Chapter Nineteen #2
He stirred when I walked by, groaning, and then mumbled, “Ellen?” He was hallucinating. He couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t. Didn’t even know it was me—his own daughter.
I’ve never felt so much sorrow as I did in that moment, freshly grieving my mom—staring at my dad, broken and filthy, asking if I was her.
That’s when I knew I was about to lose him too.
The truth is, I had already lost him months before we lost her.
His soul left the day he started drinking again.
But standing there, watching him reach for someone who wasn’t me—who wasn’t anyone—something inside me snapped.
Anger seethed through me, hot and sharp, mixing with the fresh sting of tears.
I hated him for leaving us. For leaving her. For not even recognizing me.
I hated him.
And it broke me.
I blink away the memory, moisture pooling, blurring my vision as I swallow the lump rising in my throat. Staring down at my coffee, I close my eyes, willing the tears to stay put, but the heaviness lingers, sitting low and tight in my chest.
Guilt gnaws at me, that familiar whisper creeping in—telling me I should’ve tried harder. I should’ve stayed. I should’ve helped him.
But I didn’t.
I forgot about the wig. I saw my dad, heard him call for my mother, and turned, cool and collected, right out the door. Straight to my car. I didn’t even look back. Didn’t clean him up. Didn’t help him. Didn’t cry. Dammit, I didn’t even say goodbye. I just left.
And I haven’t been back.
He texted me a few times, even tried calling, at first. But over time, the messages stopped. The calls stopped.
I let him go.
And he let me.
A tear slides down my cheek as a door closes in the distance. I wipe my eyes and glance at my phone. It’s still early, only eight. Turning my head, I catch sight of Jensen making his way down the hall, looking like death himself.
His eyes are half-closed, one hand pressed against his forehead, probably nursing a raging headache. His joggers hang low on his hips—like pulling them up took too much effort. And even from here, I can see the way his morning erection tents the front of his pants.
A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth, dammit, I can’t help myself. He’s still sexy as hell, even when he’s half alive. I’m still pissed at him, though.
“Morning,” he croaks as he shuffles past, heading straight for the kitchen medicine cabinet.
I watch the muscles in his back shift as he sorts through a cluster of bottles. Finally finding the Advil, he pops the lid, dumps a few into his hand, then fills a glass of water and knocks them back like they’re his savior.
He’s onto coffee next, using the Keurig instead of the espresso machine. Less work, I guess. He leans forward, folding his arms and letting his head rest against them on the counter. A groan slips from his lips, and I catch a low “God” as he waits for it to finish.
A few minutes later, he’s standing in front of me, leaning down to press a kiss to my lips.
“Hey, babe.” He lingers for a second, then straightens. “Don’t worry, I brushed the hell out of my teeth when I woke up. Pretty sure I drank half the mouthwash under the sink.” He flashes a weak smile and flops onto the couch, taking a long sip of coffee. “God, that’s good. Bring me back to life.”
I manage a soft, barely-there smile but say nothing, gathering my thoughts.
He groans again, running a hand down his face. “I feel like hell.” His eyes meet mine. “How was your night? Did you guys have fun?”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “It was a lot of fun.”
“Yeah?” he chuckles, cocking his head. “Why you being so quiet? Something wrong?”
My brows knit together. Does he seriously have no idea what happened last night?
“Do you not remember?” I ask, working to keep my voice neutral, steady. I don’t want to come at him defensive or upset, that’s not how we do things. Jensen’s always been great at communicating, and he deserves a chance to explain.
His brow furrows, and he glances down like he’s searching for an answer. “What do you mean?” His voice dips lower. “Ah, shit.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Did we have sex?”
I let out a slow sigh. So he really doesn’t remember.
“Well, you came home wasted,” I say, the words soft but heavy. “And puked all over the floor… and yourself… and my feet.” His face twists as I go on. “Then, I practically dragged you into the bathroom, and you puked some more before passing out next to the toilet.”
His face crumples with something close to horror.
“God, babe. I’m sorry.” He blows out a long breath, rubbing his hand down his face.
“I knew I threw up, but… fuck, I barely even remember leaving the bar.” He shakes his head, softly chuckling, gripping his neck, sheepish.
“I don’t even know the last time I got that drunk. ”
Silence settles between us. My eyes fix on my lap, but I can feel his gaze on me.
I finally lift my face, locking eyes with him.
“Look, I’m not trying to pick a fight, and maybe this isn’t fair, but I need to say it…
Last night really freaked me out. I’ve seen you drunk before, but not like that.
