Chapter Fifteen
By the time we get home, Cade has returned to being perilously quiet. Our home has become a seething, brittle place. Every inch of his body is coiled tight, and I’m tense like I’m expecting him to snap.
Which doesn’t really make sense, because even though Cade has a terrible temper sometimes, he’s never, ever been that way with me.
Not once. Not even when we argue. He always has some kind of control, and I can see him being careful in how he holds himself towards me: his tone, his words, everything.
For the first time, I think I realize how much effort that must take for him, when he’s normally on a hairtrigger with the rest of the world.
It always comes back to him changing himself to what? Placate me? Keep me calm?
The more I look at the picture of our relationship that’s suddenly appearing in my head, the more I realize how blind I’ve been. I don’t know what any of this means, but it can’t be good.
Cade kicks off his boots a little too loudly, and I flinch. I catch him looking at me out of the corner of my eye as he freezes, totally still as he watches me for a second, guilt curling into his expression like smoke.
“Sorry,” he says, sounding gruff and distant.
“It’s fine. You’re fine.”
I turn to face him. The urge to show him I’m here for him is so strong, but I don’t know how to get that across without saying it.
And I’m pretty sure if I said it, he’d accuse me of babying him again, as if he hasn’t been babying me for our entire relationship.
I’m the only one allowed to be weak, apparently.
“Do you wanna sit down and talk about it?”
The words sound awkward, even to my ears.
Cade’s eyes widen for a second, then he shakes his head.
“Nope,” he says, popping the p.
I start to sigh, but before I can figure out what to say next, he’s moving deeper into the house, pushing past me without another glance, moving faster than his aching body probably wants him to.
He beelines to the fridge, first reaching in with his bad hand, wincing, then switching to the other.
He moves some things around—I’ve developed a really unfortunate habit of overshopping when it comes to food.
My therapist says it’s normal for people who grew up with food insecurity, which I don’t get, because I always had food.
Dad made sure I had exactly the right food I needed to perform at my best, and nothing else to distract me.
Even when we were living out of shitty motel rooms, I would have my specific, carefully planned meals waiting for me.
She just gave me a long look when I said that, which makes me think we’ll be revisiting the topic at some point. Right now though, Cade is crashing through a bunch of vegetables I crammed in there, cursing under his breath as he can’t find what he’s looking for.
“Fuck,” he finally snaps, closing the fridge door harder than he needs to. “I’m going out.”
There’s a single-minded determination as he avoids my eyes, heading for the door and struggling to put his boots back on.
“Where are you going?” I ask, even though I know the answer.
“Liquor store.”
He grunts with pain as he manages to tug one boot on, biting the tip of his tongue as he works to cram his other foot in and lace them both up with clumsy, swollen fingers.
I’d helped him when we left the house the first time.
He’d let me, without complaint, even if he’d made a stink about driving afterward.
I have the feeling the suggestion wouldn’t be well received now.
I hold my tongue. By the time he stands up and reaches for the door, my brain has spun half a dozen possibilities for how this could play out, each one worse than the last.
I can’t forbid him from going. He’s an adult. And I understand the need for a little relief after the conversation we all just had. I just wish he could find relief in something less fucking fraught.
“Cade,” I start, just as he opens the door. He whips around to look at me. “You’ll come back, right? Come home and drink here. Don’t go to a bar or something and then drive yourself home.”
Because he’s normally pretty responsible about that stuff, but not always when his mood has gotten the best of him.
I should probably be telling him not to drink when he’s this upset, but I can’t get into that right now.
All I can think about is him getting hurt because he didn’t feel safe coming home to me and spiraling in our home.
Cade’s entire posture is piano-wire taut, but after he blinks a couple of times, I see him soften, like all the air was let out of him at once.
“Yeah, baby,” he says softly. “I’ll come home. I’ll only be a few minutes. I just—” he chews on his lip for a minute and waves his hand vaguely around. “I’ll be home soon.”
There’s a note of finality to it, and he doesn’t give me the chance to say anything else before he slips outside and shuts the front door behind him, the keys to the truck in his hand.
