I unscrew the cap and take a swig, too eager to wait for a glass. The cold liquid burns a pleasant, numbing trail down my throat. Before closing the freezer, I grab a bag of frozen peas for my screaming knuckles. Then I take a glass from the cabinet and fill it halfway with the amber-colored alcohol. As I swirl it in the glass, the pitter-patter of sock-covered feet comes down the back staircase.
And a moment later, Rory stands in the doorway, in blue sleeping pants and a white cotton T-shirt, with his brown curly hair sticking up in all directions. But his eyes are alert and wide, telling me he’s been awake for some time.
“What are you doing out of bed?” I ask gently.
“I was thirsty,” he lies. “Can I have a glass of water?”
I motion for him to sit down at the center island, then fill a glass with cold water from the sink. I slide it in front of him, and for a few moments we sip our respective beverages in the still silence of the dimly lit kitchen.
Until he confesses, “I heard you and Aunt Chelsea.”
I just nod.
He peers up at me with a hesitantly probing blue gaze. “You were loud. You sounded . . . mad.”
I swallow a gulp and breathe out, “Yeah. I was mad.”
Guilt is already eating me up. But when his features tighten with worry, the bite of regret feels particularly sharp. “Are you gonna leave?”
I put my glass on the counter and look him in the eyes. “No, Rory, I’m not gonna leave.”
His face relaxes. “Good.”
He sips his water, then asks, “Why were you fighting?”
“I . . . lost my temper.”
“Were you acting like a pissed-off little asshole?” he asks, using my own words against me.
I snort. The kid’s astute—I’ll give him that much.
“Something like that.”
“My parents used to fight once in a while . . .”
With the stress of so many offspring, I’m not surprised. Actually, if at some point Robert McQuaid had gone full-out “Here’s Johnny” from The Shining, I wouldn’t be surprised.
“. . . but they argued in the car.”
A grin tugs at my lips. “In the car?”
“Yeah.” He chuckles. “I guess they didn’t want us to know they were fighting, so they’d go outside where we couldn’t hear them. We’d watch them from the upstairs window.” His voice goes hushed, smiling with the memory. “My mom’s hands would go like this . . .”
Rory’s arms flail above his head like an epileptic octopus.
“And my dad would be like . . .”
He pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head—the perfect imitation of a man trying to reason with an unreasonable woman.
“What would happen when they came back inside?” I ask.
He thinks a moment before answering. “They’d, like, march around each other. They wouldn’t talk or look at each other. But after a while, things would just slide back to normal, you know?”
I don’t know, actually. I had a ringside seat for my parents’ “disagreements.” But I nod and tell him what he already knows.
“They were good parents, kid.”
He sighs deeply, with just a shadow of sadness. “Yeah.”
I finish off the rest of my drink. “Come on, it’s late. Back to bed.”
Rory hops off the stool and together we head up the stairs. When we get to the doorway of his room, he feigns a nonchalant attitude I’m now familiar with.
“I’m not a baby, you know. You don’t have to tuck me in.”
I tap his back. “Yeah, I know.”
But I walk in the room with him anyway.
As Rory crawls into the bottom bunk I glance up to where Raymond snores in the top one and pull up the covers that he’s kicked off. Once Rory’s settled, I smooth out his covers too.
“Night, Rory. Sweet dreams.”
“Night.” He turns on his side, snuggling into the pillows. I walk to the door, but before I step out, Rory’s quiet voice stops me. “I’m glad you’re here.”
And with shock, I realize . . . so am I.
I turn around, finding his small frame in the darkness, a shy smile on his lips. And I tell him, “Me too.”
Then he closes his eyes.
However, there’s someone who’s probably not so glad that I’m still here at the moment. And I head straight for her room. Because she and I need to talk.
• • •
I’ve heard people talk about anxiety. Nerves. But that doesn’t happen to me. I don’t get nervous before an opening statement or a closing one, not when my boss calls me to his office for a meeting, and sure as hell not before a hookup. I guess I just never cared about anything—or anyone—enough to be anxious about things not working out. I always figured I’d be able to fix it or find an equal option to replace it.
You know what I’m going to say next, don’t you?
Yes: standing outside Chelsea’s tightly closed bedroom door, I’m fucking nervous. My palms are sweaty, my stomach is clenched, my skin kind of itches, and I can feel my heartbeat in the back of my throat.
How do people live like this?
It’s awful. I hate it.
And the fastest way to not feel like this is to just get it the hell over with. Talk to her. Eat shit and smile as I chew. Which I’m fully prepared to do.
If I could just bring myself to actually knock on the door.
But that’s where the evil anxiety comes into play. It won’t let me knock on the door, because . . . what if she tells me to screw off? What if she doesn’t accept my apology? What if she’s concluded that I’m a violent asshole who’s unfit to be around her and the kids?