Chapter 26 #2
“I don’t, really,” I tell him, and the tightness inside me begins to ease as warmth buzzes through my body.
I shouldn’t use drinking as an escape, but I can’t deny it’s a fucking relief to feel a little bit lighter.
The dark thoughts float to the ceiling of my brain, out of reach for a little while, at least.
“You mean you made an exception for me? How thoughtful.” Noah drags my shot glass across the table and pours us another round. He slides it back before raising his own. “To cleaning out the basement. What a goddamn nightmare that was, especially hungover.”
“Here, here,” I cheers and throw back the liquor. I wince at the burn but welcome the effect, my limbs already looser. “So. Excited for graduation? Only a couple months away.”
He snorts. “Fuck no. I have no clue what I’m gonna do with my life.”
My brows raise. This is news to me. “What about your business degree?”
“I don’t want to sit in some stuffy office all day every day for the rest of my existence.” He shudders. “I might just move to the beach and work at a restaurant or something.”
My brows hike even higher because I can hardly believe the words coming out of my brother’s mouth. “Mom would have a conniption.”
“She’d deal,” he says with a shrug.
“She’d blame me.”
He frowns at me, confused. “What? Why would she blame you?”
“You know,” I prompt. “The whole baseball debacle.” I expect Noah’s face to dawn with understanding, but he only stares at me with a blank look, as though he doesn’t have the slightest idea what I’m talking about.
I blink at him. “Remember how they missed your College World Series game and then you quit baseball forever? Well, Mom will never forgive me. I think she blames me for every wrong decision you’ve made since then.
Like them missing that game was some formative experience that shaped your entire future. ”
He looks dumbstruck by my statement. “That’s…are you serious?”
I stare at him, feeling suddenly off-balance in a way that has nothing to do with alcohol. Does he really have no idea what I’m talking about? “Yeah,” I say slowly. “Of course I am.”
His brow furrows, and for a moment, it appears as though he’s deep in thought. “You know I don’t blame you, right? I’m not mad at you. I’ve never been mad at you for that. And Mom’s delusional, by the way. That game did nothing to shape shit.”
I blink at him, caught off guard. “W-wait. What?”
“Whatever weird feelings they have about baseball and that game—that’s their problem. I honestly didn’t care whether they were there or not.”
“You…” I trail off, trying to wrap my head around Noah’s admission. “You didn’t?”
“Nah.”
“But baseball was your life.”
He snorts. “Yeah, but I started hating it. When I finally quit Mom and Dad acted like the world was coming to an end. You know they had a literal intervention for me? I quit a sport and switched my major like every other normal, indecisive college student and suddenly I was ‘mentally unstable.’”
“I heard something about that,” I mutter, the sting of not being invited still smarting a bit.
“All because I didn’t want baseball to rule my life. I gave it fifteen years. Fifteen years. Do you realize how crazy that is? For once I just wanted to party and drink and not give a shit. Too much fucking pressure, man. Un-fucking-sustainable.”
I let out a dry laugh and pour myself more liquor. “At least they have expectations for you. I doubt they’d be surprised if I killed myself.”
I down another shot, wincing as it burns going down, but when my gaze settles back on Noah, he’s not laughing.
He’s staring at me seriously—too seriously for Noah, my very unserious older brother—and a laugh bubbles up in my throat.
It comes out as a cough, though, and maybe I’m drunker than I thought.
He clears his throat. “I know we’re not the kind of family that, like, talks through our shit, but have you ever tried talking through yours?”
I stiffen, his question sobering me right up. “What are you talking about?”
“The hospital. That night. I mean, I’m the last person to judge anyone for drinking too much, but that seemed kind of different.” His eyes search my face, but I keep my expression carefully blank. When I don’t say a word, he asks, “You ever talk to someone about that?”
I cross my arms over my chest. “No. Who would I talk to?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. A friend? A therapist, maybe?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, considering. “I don’t think it’s that simple.”
