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“How would you know how much I drink?” I demand.
He folds his hands together in his lap. “You get shipments of alcohol sent to your house weekly. It used to be only monthly.”
I eye him, feeling as if I’ve been stripped naked right here. “You’ve been stalking me?”
He nods, unashamed. “Watching you, yes. So I knew what you needed from me.”
“You’ve been to my house?”
“On occasion.”
“Enough to know I get shipments weekly.”Sometimes twice a week, but I don’t mention that.
“I wanted to make sure you were okay. And I saw that you weren’t.” He looks down. “It got worse and worse.Yougot worse. Your drinking has become out of control ever since…” Tactfully, he trails off.
“Yeah,” I say bitterly. “Well, you lose your family and let me know if it doesn’t drive you to drink.”
He scoffs, muttering, “I’d have to have a family first.”
Seeing an in, I pry, “Why don’t you?”
His eyes meet mine, and he suddenly looks sheepish. “I’ve never been with anyone seriously. It’s…just never worked out.”
Well, why the hell not? You seem totally normal, Not-Owen.I put on a fake look of concern. “I don’t believe that. I’m sure, if you put yourself out there, you could meet a nice woman, er, a nice person and start a family.”
His eyes flick down to my lips, and ice fills my stomach. “Maybe someday.”
I force a smile and look down.
“It’s been more than a year since you released a book,” he says, back to business. “What’s your new one about?”
“I haven’t been writing,” I admit. “Not yet. But as soon as I get home, I will. I was actually planning to start my new one in November. Fall always helps me get into a mood for writing.”
“Excellent. Keeping you here with me will be helpful then. I can make sure you don’t drink more than what’s necessary. Keep your head clear. Help you with story ideas even. Maybe you could name a character after me.”
“How can I name a character after you if I don’t know your name?” I ask.
He twists his lips. “You will soon. Once I know I can trust you.”
I swallow, picking at a piece of skin near my thumbnail.
“Would you do that?” he asks after a beat. “Name a character after me, I mean. I’ll be a reason for your success, after all. I sort of already am. I probably own more copies than anyone else in the world. And now, I’m going to get you back on track. You’ll owe me, but I’d never collect on it. I want you to know that, Mari. All I want is for you to get back to doing what you love. Telling me stories.”
Ignoring his question, I say, “I…I don’t know if I can do that—if I can tell stories—without drinking. I do my best writing when I drink.” He gives me a challenging look, but I don’t shrink away. “I do. Always have. I’ve mentioned it in interviews before. Surely you knew that.”
His lips press together, and for a brief moment, I worry I’ve overstepped. Or, worse, that he’ll sniff out my lie. “I must’ve missed it. Either way, maybe things need to change. You haven’t been writing, and you’re drinking more than ever. Why’s that?”
“Because I’ve been sad,” I say simply.
His upper lip curls. “We both know that’s not why. You can’t write if you’re drunk. But, thankfully, I’m going to help with that. We’re going to get you sober.” Suddenly, my mouth is a desert. The Sahara. An arid wasteland.
“What? Seriously?” Somehow, I’m more upset over this news than being locked in here. Something is seriously wrong with me.
“I’m going to fix you, Mari. Don’t worry.” He pets my head, his palm sliding down my cheek as he practically reads my mind. “It’s all going to be okay now.”
“You’re the one bringing me alcohol now,” I say, instantly regretting the words because I don’t want him to stop. “How is that fixing me?”
“I will bring you two glasses of wine a day. Enough to make sure you don’t go into withdrawal, enough to make sure you don’t die. But not enough to sustain the nasty habit you’ve picked up.”
