To her credit, she tried to stifle both the sobs and the tears against the back of her hand. But they kept coming anyway. I sat next to her on the kitchen floor, feeling increasingly uncertain as to what I should be doing.
What would a person with a heart do in this situation? I considered calling Harris to ask, but I felt reasonably certain Sam shouldn’t be left alone in her current state.
At last, when the tears slowed, I asked, “What happened?”
She laughed—which was rather odd of her, given that tears were still pouring down her cheeks. “I dropped the bottle.”
“Ah. And the broken glass?”
“I tried to catch it. I was holding my fucking wine glass.”
“And you dropped that as well.”
Strangely, that set her off all over again.
I hesitated. “We can get you another bottle of wine. Something that doesn’t smell like vinegar.”
She shook her head vehemently, her eyes wide with horror. “No! I don’t want that!”
“Okay,” I replied, more confused than before. “We can get you wine that does smell like vinegar.”
An unusual place to draw the line, but to each their own.
Somehow, my suggestion seemed to calm her. “I don’t want another bottle of wine! I hate it. I hatethis. All of it.” She gestured vaguely in front of her. I couldn’t help but notice she’d included herself in the mix.
“Ah.”
“Yeah,” Sam said bitterly. Her expression was tremulous as her gaze met mine. “I’m ruining his life. Has he told you that?”
“He doesn’t think that,” I assured her.
“Right. Well, he might not have said it, but it’s true. And I know it. And I still can’t stop. I keep promising myself today’s the day—that I’ll just have one glass of wine. And then I promise myself I’ll just have two.”
“And before you know it, the bottle’s gone,” I said, getting it. I’d never struggled with alcoholism, but I knew a thing or two about losing control of my urges.
“I’d be in good shape if it was just a bottle a day,” Sam said, shaking her head wearily. She sounded marginally more sober. And the tears had stopped. Now, she just seemed vaguely exhausted and wrung out.
“Why do you drink?”
She hesitated, avoiding my eyes. “I don’t know.”
One didn’t need supernatural senses to know she was lying—to both of us. I considered using my hypnotic gifts to ease the truth out of her, but it seemed… wrong. To force her to tell me her truth.
Odd. After all, it had never seemed wrong before now. But then again, less than two months ago, I couldn’t have fathomed sitting on a dingy kitchen floor with a drunk, crying woman, trying to help her process her feelings. The hesitation I felt at taking what I wanted in the moment was probably the least of it, truly.
“You don’t need to tell me if you don’t want to.”
She was quiet a long time. Then, at last, she said, “Our mom died when I was eight and Eli was five.” She paused, shaking her head. “Our dad was a drunk. I take after him, I guess. But he was… a mean drunk.” She let out a long breath that hissed between clenched teeth. “Really mean.”
“Ah,” I said again, my voice sounding strangely tight to my own ears.
A thread of heat wove through me as I pieced together the years of subtext she’d just handed over. It was a strange, unfamiliar feeling. It caused my hands to tighten into fists and my teeth to clench.
Anger, I realized after a long moment. I was feeling anger. Not at Sam, but for her. And especially for Eli. I wasn’t sure I liked the sensation. It made me feel unsteady—almost irrational.
“I spent years trying to protect Eli from him. Mostly, he ignored us and drank until he passed out. But whenever he got mean, I made sure he was mean to me and not Eli, whenever I could.”
“He laid hands on you in violence,” I said dangerously. “His own child.”
