I shrug as elation bursts beneath my skin at her non-acknowledgment of the word “date,” which I am taking as confirmation that this is, in fact, most definitely a date. “It’s our end-of-day meal. That makes it dinner. What other people may or may not be eating has no bearing on us.”
I pour her a glass of shimmering pink rosé and admire the sparkle in her eye as she lifts it for a sip. “I suppose I can accept that this is dinner,” she concedes. “But only because I am morally opposed to drinking wine with breakfast.” She shivers. “That’s some nonsense my parents would do. Which means it’s some nonsense that I would never.” She lifts her glass. “Cheers to dinner in the breakfast hours.”
I snag a bottle of sparkling cider from the fridge and cheers her back, taking a swig.
“Can I ask you a question?” I ask, because coming straight out with your invasive and rude curiosities is not what one does on a date.
“It’s about power and proof,” she replies. Because coming straight out with responses that make a lick of sense is also not what one does on a date, I guess.
“What is?”
“You were going to ask why I drink at all, weren’t you? Why I work in a bar? When my parents are alcoholics?”
Well… yes.
I wince.
“It’s okay,” she says, taking another drink of her wine. “Like I said, it’s about power and proof. The power I hold to put it down when I’m done and not pick it back up. The proof it gives me that I’m not them and I never will be. Even, on some level, proof to myself that they aren’t sick, they’re just weak. Which sounds awful, really, but if they’re sick? Then I have to forgive them, don’t I? Addiction is a disease. An awful disease that you don’t get to pick, not once you’re in it. But weakness? That’s a choice. Giving in to that weakness is a choice. And I don’t have to forgive a person who chooses to give in to their weakness when they’ve got three perfectly good reasons not to. I don’t have to be compassionate toward people who choose the easy path knowing the horrors they’re putting literalchildrenthrough when they choose it.” She sniffs. “Some people are sick, and it’s awful. Some people take one drink, or one puff, or one pill, and that’s it for them. One mistake that costs them everything. Other people, though? Other people have the power to prove that they can do better for themselves and for the ones they’re meant to love, and they give that power away again and again to bottles and smoke. I have compassion for the sick, but I do not have compassion for the weak who won’t exercise their power or gettheir kids to safety knowing full well that they’re too weak to raise them.”
My nostrils flare, and I stand very,verystill.
“It’s not easy having parents like mine. Abusive alcoholics who woke up every day and chose to be that way. They’d take a swig, blame us for it, and smack us across the face if we dared to say anything about how it wasn’t right. I don’t know how many times I saw my mother take a shot before turning to one of us and saying shehadto becausewemade herneedit.” She scoffs. “Or how many times she’d be several shots in and one of us would have the audacity to ask if dinner was going to be made that night, and we’d get screamed at if we weren’t within arm’s length—and we learned pretty quickly never to be within arm’s length.” She shakes her head, then lifts her glass. “I can drink this, though, and I can say confidently that it’s my choice. No one made me drink this as surely as no one made them. And I can drink this knowing full well that at the end of my glass, I’ll stop, and I won’t harm anyone around me at any point in the process. I have the power. I have the proof. They can haunt my nightmares, but they can’t change this.” She sips the pink liquid. “My power. My proof.”
Murder is only illegal if you get caught, I heard.
Poem takes a heartier swig of her drink, then gives the blessing of her attention to me. Immediately, she laughs, sliding out of her stool to come and soothe the anger out of my pores. Her gentle hand rests on my jaw, encouraging it to unclench. The pads of her fingers dig between my fisted ones, burrowing with comfort it is a miracle she has within her to give.
“Your parents,” I growl, “they live in Indiana?”
She sighs, pressing her body into mine until I accept the softness she offers. “They do,” she says. “Drinking and smoking their lives away, powerless and weak. They’re lonely, making up dramas and offenses any time they manage to make new friends,souring the friendships fast. They have no one. They are no one.” Her thumb brushes my scowling lips. Her mouth follows, pressing a featherlight kiss in its wake. “They’re punished every day by the choices they make,” she promises. “And I’m rewarded every day I am no longer in their wake.”
“This is a date,” I proclaim, wrapping my arms fully around her. “Dinner and the movie we’re going to watch. It’s a date. With a man who is not ever going to let anyone treat you like that again. Even if this doesn’t end how I want it to end,” I vow, “you won’t know the taste of abuse another day in your life.”
Her eyebrows rise. “I don’t need you to keep me safe from them. I managed that all on my own.”
“I know that,” I reply lowly, anger fighting for supremacy in my tone. “But you shouldn’t have had to, and I’m going to make sure you never have to protect yourself again. You’re a freakingprincess, Poem. Princesses do not fight their own battles. Princesses have knights and princes and literallyanyone elseto do it for them.”
Her nose wrinkles. “Princesses are no more worthy of protection than anyone else,” she retorts. “Particularly the ones who are plenty capable of protecting themselves.”
I press my forehead to hers. “The capable ones are usually the ones whohadto do it for themselves,” I grumble. “And shouldn’t have to any longer. I know you can take care of yourself, Poem. I know it. I’ve seen you doing it, and you do a beautiful, strong, resilient job of it. But is it so bad that I want to take over? I want to care for you, and protect you, and spoil you. I want to chase away anything or anyone that might cause you harm, and I want you cozy and safe and eatingbonbons[2] while I do it. It’s not about what you’re capable of. It’s about what you deserve.”
“What about what I want?” she asks, not unkindly. “I don’t want protection, Fox. I just want family. Love. Safety, yes, butsafety in the sense that I will not be alone emotionally when bad things happen. Safety in the sense that if my house floods, I have people I can call that I know will come to help. Safety in the sense that if I have a bad day and want it to be better, I have people who willmakeit better. I want to be cared for in ways I haven’t experienced before. I want to matter as more than a chore someone’s promised to do. I’m not a trophy to put in a case and swear your life to protect. I want more care than that. I want more love than that.”
“You think my protection wouldn’t come with those things? Poem, Iloveyou. I adore you. I want every good thing for you all the time. I want you physically, emotionally, and spiritually safe. I want you thriving in every way you can be, and I want to contribute to that thriving. I want to give you family. I want to give you safety. I want to give you love, forever and always. I want to give you every good thing you could ever want and every good thing you won’t dare to hope for. I want to give you my soul and my servitude with it.”
“Gracious,” she mutters, storm-gray eyes wide and wet.
“Precious,” I correct, pressing a kiss to the tip of her nose.
She sniffles, and she lets me hold her for seconds that turn into minutes, each one a treasure that I hold in my heart. Every moment she spends pliant in my arms, I feel as an ache in my chest, understanding exactly what sort of trust she’s placing in me.
“I can’t promise that I’ll let you give me all of those things,” she says finally, lifting her face to mine.
I touch my nose to hers, resting our foreheads together. “That you would let me try is already gift enough.”
She softens, tears glistening against her lashes. She sniffs against the wet. Then her brows furrow, and she sniffs again. Eyes widening, she panics.
“The potatoes!” she screeches, lurching out of my arms and toward the stove, where the potatoes are perfectly fine because potatoes take more than the ten minutes this conversation has lasted to burn.
