Chapter Nineteen
ALLEY
THEN
A distant noise pulls me from my sleep. My eyes crack open, adjusting to the dark. I glance over at Jensen’s side of the bed. It’s still empty.
Where the hell is he?
As the fog of sleep lifts, I realize what woke me—the guys. Laughter and hushed voices echo down the hall from the living room. Something crashes, followed by more laughter and shushing.
“Ow! Fuck!”
Matt… God, are they kidding right now?
Jensen and Kevin’s laughter carries down the hallway.
“Help me, Kev,” Matt groans. “Fucking walk, man. Move your legs.”
More laughter, then a deep groan.
“Keep it down, you guys,” Jeff mutters, his voice sharp and serious. More shushing follows.
“Do we just leave him out here? Alley’s going to kill us if we bring him to her like this.”
Matt again.
“Come on, man, get up.” Jeff’s voice is quieter, more serious. “Matt, knock it off and help me with him.”
Cue me. Awesome.
I slip out of bed and pull on the sweats from the floor, making my way to the end of the hall.
Jeff and I lock eyes as I cross my arms, taking in the scene. Jensen’s sitting on the couch, leaning back with a lazy grin, laughing at something Matt says.
A little knot tightens in my stomach, but I push it aside, watching as Jeff reaches for Jensen’s arm, trying to pull him to his feet.
“Alright, bud, time to go to bed,” Jeff mutters, clearly struggling to keep Jensen steady once he’s standing.
“Noooo, wanna see my girl,” Jensen slurs, grinning wide and sloppy, his eyes glassy.
My stomach twists as the words leave his mouth. He’s not just tipsy—he’s completely gone.
Jeff glances at me, offering a helpless shrug as he starts hauling Jensen toward the hall. “Sorry, Al. I’ll help get him to your room.”
“Whoooa, heeey, there she is,” Jensen adds when he sees me, his words drawn out, like his brain can’t quite keep up.
What the hell happened? Why is he this wasted?
I nod to Jeff, pressing my lips together, trying to shove down the mess of feelings swirling inside me.
When we reach the doorway, Jeff pauses. “You good, buddy?”
Jensen nods, lazily swiping Jeff off. “Yeah, yeah. I’m good, bro.”
Jeff blows out a breath, running a hand through his hair, looking to me. “Good luck.”
Jensen stumbles forward, crashing into the doorframe before I manage to catch him.
His arms snake around me, too heavy, his breath hot against my neck. “Babe… you’re so hot… mmm… love you.”
I stiffen, my stomach twisting, throat tight. God, he smells like he bathed in a tub of whiskey.
“Hey, let’s get you to bed, okay?” I whisper, trying to stay calm, even as my pulse races and a creeping sense of déjà vu settles over me—familiar and too close to home.
He groans against me, mumbling nonsense as I steer him toward the bed, each step harder than the last.
Behind me, Jeff lingers. “He’ll be fine, Alley. Just overdid it a little. He’ll sleep it off.”
I nod, swallowing hard. “Yeah… yeah, sure.”
Jeff turns and heads down the hall.
“Oh fuck,” Jensen groans, swaying. “I’m sick. Gonna be sick.”
He bends at the waist and vomits. Hot, sour liquid splashes over my bare feet.
I freeze. My breath catches, and my heart pounds in my ears. The sharp stench hits me first. Then the heat, clinging to my skin.
Move, my brain screams. Move. Do something. But I can’t.
“Fuck.” He drops to his hands and knees.
I should be getting him to the bathroom, grabbing a towel, rubbing his back—anything but standing here.
More retching pulls me from my stupor, and tears sting my eyes as Jensen dry heaves and vomits again, splashing across the floor.
Panic squeezes my chest as memories slam into me—my mom with my dad, helping him while he stumbled around, trying to keep him upright as he puked in the middle of the living room.
“Shit.” Jensen groans, falling to his side, collapsing in the mess, and I can’t tell if the storm tearing through me is fear, anger, or sadness.
I know Jensen isn’t my dad. I know I’m not my mom. I know he doesn’t do this often—if ever.
Dammit. Do something.
The nurse in me kicks in, and suddenly I’m moving—rushing to the bathroom, grabbing towels and wet washcloths. I rinse my feet off in the tub, scrubbing away the stench of bile, before hurrying back to Jensen’s side. I lay the towels over the mess. I’ll deal with that later.
“Hey, babe. Can you sit up?” I ask softly.
He grunts, and I slowly guide him upright, just enough to peel his shirt over his head before he slumps back down, groaning. I nudge him away from the worst of it, then take the rag and wipe his face.
I feel like his goddamn mother.
