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God.
I have tears running down my face.
Wiping at them quickly, I smile as the kids pass the phone back and forth, talking about their new life in our small town to their grandma, telling them about a woman down the street who used to look after them until I came along, and then about me, and how much fun they have with me.
I lean in and give them a hug, just because. Adorable little brats.
In any case, it’s obvious they love their grandma very much, and that she must love them, too. So Matt and I, we need to have a little talk.
That’s what’s on my mind for most of the day, and I’m ready to ask him about it when I hear the key in the lock much later. He comes in, but then I take a good look at him, and it all flies right out of my mind.
“What happened?” I get up from my spot on the carpet where the kids are watching TV and drawing in their drawing books and I’m by his side in a split second. “Matt, what’s wrong?”
He’s breathing hard, not exactly that scary rattling sound from this morning, but still wheezing. Like he can’t draw a deep breath. His gaze is hollow, his jaw clenched, his lips white.
“Matt?” I haven’t touched him yet, not sure he has seen or heard me at all. His eyes are so distant he might as well be looking at another galaxy. It’s as if he’s not really here.
It scares me to death.
Then he lifts a scrunched-up piece of paper in his fist, and my blood turns to ice. “This son of a bitch.”
I reach for the paper, but he takes a step back, the movement unsteady. “What does it say?”
“Nothing. Just… motherfucker. Keeps fucking me over. What does he want?” He stares down at the ball of paper, his breathing growing more labored. He shakes his fist. “What do you want?”
He’s making no sense. I glance back at the kids, and they’re arguing over changing the TV channel to another kids program.
Good.
“Did you find that on the door?” I glance at it. It’s half-open. “Was there a knife? What does it say?”
He finally seems to notice me. He unclenches his fingers, and I take the piece of paper from his hand. “Tay,” he whispers.
And then he sways. One moment he’s staring at the paper I’m unfolding, the next he stumbles sideways, his shoulder knocking into the wall.
Shit. “Hey.” The paper flutters to the floor as I make a grab for him because he looks like he’s about to fall over. “Jesus, just…”
“Motherfucking shit.” He slams a hand into the wall, and I swear it leaves a dent in the plaster.
But his voice is shaky.
“Are you drunk?” I wrap an arm around his waist, trying to steady him, but he’s a big guy, all six feet something of him, big boned and heavily muscled. “Talk to me.”
“M’fine.” He slurs the words. “Not drunk.”
“Then what?” I manage to pull him off the wall and drape one of his arms over my shoulders. His body burns against me. “Lean on me, okay? Let’s get you to bed.”
“To hell with that.” But he is leaning on me, his breathing hot and fast, and Jesus, the heat wafting from his body is scorching. “Said m’fine.”
“Humor me.” God, this is like gentling a wild animal. The kids are staring at us now, and I smile at them, hoping to reassure them. “Your daddy and me, we have a few things to discuss upstairs, okay? Just stay here and be good, and I’ll come down in a bit to give you some ice cream. Okay, guys?”
They both nod, their small faces earnest and worried.
It doesn’t help that Matt groans, hunching over. What is wrong with him? Now I’m getting really worried, too. His breath doesn’t smell of alcohol, so he was telling the truth. He isn’t drunk.
But he’s shaky and unsteady, and too hot, and all this spells sick. “How long have you been feeling off?”
“All day,” he admits softly as we make our way to the stairs, defeat in his tone. “Threw up twice at work.”
