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I don't know the details here. Only the rough sketches. Daphne doesn't like to talk about her parents' personal or marital problems.
I know her dad is an addict. I know it puts a strain on their family. That's all.
"I don't want that life for you, Cass," he says.
I swallow hard. "It's my life though."
"So he told you?" Dad asks. "He was honest about it?"
I know what he's going to say, but I ask anyway. "About what?"
"That he's an alcoholic."
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Cassie
Damon is an alcoholic.
Of course.
It's the only thing that makes sense.
There's no alcohol in the house. He skips drinks at parties. He volunteers as designated driver.
Dad explains a little more about the situation. I'm not supposed to know. His father and my father disagree on the way to handle the situation. Dad promised discretion until it was necessary. It's necessary now.
It's always my choice, of course. He trusts my judgment. But he wants me to make choices with my eyes open. Fully open.
And so he gives me all sorts of details I'm not supposed to know. The three times Damon drank enough to need medical attention. The month at rehab he kept from everyone. The deal Damon and his dad struck.
As long as he stays sober, he can stay in the house, but his family has open access. They can come anytime, test his sobriety anytime, check for stashes of alcohol anytime.
They don't trust him.
No one trusts him.
And now I don't know if I can trust him either.
For the rest of the night, my head buzzes. When I finally say goodbye to my family and take my spot in the passenger seat of Damon's car, I don't know what to think.
How could he not tell me?
How could he ever tell me?
He slides into the driver's seat, turns on the car, pulls away from the street.
Amy Winehouse fills the car. The album I insisted on playing on the way here.
Damon chuckles. "How did I forget you picked this?"
Right. Because Amy Winehouse is a typical Cassie Steele choice. A damaged woman who writes confessional lyrics. Because I love this kind of thing.
Not because she died of alcohol poisoning.
"My excellent taste overwhelms you." I try to keep my voice light. I try to make it a joke. I don't get there.
Damon glances in my direction. "Are you okay, Cass?"
No. I need to know everything. I need to talk about it. I can't take any more lies or secrets. "My family is a lot."
"They are," he says.
"Did they give you too much shit?" I ask.
"The usual amount," he says. "They care about you. They want you to find someone worthy."
"Right. Yeah." Someone worthy. Whatever that means. "They didn't like Frederick at first, either."
"That was a smart call," he says. "The guy's a prick."
"You're a prick too," I say.
He leans back in his seat, hurt.
"I don't mean—"
"No. You're right. It's a dick move for me to say your ex-boyfriend sucks," he says. "He does suck for cheating on you. But you already know that."
Right. I nod.
"And you did love him," he says.
"Things were good for a long time." I watch the dark sky whiz by the windows. There's more light here than there is at the house. I can't see many stars. Only a handful. "We were happy for a long time."
"No one can take that away from you," he says.
"But what if he did?" I say. "What if I can't find it anymore, because he hurt me so much?"
"Why do you have to find it?" Damon asks.
"It's hard to hate him all the time. Exhausting."
"So stop," he says.
"That easy?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "Not easy. Simple." For a few minutes, he drives in silence.
I close my eyes and let Amy's sultry vocals fill my ears. This is such a familiar album. I've listened to it a million times. I've let her self-destructive impulses into my heart. They comfort me. They make me feel normal. Like I'm not the only person who doesn't always want what's good for her.
When Back to Black finishes, I switch to a Florence and the Machine album about her struggle with addiction.
Damon doesn't notice. Or he pretends not to notice.
A lot of people don't listen to lyrics closely. Especially while they're driving. Even songwriters.
The first song fades into the second. The third.
The words fill my head and heart and soul. I need to say something. I just don't know how to broach this. So, I talk about myself instead. "I guess there were signs Frederick wasn't a great guy. Even from the beginning. He loved my passion for music, but he loved it most when it aligned with his passion. We didn't stay up arguing about whether Hole or Nirvana was better."
"Who would argue?" he asks. "There's really no question."
For a minute, my passion overrides my concern. "Don't even, Damon Webb. I know you're fucking with me."
