“This is why I thought I’d get over it.” Her voice trembles at the edges. “You love me. You take care of me. But I can’t just… forget.”
I swallow hard, staring down at the table because looking at her hurts too much.
“I know you can’t forget,” I say. “I can’t either. I hate myself, Lore. For what I did. And for blaming you.”
I force myself to meet her eyes.
“I quit drinking,” I say softly. “I know it doesn’t erase anything. But… I don’t know what else to do to show you I’m sorry.”
“That’s a start,” she says hesitantly.
“A start?” I ask.
She avoids answering by stuffing a giant bite into her mouth. I let out a laugh as she struggles to chew, cheeks full like a chipmunk. I watch her finish the whole thing, then immediately reach for the second sloppy joe.
She takes a sip of juice, then looks at the plate and mutters, “You do have a drinking…” She glances at me.
“…thing.”
I laugh, but her expression stays dead serious.
“You’re not joking?” I ask.
She shrugs. “You don’t have a problem, per se. But youdodrink when you’re stressed. And it’s not just one or two. You drink until you pass out.”
My mouth falls open. “I fall asleep after drinking. That’s not passing out.”
She levels me with a look. “Patrick. You fall asleep with a bottle in your hand. Or on the floor. Or spilled on the sofa.”
My jaw works but no sound comes out.
She keeps going, softer this time. “You think I don’t notice? Every time you’ve had a bad case? Or someone died? Or something at work hit too close to home? I always know when you drink too much. The smell. The way you stumble to bed and how you flinch the next morning when Milo jumps on you.”
I swallow hard. She’s exaggerating. Has to be.
Lore wipes a bit of sauce from her lip and sets it down. “I don’t want you to give it up because I’m mad. I want you to give it up because it hurts you. And it hurts us.”
I sit there, staring at her, suddenly feeling ten years old and being lectured by my mom.
“I didn’t… I didn’t realize it was that bad,” I say quietly.
Lore looks down at her plate. “Tell me honestly. Would you have done what you did if you were sober? I know I wouldn’t have.”
My jaw clenches. “So, it wasn’t a date.”
“No,” she says immediately, forceful. Then softer, “No. I… uh…” She runs her thumb along the rim of her glass. “When youcancelled our date, I was going to stay home and catch up on sleep. But my friends told me to come out for just one drink. I wanted to say goodbye to some classmates before they left, so I agreed.”
I feel every muscle in my body lock up, but I stay quiet.
“We started drinking. And dancing. And…” She looks up at me, eyes full of shame. “It was just dancing with some guy from my class. And then…”
“Stop,” I say, holding up my palm. “I don’t want to hear this.”
“But you have to,” she says softly, but firmly. “We didn’t make love, Patrick. We had quick, regretful sex. I went home right after.”
My throat tightens.
“I cried myself to sleep,” she whispers. “Because even though it was my choice, I still couldn’t understand how you could do that to me.”