I felt like I was right back in my childhood—watching you, not knowing what to do, not knowing if I should clean you up or just walk away. ”
I swallow, blinking back the tears that threaten. “Like my mom did for my dad.”
My voice cracks, thick with emotion, and I hate it. I feel stupid, because I know this isn’t a thing. But at the same time, it is.
“Al… babe, I’m so sorry.” His voice drops. “I didn’t mean to do that to you. God, I didn’t even think. I just… got carried away. And if I’d known, if I’d even thought… you know I’d never want to hurt you like that.” He scoots closer, grabbing my hand and pulling it to his lips.
I nod, forcing a tiny smile. “I know you’re not my dad.
I know that. And I know everyone goes too far sometimes.
But… seeing you like that brought back a lot of stuff for me.
Stuff I don’t want to feel again.” I take a shaky breath.
“I need to know that’s not going to be my life with you.
I need to know this isn’t gonna be a thing, because I can’t do that. I can’t live like that.”
“I would never do that to you. I didn’t realize how bad I was. I don’t even remember all of it. But I hate that I made you feel that way.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “Things just got carried away. There was a live band, Matt was buying shots, and then I started making friends with everyone at the bar.” He gives me a small, sideways glance. “You know how I get when I’ve had a few. Next thing I know, I’m taking shots with them.”
He wraps an arm around his stomach, resting his opposite elbow on top, his head dropping into his hand. “You know I don’t usually do that. I’m not that guy.” His gaze locks with mine. “I’m not your dad. And I won’t be.”
I squeeze my eyes shut as tears slip free, no matter how hard I try to hold them back.
“Hey.” Jensen’s hand cups my chin, gently tipping my face up until my eyes meet his. “Ever.”
My throat tightens, emotion rising so fast I can’t catch my breath. I’m overwhelmed and relieved all at once. I feel so vulnerable—a wound I didn’t know existed ripped wide open. It hurts more than I ever could’ve imagined.
The pain is still there. I just hadn’t realized it. But what I do know is that the thought of Jensen being anything like my dad nearly wrecked me.
“Hey, come here.” Jensen pulls me in, his lips brushing mine in a tender kiss—a kiss full of apologies and promises. He tugs my bottom lip between his, deepening it, reminding me we’re okay, that we’re a team. He’s on my side.
His hand slips around the back of my neck, pulling me closer, his tongue brushing mine, soft and slow. Safe.
I melt into him, letting his lips take away all the heavy shit in my chest. My arms wrap around his neck, and I let out a soft sound, a mix between a cry and a moan.
He shifts, hovering over me as he lays me back on the sofa.
His lips keep moving against mine, and somehow, it makes everything better.
Just like that. He fixes it—because Jensen can fix anything.
He loves harder than anyone I’ve ever known.
He loves me.
His hand palms my breast, and he groans. “Hey,” he whispers, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes. “Never again.” His gaze softens. “I promise. Forgive me?”
I nod, a small smile sneaking across my face. “Yes. Now keep kissing me.”
He chuckles, nipping at my bottom lip. “I know I was drunk, but didn’t you say something about new toys last night?”
His lips graze my jaw, and I laugh softly, bringing a hand to my forehead—suddenly second guessing my purchase. I bite my bottom lip, embarrassed. “Yeah,” I say slowly. “I bought a butt plug.”
I laugh, and he grins. “You wanna try it out right now?”
I hesitate, my pulse quickening. “I’m not sure if I’m ready.”
His fingers brush my cheek, his smile softening. “That’s okay, baby.” He presses a kiss to my temple, lingering for a moment. “No pressure. You know that, right?”
I nod, and just as my heart starts to settle, his lips curve into a familiar smirk, the one I can never say no to.
“But, uh…” He drops his gaze, shifting slightly. “Clark’s still gonna need some attention, though.”
I laugh, rolling my eyes. “Oh, really?”
“Really.” He stands, extending his hand. “Come on.”
I take it, and he pulls me up with little effort. He starts for the bedroom but suddenly pauses. “Shit!” He reaches for his knee, rubbing it.
“What’s wrong?”
“Agh, nothing. I just… I don’t know, I fucked up my knee skiing yesterday.
It was aching before we went to the bar.
It’s fine. I just stepped on it wrong.” He shakes it off.
“I’m sure I’ll forget all about it once I get you naked.
” He cocks a brow, grabs my hand, and pulls me toward the bedroom without another word.