I did the only thing I know how to do. I took his good alcohol and drank all of it until I thought I was dead. And now I’m here.
The bathroom door squeaks open. “Christian?”
My hands tighten around the sink and I let my head hang between my shoulders. I know she has seen my face when she gasps. “Christian!”
Her hands touch my back and I wince. “Christian, let me see.”
I shake my head.
“Christian, please, let me check.”
I sniff, my nose aching. I release the sink from my torture and keep my head down as I move to sit on the toilet. “Please,” I rasp. “Don’t freak out.”
Lana scoffs. “That’s a dumb thing to ask of me, Christian.”
I don’t look up at her yet, so she comes closer to step between my knees. She puts her hands on my shoulders, and the softness, the gentle touch, makes my eyes sting with tears. I’ve never felt a love like hers, ever. No one has ever hugged me or kissed me or loved me like her.
And I know, like this, I’m going to lose everything if I don’t get my shit together.
Her delicate hands move to the nape of my neck and her nails scratch in my hair. “Look at me, Christian.”
I blink away tears, letting them fall to the floor before I look up at her.
Her gasp gets stuck in her throat. It’s a thing she does when she tries not to make a big deal about this, it isn’t the first time I come home like this. Her mouth opens and closes like she’s going to say something, but nothing comes out.
Instead, Lana frowns and everything around her caramel eyes redden.Slowly, she lowers herself onto her knees and puts her hands on my thighs.“Oh, Christian. Baby,” she cries. “I…”
Her fingers wrap around the hem of my t-shirt and she says, “Arms up.”
She already knows what she’s going to find. We’ve done this before. I hiss and wince as she pulls the shirt off my body, and I hear the tiny gasp. That tiny gasp always kills me. Then the crying that comes after it too.
Lana stands again. She goes through our medicine cabinet and the small first aid kit under our sink. She moves easily, knowing where everything is. Muscle memory. She opens the little plastic box, sniffling. I know she can’t see because I can barely see her eyes beneath the tears covering them entirely.
A tear slips as she opens an alcohol pad and I hear the choke in her throat.
This is the part I hate.
“Baby,” I husk and she gives out.
Her hands grab onto the sink and she’s lowering to the ground in slow motion. “I can’t,” she sobs. “I’m—I—I’m sorry. I hate him. I hate him so much.”
“I know, baby,” I cry with her. “Me too. Come here. I need you.”
Lana takes a few measured deep breaths and comes back to me, clutching the alcohol pads in her fist. She helps herself up onto her feet again with her hands on my knees and my hands cup the backs of her thighs. I feel them tremble under my touch and I want to take her away.
I want to take us away somewhere far and safe and quiet. I want to buy her that lake house she’s always dreamed about so we can watch the sun rise and set, everyday. Together. I want to build her a reading room with shelves and a ladder and big windows to let the sunlight in.
I want to make her smile and happy.
Lana swallows audibly and she wipes an alcohol pad over the cut on my lip. I hiss and she whispers shakily, “I swear, I’m gonna kill him.”
“Baby, please, just?—”
“This has to stop. We can call the police, we can?—”
“We can’t, Lana.”
“We can!”
