16. Chapter 16 #2
My latest addition to my pillow collection stood out like a carrot in a bag of cotton balls against the ratty furniture. It even stood out against the donut and turkey leg pillows stacked behind it because, hello, dinosaur chicken nugget.
“It’s amazing, right?” I patted its head affectionately on my way to the table. “I’m thinking Ned for its name. Ned the nugget.”
“I love it.” He sat on the couch to test the squishiness of the eclectic pillows. The couch creaked ominously, as it did every time anything lighter than a croissant sat on it. “Comfy, too. Do they all have names?”
“Naturally.” I pointed at each one as I listed them off. “There’s Debby the drumstick, Ned the Nugget, and Vincent Van Donut.”
“I changed my mind. The donut is my new favorite.”
I laughed. “Lex picked the name, as well as Bread Sheeran, the giant baguette pillow on my bed.”
It wasn’t until I dug out the last throw pillow from behind Debby that I noticed Max holding a bottle of wine. Chocolate cinnamon bears , had he been holding that this whole time and I hadn’t noticed? Poor guy.
For the record, I blamed the jeans.
“Oh, sorry, I can put that on the table for you,” I offered, finally relieving him of his offering.
He cast the last pillow, a square one embroidered with a cannoli wearing a halo and the words “holy cannoli” written under it, a lingering glance before standing. “My sister claims that wine is a woman’s best friend, and I’ve been looking for an occasion to drink it, so it seemed fitting.”
I chuckled, trying to shake the prickles of discomfort cropping up along the back of my neck. “I’m honored. But, uh” —I shifted uneasily and grimaced— “I actually don’t drink. Sorry.”
He smiled easily and winked. “In that case, now I know what I’m giving my sister for her birthday.”
“You can still drink it,” I rushed out, alternating between crossing my arms over my midsection and tugging on my hair. Why were hands so awkward? How did anyone ever know what to do with them? “Don’t deprive yourself on my account.”
“I don’t drink much, either, actually.” He stuck his hands in his pockets, looking as relaxed as if we were lounging on a beach somewhere instead of wading through the waters I’d tainted with my awkwardness. “Part of the nature of the job, for one.”
I let out a nervous chuckle. “I can imagine.”
And really, between potentially being called in to work at any time and dealing with the fallout of drugs and addiction daily, no one would bat an eye if he skipped the alcohol. Someone enrolled in culinary school, however… there had been a lot of questions. And pressure.
“I’m sure the wine is amazing, it’s just that I—”
“Dekker.” He gently cut me off with the warmth of his hand on my elbow. “You don’t have to justify your boundaries. To anyone, and especially not to me.”
I nodded, my throat tightening with gratitude.
Normally, I’d jump at the chance to avoid this discussion and the emotions it would inevitably stir up.
I’d smile and say “great” and then move on with the rest of the evening pretending nothing happened.
But, oddly enough, I wanted him to know.
Now that he knew this small thing about me, I wanted him to understand .
To understand why , and to understand me , I guess.
Or try to. Knowing he didn’t require anything from me was exactly what gave me the desire to give him pieces of myself.
“I… want to tell you,” I finally managed.
His gaze wandered to the table, already set and ready for us.
“How about we get situated first, and if you still want to tell me, I’d love to hear all about it.
And if you’ve decided you’d rather not, we move on.
No problem.” He squeezed my elbow gently before pulling away, his hand leaving a trail of fire along my forearm briefly before it was gone.
“I want you to share things because you want to in any circumstance, not because it feels like the peacekeeping decision in the moment.”
“That’s…” I hesitated, unsure how I wanted to finish the sentence.
That’s… what? The most considerate thing any man has ever told me? The kind of thing that’s going to make me fall in love with you? Yeah, those weren’t going to work.
“Reasonable,” I finally finished. “Good plan. Besides, it would be criminal to let the garlic bread get cold.”
Amusement sparkled in his eyes. “Couldn’t agree more.”
We dished up, both of us settling on ice water instead.
A much less romantic option, but the fact he’d chosen the same just to make me more comfortable warmed me.
And stoked the coals of guilt deep down in my gut, which I chose to ignore for now.
