Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
Luke and I are back in the penthouse.
“What happened?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say. “Though I suppose there’s a lot happening tomorrow. Big day. Normal to be nervous. Are you?”
“What’s wrong, Rita?”
My thigh knocks into a sofa. I think I’m on my way to being properly knackered.
Luke’s hand steadies my arm. “I’ve never seen you drink like this.”
I haven’t. Because of the history with my dad, it scares me to get to this state.
A secret fear of an alcoholic’s daughter is to become their alcoholic dad.
That it’s there in your genes, the same ability to traumatize those you love.
How if you start having these kinds of nights, they increase in frequency until a switch is triggered somewhere subconsciously.
“I’m not wasted. Just—leave me be.”
“Talk to me.”
I turn around, hands slipping around on my hips. “I’m fine .”
“If that’s how you want to do this.”
“Where are you going?”
He’s gone to the bar and has pulled out a bottle of whiskey. A glass is filled with golden-amber liquid. “I’m joining you until you tell me what’s going on.”
“You don’ t drink,” I argue.
“I don’t. Not when so much is at stake.”
“Why do this? Do you not hear me? I’m fine.”
He finishes the whole drink. Pours himself another generous few inches.
“Stop it?—”
“What’s wrong?”
They don’t want me. I failed. Again.
“I’m fine .” My voice has hitched. Dammit.
“Darling, what has happened?”
“I’m fine.”
Do I sound a bit broken? Have to fix that.
I can’t fall apart. I have to be happy and strong.
Never cry. Why am I unable to maintain equilibrium?
Is it the drinking? I blame the drinking.
Why else can’t I simply pretend the entirety of my future, the one I was trying so hard not to get too hopeful about, hasn’t shattered essential confidences.
Luke stares at me and finishes the second glass of whiskey.
When he pours his third, I break.
“Don’t drink more.” How unfair considering my own state, but I’ve never seen Luke lose control of alcohol and the way he’s drinking it, so fast and without any guardrails, I—I—can’t. My arms wrap around me. “Please don’t drink. I can’t see you drinking like this. Not you.”
He comes to me, tilts my chin up like he did at the office. “You’re afraid,” he says, his eyes widening. “Explain.”
I do because in my addled state, it’s a distraction from having to tell him about failing the competition. Only I would unearth a childhood trauma to distract from the point.
“My father drank. A lot. He’s in rehab now.”
My toes are nicely painted. I’m staring at them.
Luke steps away. When I hear a glass clinking noise, I look up in time to see him spilling his whiskey bottle down the drain of a sink by the bar.
“Wait—I didn’t meant—You don’t have to?—”
When he returns to the bar and starts taking down bottles, opening them, and spilling them out too—I finally blink back into existence and try to stop him. He’s getting rid of vintage alcohol without batting an eye. There are bottles here older than me. Older than us combined.
“You don’t have to do this. ”
“I’m not having you scared.”
I drop my head onto his shoulder. “I’m being stupid.”
“Don’t call my Rita that,” he softly chides. “Sweet, beautiful, devastating, determined Rita. Please tell me what is wrong so I can fix it.”
“Why? Are you afraid I’ll mess up your laid plans tomorrow? That I’m not as perfect as you think. How I’m not going to end up anywhere because I’ve failed.”
He takes my face in his hands. “Failed what?”
“The meal kit competition.” I spit out. “They don’t want me to go on. I’ve failed. It’s over.”
“Ah, Rita.” He draws me in, even when I’m struggling against his hold.
“Stop fussing. I’m okay. I’m always okay.”
“Give me the name of the company. Masala—something wasn’t it? Your choice. I can buy them out or eviscerate them.”
“W-why?”
“Because I’ll rip apart any company and burn them to the ground before having to sit through another meeting watching you pretend not to hurt.”
His promise is delivered without a qualm of good conscience.
I grip his shoulder. “That’s not going to help because I’ll know. How I’m not good enough to make it as a chef. Not good enough to pay for my dad’s rehab. And I wasn’t good enough to stop my dad from drinking.”
Where did that last part come from? Oh no, I’m spilling words, and my eyes are acting very strangely. They water. I think I’m crying.
Luke carefully pulls himself back so our eyes can meet. His are miserable. “I’m here, but fuck, Rita, it kills me to know you think that’s on you. That you are carrying that here.” He puts his hand above my heart.
“Actually, he never drank when my mom was alive. But then she died having me, and everyone told me how much I cried. Not just those first nights, but as a baby. That whole first year after my dad lost his soulmate, and all he had left was me, I was crying. And…now I’m crying again.
” I suck in a broken breath. “I should stop.”
“Don’t stop.” Luke holds me tighter, as if sheer pressure can piece me together.
“Maybe I wasn’t good enough for him, and that’s why he picked up that first drink.
I know—that’s not the right way to think about it, but some days I do.
Blame myself. And I know everyone would tell me not to.
That I shouldn’t.” My cheeks are wet. I don’t like it.
I try rubbing them dry. “A long time ago, I decided I won’t cry anymore.
So I need to stop this. I’m breaking my own promise. ”
Luke pulls my hands away from my face so I don’t rub myself raw. “If it’s in my arms, it doesn’t count. No one finds out. Cry. Hurt. Punch me. Anything. Let me hold you and tell you how mistaken you are. How you are everything, even when you don’t feel like it’s enough.”
He does.
“I can’t stand here and pretend to agree, because it is preposterous about you having any blame in your father’s drinking.
And about failing and not being good enough.
I have to argue and list everything you are and everything you have done.
Tell me you know how brilliant you are. How you can take one look at a person and figure out how to win their stomachs and their hearts.
Me and the suits who clamor over themselves to eat your cakes at my meetings.
There have been deals won and lost over your talents. I don’t say that as a joke. And?—”
He falters, then starts again.
“—And if you can’t see how brilliant you are, then I must take the blame. I’ve been selfishly keeping you to myself. Only cooking for me, not telling you there’ve been dozens of offers to know the chef behind your desserts. You are not nothing. You will never be nothing, Rita Singh.”
“But…he’s supposed to love me enough to stop.”
Luke flinches. “I would give up everything I own to make that true for you. For you, I wish that was how it worked.”
Everything I’ve kept chained up inside me is begging to be let free. Trying to hide my crying, I keep myself pressed into his shoulder. Luke strokes my hair.
Afterward, he carries me.
I clutch at his shoulders. “Wait, I have to throw up.”
“Right then. I’ll hold your hair back.”
He takes me to the bathroom and I’m sick. When I’m done, he lifts me again.
“Shower?”
I nod.
The hot water washes me away, and I let myself go further. Tears come and go again. Then Luke dries me off and wraps me up in a towel.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“Don’t apologize to me.” His voice is angry for the first time before he gentles it. “Don’t. Not for this.”
“Okay.”
We dress and go to bed even though the sun hasn’t set. He keeps me in his arms. I lope my legs around his and find that spot where his shoulder meets his neck to rest my head on. Our faces turn to each other.
Luke gentles a hand down my arm. “I’ve been so focused on my own vendetta that I haven’t asked what you need from me, and now I don’t know what to do. If I could go back, I would give you everything that first day you walked into my office. Instead, you got demands.”
He kisses the valley leading to my heart. There, right above it, he stops and rests his cheek. He mumbles regrets, sorrows, renewed promises, and words of adoration to it.
With his head bowed, I feel revered. My hands thread through his hair and cradle his head. I’m at risk of crying again, but I stop myself. Not because I’m afraid of falling apart again—for the first time—but because I want to sleep. So, I do.