Fifteen straight minutes of working—soaking towels, scrubbing, rinsing, wiping—fighting the urge to gag as the smell clings to everything. My hands shake, my stomach turns. And all I can think about is my mom and how she used to do this. Not just for us as kids, but for my dad.
Don’t. Don’t go there.
I swallow hard, pushing the thought down as I finally get Jensen to the bathroom. I lay him down gently, resting his head near the toilet, tucking a blanket and pillow beside him like I’m caring for a sick child.
I push my hand through his hair, brushing it down his cheek. “You okay?” I whisper, my voice shaky.
He vaguely nods, and I’m taken right back to the last time I saw my dad, to all the times my mom had to help him to the couch or drag him to the bathroom.
The sharp ache in my chest catches me off guard. I’ve been around plenty of drunk people since moving to New York, but Jensen like this? It’s tearing me apart.
Because this is different.
I love him.
A tear falls and I catch it with my hand, swiping at my eyes. I know Jensen isn’t an alcoholic. I know this isn’t some kind of problem. I’ve seen him drunk before—laughing, playful, a little tipsy. Even full-on drunk. But this? This is something else. This is past drunk.
I lean back against the bathroom vanity, shutting my eyes because I can’t look at him like this. I don’t want to look at anyone like this. But my dad’s image burns behind my eyelids—unwanted and vivid.
He’s not my dad.
I take a breath, trying to shove down the fear, but it’s shaky, unsteady.
He’s nothing like him.
Still, I stand frozen, eyes closed, cheeks damp from the few tears I let fall.
Jensen groans and heaves again, and I’m moving before I even think, back at his side, holding him over the toilet. I rub his back, speaking soft, gentle words to him.
God, I hate this.
I get that people over drink sometimes—I do. But Jensen always knows when to stop. He knows when one more is too many. Was he upset? Did something happen?
I get him laid back down and eventually crawl into bed.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the noise from Matt and Kevin down the hall, and my own thoughts, but it doesn’t work.
My mind races, cycling through every possible scenario of why.
I bounce between worry and anger, then start rehearsing all the things I’m going to say to him.
Eventually, my thoughts slow, just enough, but I can’t sleep. My eyes crack open, gaze locked on the empty, cold side of the bed—his side. The side where he’s supposed to be next to me. The place that’s always been mine to curl into him.
It’s something my mom dealt with her whole life.
I take a shaky breath and tell myself it’s okay. This is a one-time thing. Jensen is not my dad. I am not my mother.
We’re different.
I won’t put up with this shit.
Not like she did.
Not ever.
I didn’t sleep well. I tossed and turned all night.
By the time the sun rises, Jensen’s still on the bathroom floor, and I’m sunk deep into the couch, my fingers wrapped around my coffee mug keeping my hands warm.
It’s a quiet, peaceful morning. The fire flickers in front of me, and a fresh blanket of snow covers the ground.
The sun’s out, reflecting off the white, and everything’s still.
It’s beautiful. It should be calming. But even this perfect morning can’t ease my mind from the conversation that needs to happen.
Maybe I’m overreacting. I keep telling myself that. But seeing Jensen that way last night hit something I didn’t even know was there. It brought it all back—the things I’ve buried so deep I almost forget they exist. Is it PTSD? I’m not sure. But it was a trigger. That’s for damn sure.
My mind wanders back to the last time I saw my dad. It was about a month after my mom passed. Three weeks since we’d had the funeral.
I was living in an apartment in Evanston with a few girlfriends, splitting rent, sharing rooms, scraping by while going to school.
I was working part-time at a coffee shop in the city, and that night, I had gone home looking for a wig for a Halloween party.
My mom always kept our old costumes packed in a bin in the closet.
I knew going home wouldn’t feel the same without my mom there. But still, I wasn’t prepared, not even a little. The second I walked through that front door, I felt it—it wasn’t my childhood home anymore.
It reeked of booze—thick and suffocating.
Stale liquor and heavy breath clung to the air.
The kitchen was trashed, like my dad had forgotten how to function.
The sink overflowed with dirty dishes, beer cans piled high, empty liquor bottles lined up on the counter like collector’s items. Red Solo cups, pizza boxes, and random crap were scattered across the table and floor.
I stood there, trying to make sense of it, but everything I knew about my home had been stripped away.
My dad had taken every family photo with my mom and turned them face down. It was like he wanted to erase her. Like in some drunken rage, he thought if he smashed everything that reminded him of her, he could somehow get back at cancer—or her for leaving him.
My dad loved my mom. God, he loved her. But walking into that house, it was like she had never even existed.
And then I found him.
He was passed out on the floor, in the middle of the hallway, lying in a puddle of vomit. Like he’d tried to make it to the bathroom but never did.