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“Don’t say that,” he croaks. “She’s not disgusting, she’s sick. She has an illness and it’s called alcoholism.”
He swallows and then confesses, “I never meant it, you know. When I called you ‘disgusting’ in the cafeteria. I remember saying it. I wanted to throw Anton and the others off my scent. He’s long suspected I had feelings for you, and I couldn’t look weak.”
My mother chooses that moment to make a snuffling sound and mumble something unintelligible before settling back into oblivion. I don’t have the bandwidth to take care of her and unpack the baggage in Lucian’s declaration.
Staring down at her, I swallow the painful lump in my throat, wipe my nose, and try to stand up to help her.
Lucian bands an arm around my waist and swoops me into his lap. Rocking me gently in his arms, he strokes my hair. Thankfully, he doesn’t give me empty platitudes. He doesn’t pity me, which I would hate. Heknows. From deep in his bones, he knows what I’m going through.
Even though he accused me of not telling him, he implicitly recognizes why I kept it a secret. The horror of anyone finding out is worth any sacrifice. I can’t even tell Tatum, and he’s my flesh and blood. When he calls and asks me to hand the phone to her, I make up excuses to cover for the fact that she’s drunk.
What choice do I have? It’s not like he can help us. She’s one of the main reasons I want to leave, and at the same time, she’s the single most terrifying reason why I’m afraid of leaving. If I go, what will happen to her?
My sniffles and hiccups settle, and I dry my tears.
Hugging me tight, he says, “Come on, let’s clean this up and get her upstairs to bed.”
I gape at him. “No, you leave. Y-you can’t help me. It’s m-messy. You leave.”
He chuckles sadly and my heart breaks with the sound of it. “This isn’t the first mess I’ve cleaned up and it won’t be the last.”
Crack.That’s my heart fissuring for the little boy who had to clean up messes. I place a hand on his sleeve. “It’s sweet of you to want to help, really it is, but it’s better if I deal with this alone.”
His eyes turn steely and he adds hotly, “That’s never going to happen. I’m not leaving you to take care of this alone. You’ll never be alone again.”
Okaaay, most people would jump at the chance to avoid cleaning up vomit and lugging a half-comatose woman up a flight of stairs to her bed.
He gives me a light slap on the butt, and continues, “After we clean her up, I’m sleeping here. We need to check on her throughout the night.”
My heart does a little pitter-patter.
I slide off his lap and get to my feet. I bend down to check on my mother and I’m immediately grateful for two things. One, she’s not hurt. Miracle of miracles, she turned on her side when she vomited so she didn’t choke and die.
Although much less important, I’m grateful she missed hurling over her precious rug. She brought it back from Romania and she’d feel horrible in the morning if she saw what she did. Plus, it’s easier to clean vomit off a wood floor than a handwoven wool rug.
While I clean her up and roll her to her other side, Lucian not only finds the kitchen but he returns with a bucket of soapy water and a mop.
I go to take the mop from him, but he places it out of my reach.
“I don’t want you doing that.” I’m so dejected, I don’t have the energy for much more of an objection.
“That’s not how a partnership works.”
“Since when are we partners,” I scoff.
“Marriage is a partnership,” he replies evenly as the wet mop hits the wooden floor with a plopping sound.
He gestures to my mother, and instructs, “Try waking her up. Call her name, shake her, pinch her if you must. Once I’m done, we’ll get her upstairs together.”
I do as he says. I call her name and shake her shoulders. Nothing seems to work and my anxiety ratchets up. I’m bracing myself to pinch her when she groans and wakes up. She might have blacked out from excessive drinking, but after vomiting the excess alcohol, I think she simply fell into a deep sleep.
Groaning, she clutches her head. Confusion clouds her eyes. Her gaze roams around and she eventually focuses on me. “Where am I?”
“You fell,” I lie. “You must have hit your head and knocked yourself out.”
Lucian finishes cleaning up and turns toward the kitchen, not wanting my mother to freak out upon seeing a strange man in the house.
Hearing noise, she looks briskly to the side. “Oww.” She clutches her head. “Is someone here? Who is that?”
