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He turns away, starts for the family room.
I struggle to my feet, trail after him. “I made some soup,” I say, watching his back go stiff, his shoulders hitch up. I go to the fridge, pull out the container. “If you want any…” I finish, trailing off when he brushes by me, heading toward…
The vodka cabinet.
“Or not,” I whisper as he opens a bottle and drinks straight from the open top. “Um…how about a grilled cheese? At least that’s small and will soak up”—he takes another long guzzle—“some of that alcohol.”
He drops the bottle to the counter, sending it sloshing out the top. “Why are you still here?”
I freeze, more stomach churning, less butterflies.
Nobutterflies.
“Lake,” I say carefully. “It sounds like the call upset you—”
“Wow,” he drawls. “Did you come up with that all on your own?”
I inhale sharply. “Don’t do that,” I murmur.
He takes another sip. “I’m not doing anything.”
Except pushing me away.
“Honey,” I say. “Let’s either talk about it, or find a way to take your mind off—”
He smirks. “What are you offering?”
I go statue-still then blow out a breath. “I know you’re upset.”
“You don’t know anything.”
Frustration dancing off the tip of my tongue. “Then clue me in, honey. Talk to me. Or, fuck”—I toss up my hands—“let’s put it aside and do something else.”
He shoves the bottle back then strides over to me, face an inch from mine, his eyes…yeah, I don’t like his eyes. “You don’t get it.”
“Get what?” I whisper.
“That I don’t want anything to do with you.”
Those words…
They cut.
Because—
First my parents. Then my sister. George. And…now Lake.
Still, I try. “That’s not fair. Honey, I”—swallowing hard, I gird my loins—“I really think it would help if we talked.”
“What do you care?” he asks coldly. “You were ready to hit the road this morning.”
I suck in a breath, skitter back a step. “Fuck you,” I whisper.
He picks up the bottle, salutes me with it. “Right back at ya. You’re just like all the rest of them, shoving into a space where you’re not welcome.”
Pain in my middle.
Another shaky step backward.