“Maybe. Fuck if I know. There’s this girl at school—”
“Ooh, a girl?” I ask, eager for the spotlight off of my life and back on his.
He grins a little. “Yeah. She’s, uh, cool. Eliza. Just a friend, though. I talk to her about stuff. Stuff I’ve never told anyone. Stuff I definitely couldn’t tell Genevieve when we were dating. It’s kinda cathartic.”
“I have an Eliza,” I say, thinking of Wes. “But I can’t talk to him about…stuff.”
“Why not?”
I stare at the liquor bottle until my eyes go cross, trying to come up with an acceptable reason. I can’t. “It’s my problem, I guess. Not his.”
Noah fills our shot glasses once again. “Yup. That’s what gets in the way. Our own fucked up shit, passed down from Mom and Dad, most likely.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, still thinking it over. “Yeah, I guess.”
Suddenly, his attention shifts to the screen mounted to the wall.
“Hey, I love this movie,” he says, reaching for the remote.
He turns up the volume, and just like that, serious, introspective Noah is gone, replaced by drunk and dazed Noah.
It’s for the best. My brain’s already malfunctioning from our little heart-to-heart.
Any more, and I might implode from the contradiction of it all.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell him, standing on wobbly legs. I stumble to the bathroom, shutting the door and leaning against the counter. The room’s not spinning, but the colors are vibrant and a little wiggly, and I decide I’m definitely done drinking for the night.
Lowered inhibitions make me pull out my phone. My fingers fumble over the keypad as I message the person I know I shouldn’t and said I wouldn’t.
Me: I’m sorry.
Me: I’m so sorry.
Me: I hope you don’t hate me.
I stare at the screen for way too long, waiting for those little blue dots to appear.
I bite my thumbnail and picture all the things he could be doing right now.
Hanging with his roommates. Studying in his room.
Watching a movie with some other lucky girl who doesn’t have some fucked up trauma response to his touch.
A girl who can give him the emotional and physical availability he deserves.
Tears leak out of my eyes. I can’t help it.
I’ve crossed the threshold into sad drunk, and I sink to the tiled floor, my head in my hands.
I just sit there and cry—violent, shoulder shaking sobs.
When I finally calm myself down enough to think straight, I wonder if maybe Noah’s right.
Maybe I need to tell someone. Maybe I need to talk through my shit.
How can you put that on another person when you can’t even handle it yourself?
I don’t know. It’s fucked up. It’s not fair. And if he can’t handle it…if he can’t handle it, it will crush me completely.
But even so, it’s the only way forward I can see. Every other road just loops right back around, and heaven knows I’ve been walking in circles for over a year now. Becoming friends with Wes was a wonderfully scenic detour, but through no fault of his, I’m still right back where I started.
And I’m so damn tired.
At some point, I mercifully pass out. I have no idea how long I’m asleep for, but I wake early in the morning on the bathroom floor, my phone cradled to my chest and my cheek pressed against the tile.
My mouth’s dry as sandpaper, and construction workers are hammering inside my head, but I roll to a seated position with a groan.
The world’s still wiggly, adrenaline kicking in, and nausea churns my stomach as I remember my stupid decision to text Wes last night.
I very nearly puke when I see he never responded, and tears burn my eyes again.
How do I have any left?
Stumbling to my feet, I shuffle out into the basement to find Noah splayed across the couch.
The TV’s still on, and I shake him awake before gathering up the evidence of our drinking session.
He groans, fingers immediately massaging his temple, and I’m starting to think he spends his life in one of two states—drunk or hungover.
It’s probably not the best thing for him, but who am I to judge anyone? I mean, really.
“We should get to bed before Mom wakes up,” I mutter.
“Good idea,” he mumbles, and together, we drag our feet up the stairs. Noah puts the bottle back in its place, and we head off to our separate bedrooms. I collapse into the mattress and doze for another five hours, and when I wake again there’s a new message on my screen.
Wes: I could never hate you, Ivy.
My world lights up.