“She’s not home,” I assure him. Then I snake my hands under his armpits so I can prop him into a sitting position.
He looks dazed. I honestly don’t think he knows where he is or who I am. “She went grocery shopping?” he slurs.
“Yeah,” I lie. “She won’t be home for hours. Plenty of time to get you cleaned up, okay?”
He’s swaying like crazy, and he’s not even on his feet. The combined stench of vomit, alcohol and piss makes my eyes water. Or maybe that’s not why they’re watering. Maybe I’m on the verge of tears because I’m about to haul my own father in a fireman hold and help him take a shower. And then I’m going to dress him as if he’s a goddamn toddler and tuck him into bed. Maybe that’s why my eyes are stinging.
“Don’t tell ’er about this, Jeffy. She’s gonna be so mad at me. Don’t want ’er to be mad at me. Don’t wanna wake up Johnny…” He starts mumbling incoherently.
It’s hard to breathe as I lift the stinking, blubbering mess that is my father into my arms and carry him to the bathroom at the end of the hall. Only one thought runs through my head.
My brother is a saint.
He’s a goddamn saint.
He’s been doing this, day in and day out, since I left for Briar. He’s been mopping up my dad’s vomit, and running the shop, and taking care of shit without a single complaint.
God, what is wrong with me? Fuck the NHL. Jeff deserves the chance to get out for a while. To travel with his girlfriend and live a normal life that doesn’t involve stripping his own father naked and lifting him into the shower.
My lungs are burning now, because cold reality has sunk in. Jesus Christ. This is my future. In less than a year, this will be my full-time job.
I’ve never had a panic attack before. I’m not sure what they involve. Out-of-control heartbeat—is that a symptom? Cold, clammy hands that won’t stop shaking? A windpipe that won’t let a single burst of air through? Because all those things are happening to me right now, and it’s scaring the shit out of me.
“Johnny?” Dad blinks as the hot water sprays his head, plastering his dark hair to his forehead. “When’d ya get here?” He staggers in the tiled stall, his gaze darting in all directions. “Lemme get you a beer. Have a beer with your old man.”
I almost throw up.
Okay, yeah. I think I might be having a panic attack.
I’m three hours late to pick up Grace.
My phone died when I was in Munsen, and I don’t have her number memorized because it’s stored in my phone, so I couldn’t even call her from the landline to let her know I’d be late.
My panic has subsided. Somewhat. Or maybe I’ve gone numb. All I know is that I need to see my girlfriend. I need to hold her and draw warmth from her body, because goddamn, I feel like a block of ice right now.
The porch light is on when I park in her father’s driveway, but the yellow glow just ignites a spark of guilt. It’s past ten o’clock. I’m so fucking late, and she’s had to wait around for hours.
Practice, a cynical voice taunts. For all the times she’ll have to do it next year.
My lungs seize. Jesus. It’s true. How many times will something like this happen once I’m in Munsen full-time? How many plans will I be late for or have to cancel altogether?
How long before she dumps my ass for it?
I push aside the fearful notion as I ring the bell. Grace’s dad answers the door, a frown puckering his mouth when he sees me.
“Hi.” My voice is hoarse, lined with regret. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to dinner, sir. I would’ve called, but my phone died and I…” No. No way am I telling him what I was forced to endure tonight. “Anyway, I’m here to take Grace back to campus.”
“She already left,” Mr. Ivers says ruefully. “Ramona’s mother drove them back.”
Disappointment crashes into me. “Oh.”
“Gracie waited as long as she could for you…” Another frown, a clear rebuke. “But she needed to go home and study.”
Shame funnels down my throat. Of course she waited. And of course she left.
“Ah…okay.” I swallow. “I guess I’ll head home then.”
Before I can go, Mr. Ivers asks, “What’s going on, John?”
The ache in my chest gets worse. “Nothing. It’s nothing, sir. I, uh…had a family emergency.”
He looks concerned. “Is everything all right?”
I nod.
Then I shake my head.
Then I nod again.
Christ, make up your fucking mind.
“Everything’s fine,” I lie.
“No, it’s not. You’re white as a sheet. And you look exhausted.” He softens his tone. “Tell me what’s wrong, son. Maybe I can help.”
My face collapses. Oh shit. Oh fuck, why’d he have to call me son? The sting in my eyes is unbearable. My throat squeezes shut.
I need to get out of here.
“Why don’t you come in?” he urges. “We’ll sit down. I’ll make some coffee.” A wry smile lifts his lips. “I’d offer you something stronger, but you’re still a minor, and I have a strict rule about giving alcohol to—”
I lose it.
I just. Fucking. Lose it.
Yup, I bawl like an honest-to-God baby, right there in front of Grace’s father.
He freezes.
Only for a moment, and then he springs forward and puts his arms around me. He traps me in a hug I can’t escape from, a solid wall of comfort I find myself sagging into. I’m so goddamn embarrassed, but I can’t fight the tears anymore. I held them back in Munsen, but the panic is back, and so is the fear, and Grace’s father called me son, and holy hell, I’m a mess.
I’m a total fucking mess.
33
Grace
The moment I finish writing my Abnormal Psychology midterm, I race out of the lecture hall like I’m trying to outrun a forest fire.
My father is not the kind of man who overreacts or dabbles in melodrama. He’s incredibly levelheaded and annoyingly straightforward, but he has the infuriating tendency to downplay a crisis instead of admitting when shit has hit the fan. So when he phoned me this morning and casually suggested that I should check in on my boyfriend today, I immediately knew something was wrong.
Actually, I knew it even before the phone call. The apologetic text Logan sent me last night had triggered my concern, but when I’d pushed him, he insisted that everything was okay, claiming he had to stay with his dad longer than he’d anticipated. He’d also made sure to reiterate that he was truly sorry for not making it to dinner or being able to drive me home.
I went to bed unable to fight the gnawing suspicion that something bad had happened, and now, combined with the vague heads up from my father, I’m certain of it. Which is why I opt to cab it to Logan’s house instead of walking or taking the bus. I want to see him as soon as possible, before the crushing worry I’m feeling starts flashing worst-case scenarios in my head.
As I settle in the backseat of the taxi, I pull out my phone and text Logan.
Me: I’m on my way to your place.
Nearly a minute goes by before he responds with: Don’t know if that’s a good idea, babe. I’m in a lousy mood.