me to leave?”
He only grunts in response. I rise, looking down at him. I bring my hand up over my racing heart, struggling to hold the tears back. Even hurt, I briefly consider waking him and trying to get him up the stairs, but in the end, it sounds like more hassle than it’s worth. He doesn’t want me near him, let alone trying to drag him up the stairs. Besides, he’s a grown man and can make his own decisions.
Even if that means spending the night on the hard floor.
