“If she so much as looks in Chrissy’s direction?—”
“Then we’ll deal with it,” he said. “But we can’t deal with anything if you’re drunk, reckless, and busy martyring yourself on the nearest metaphorical sword.”
I dragged in a breath and let it out slowly.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked finally.
“For now?” he said. “Nothing.”
I blinked.
“That’s not usually your advice.”
“For now,” he repeated, “you are going to eat something, drink water, and sleep in a bed like a human being with organs that still need to function. You are not going to sign anything, call any lawyers, or make any grand gestures that can’t be undone. When you can go six hours without picturing her face and bleeding internally, we’ll reassess.”
“I’m not going six minutes without picturing her face,” I said.
“Then think softly,” he said. “Not catastrophically.”
I snorted.
“You should put that on a mug.”
“I’ll put it on your gravestone if you fall down the stairs drunk and split your head open,” he shot back. “Stand up. Slowly. I’ll help you to the bed.”
“I can walk myself,” I muttered.
The attempt to get to my feet proved that was a lie. Pain knifed up my side, and I nearly went right back down. Henry caught my arm and steadied me with a grip that brooked no argument.
“Humor me, son,” he said.
I let him help me to the bed.
We made our way across the room like two very poorly matched dance partners, his hand gripping my elbow. The house was too quiet. Too echoing. Every closed door felt like a mouth shut on the word Chrissy.
“I don’t know how to live in a world where she hates me,” I said under my breath.
“Get in line,” he said. “A lot of us have had to figure out how to live in worlds we didn’t want. You start by not making them worse than they have to be.”
He settled me on the edge of the bed and adjusted the pillows behind me with surprisingly gentle hands.
“Rest,” he said. “You’re no good to anyone like this.”
“I’m no good to anyone anyway.”
“Stop,” he said sharply. “That kind of thinking is how Vivian wins.”
He straightened, looking down at me, his expression grave.
“You said you’d rather lose everything than marry anyone but Chrissy,” he said. “Fine. Noted. I believe you.”
“Good,” I muttered.
“But understand this, Benjamin,” he went on. “If that’s really the hill you want to die on, there’s only one way you walk off it alive.”
I frowned.
“And what’s that?”