It’ll be fine. He’ll go pick up some beer, come home and relax, and everything will calm down. It’ll be fine.
Once the truck has rumbled away down the driveway, silence falls over the house. I’m still standing in the living room, unsure of what to do with myself. I have to be overreacting. All this fear is just anxiety. I’m catastrophizing.
Cade is fine. He’s tough. He’s been through so much and he’s always fine.
One little argument with his dad won’t be the thing that pushes him over the edge.
It sounds like a lie, even in the privacy of my head.
This all feels too big. Cade’s never been the most stable person internally, but his presence in my life has been rock-fucking-solid since he first pulled me back from the edge of that quarry. He’s a constant, and I’m abruptly realizing how much I’d been taking that for granted.
Now that he’s spinning out in a way that scares me a little, I don’t know what to do.
I need an adult. I know I’m an adult, but not enough of one.
It takes all my energy just to get through the day sometimes, and as much as I want to swoop in and have all the answers, right now I don’t have shit.
My brain has run so far with all the terrible possibilities that I don’t even know what’s realistic anymore.
Cade drunk-crashing the truck.
Cade getting into another bar fight and losing.
Cade deciding he’s sick of taking care of everyone in his life and finally leaving.
Images flash through my mind one after the other like a flip-book from hell, and then I’m picking up my phone with shaking hands before I even consciously make the decision.
It only rings twice before he answers.
“What’s wrong?”
Normally, Tristan is someone who doesn’t leap to dramatics. But I don’t think I’ve ever called him unless it was a five-alarm crisis. He normally talks to Cade, and sometimes I happen to be there. We don’t seek each other out.
“Um,” I start, not sure what to follow up with.
There’s a brief pause before he talks, and I immediately recognize the calm, even tone he uses with his patients. It’s the same tone Cade has learned, and uses on me when I’m unraveling. Which I’m only just realizing I’m doing right now.
“Silas, take a breath for me. In for two… three… four… now out slowly.”
I do as he says, my heartbeat pounding too loudly to let the pending embarrassment settle in yet.
“Where are you?”
“I’m at home,” my voice sounds reedy, so I clear my throat and try again. “I’m at home.”
“Is everyone okay? Is anyone hurt?”
“No,” I say quickly. “I, um—”
I can almost feel the patience seeping into me from the other side of the phone as he waits for me to finish. Literally the only time he can be still seems to be if the world is on fire. It’s baffling to me.
“We went to see Kyle. I was hoping they might be able to talk. Clear things up a little. But of course they just fought, even though they weren’t really fighting about anything.
And Cade’s just bottling everything up more and more.
I—” There’s a pause while I gather myself and try to decide if I’m really, legitimately worried, or just overreacting.
“I’m really scared. He seems off. He needs to blow off steam sometimes and I know he tends to avoid his shit, but this just feels different.
I don’t know what to do.” Another pause, filled with the sound of my harsh breathing. “Tell me what to do, Tristan.”
Tears abruptly fill my eyes, but I blink them back. I have to focus.
Tristan exhales slowly through his nose, sounding like a bull about to charge.
“Okay, let’s go back. Start from the beginning, and tell me everything this time. What the fuck has been going on?”
And that’s all it takes for me to spill my guts.
I’m not sure how long I was on the phone to Tristan. Not that long, in the grand scheme of things, but enough talking to completely exhaust me.
I don’t think I even told him anything coherent.
It was mostly just rambling about the weird ways I’ve noticed Cade seeming off and how worried I am about the fall out from the fight.
I hate his dad being here at all, and how much it seems to eat away at his stability.
And I hate even more that we seem to be having a lot of misunderstandings and hurt feelings when we try to talk, for the first time in a long time.
Tristan didn’t say much, but it still helped a little to spew it all out to him. He reminded me to stay calm and communicate clearly and not bottle shit up but also not turn a disagreement into a tit for tat kind of thing, which is all stuff I knew, but helped to hear him say, anyway.
I’m barely finished hanging up when I hear Cade opening the front door and stomping back inside. At first, I think he’s going to ignore me, but when he walks into the living room and sees me, his eyes light up.