I got to eat dinner with Max, and I wasn’t going to let a little something like having a conscience get in the way.
The entire time, my mind raced with the possible outcomes of confiding in him.
The last thing I wanted was pity, which most people reacted with.
I wasn’t exactly sure how I wanted him to react, but whatever it would be, I was positive it would be gentle.
Max was safe. I’d felt it while walking with him, even when I thought he was conspiring to torment me.
“This smells amazing,” he said as he took his seat. “Is this the donkey repayment lasagna?”
“Yep.” I sat across from him and smiled. “I’d never admit this to anyone else for fear of disgracing my Nonna and her Italian roots, but I think Hattie’s lasagna might even be better than mine.”
I’d only had it once before, but it was a day I’d never forget. Some people had their anniversaries to reminisce about. I had food.
“I think we need a lasagna cook-off so we can be sure.” Max grinned mischievously. “For science.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Uh-huh, sure. Science .”
After we’d dug in and made more small talk, I couldn’t wait to breach the topic any longer. Rather than fading with the passing of time, the desire to confide in someone, especially someone who knew firsthand what addiction could do, flamed brighter.
I took a bracing gulp of water before clearing my throat. “I, uh, still want to tell you why I don’t drink. If that’s okay with you.”
He paused, a bite of salad freshly skewered on his fork. “Dekker, you could recite the user manual for the oven to me and I still wouldn’t mind.”
My cheeks pinked. “Well, I would. That sounds like a violation of the eighth amendment.”
The skin around his eyes crinkled in amusement. “Cruel and unusual punishment? Now who’s invoking her constitutional rights?”
“No, I’m invoking your constitutional rights, mister. You’re welcome.”
He covered his mouth to hide the bite he’d taken as his shoulders shook with laughter.
I chuckled as well, though my smile quickly faded as the memories pressed down on me. The atmosphere in the room shifted into a darker, heavier weightiness I swore I could grasp if I stretched out my hand.
“My brother got into drugs,” I finally said. “He was a great brother—the best, really. He just made some bad choices, and one of those bad choices cost him his life.”
Years before his overdose, honestly. Addiction had a way of wasting away the liveliest of souls and corrupting the purest of hearts.
It turned loved ones into strangers and hijacked their agency.
The same brother who’d painstakingly walk me through my math homework until I understood the concepts, who’d religiously policed our language with his swear jar so we wouldn’t “become a ne’er do well like me,” who’d sat with me until I’d finished and submitted my application to culinary school, was gone long before his heart stopped beating.
I flashed a pained smile. “It looked like he was getting better, too. Lex and I had tried to drag him to rehab tons of times before, but it didn’t do any good. One day, almost out of the blue, he checked himself in, and things were looking up.”
Max hummed in acknowledgement, a frown creasing his brow.
“And then he relapsed.” The words were hollow as they left my mouth.
Despite how often I’d given a condensed version to explain my sobriety, I’d hardly talked with anyone in depth about that day ten years ago. It felt a bit like removing the clog in a drain. The water that streamed through first would be rough and dirty, but eventually it would run clear and easier.
I hoped.
“I know it’s a normal part of the recovery process,” I continued, “but that relapse was an overdose and…”
I sucked in a shaky breath, fighting to stomp out the memory and the raging guilt.
It didn’t always hurt this badly after so many years, but grief was unpredictable that way.
It struck seemingly at random. I’d be completely fine, but then something would remind me of him, and it was like all the grief that should’ve been a constant, hopefully manageable factor since I’d last thought about him would rush at me all at once.
Like grimy water through a drain, but I never seemed to get to the clear water before I got distracted. And thus the cycle continued.
“It happened before my twenty-first birthday, so when I turned the legal age” —I shrugged one shoulder and offered a sad smile— “I decided I wouldn’t risk it. I mean, I can’t even control myself around French fries . Alcohol would be a disaster waiting to happen.”
Max nodded, his brow furrowed in understanding rather than pity. “That must have been so hard. I’m sorry you and your family went through that.”
“Me, too.” I gestured at him. “I’m sure everyone on your squad has their own reasons for doing what you do, too. You’ve probably experienced or witnessed way worse.”