He takes a deep breath, and my whole body rises and falls from where I’m resting on his broad chest. Eventually, after a few false starts, he speaks.
“Things used to be… bad. But then I went on meds and that helped. But I didn’t have the meds with me when they brought me here and I couldn’t tell them, because Father would fucking kill me if he knew I was seeing a shrink. Ever since I ran out, it’s been like it was before the meds, but worse. Just up and down, with my thoughts all fucking jumbled and everything twisted up.”
He lets out a shaky exhale when he’s finished, and my mind works overtime to process all that information.
Stupid, stupid man.
Depending on what meds he was on, ending them cold like that could have killed him. It basically almost did.
I focus very hard on keeping the anger and resentment out of my voice, because I’m really angry at the fucking universe for doing this to him, not him. Although I’m maybe a little angry at him… I can’t stop the way my fingers dig into his skin wherever I can cling to him.
“Why didn’t you tell me? I could have helped you. Stopping psych meds all of a sudden is dangerous. No wonder it seemed like you were going through some kind of withdrawal.”
I feel him shrug, and turn his face even further away from mine, even though I’m still buried in his neck instead of forcing him to look me in the eye.
“You know I can’t talk about that stuff,” he mumbles.
“Don’t give me that shit. This is me, not your shitty dad. You can talk tomeabout this stuff. No one else, but me. I could have helped.”
An unexpected wave of emotion hits me while I’m speaking, and my voice actually cracks on the word ‘helped’. I feel Tadhg stiffen underneath me again, before he puts the actual effort into wrapping his arms around me instead of letting them lie on top of me like two pieces of driftwood.
He hugs me into his chest, and we both sit in silence for a few minutes. I sniff, because my throat feels tight and there’s a swirl of guilt and anger and a bunch of other emotions I don’t really want to feel fighting for attention inside me.
“Okay,” I say at last. “New deal. I won’t go out with Scott again. Or anyone else, while you’re still getting straightened out. I’ll be here as much as I can, and we’re going to figure out the best way to get you feeling better. Whether that is—getting meds off books or what.”
He sighs. “You don’t have to do that. I’m sorry I was pissy before. You shouldn’t have to put your life on hold because of my shit. I’m fine. I felt like I was sick for a while, but that’s all over. I’m over the withdrawal or whatever it was. I’m back to normalnow, I guess. I think I’d just forgotten how it felt before I was on them.”
I don’t even hesitate before reaching out and pinching his nipple again, even harder than the last time. This time he actually yelps in pain, leaning back and looking me in the eye for the first time since this excruciating conversation started.
“Will you stop that?”
“Not until you stop being ridiculous. You are not fine. It’s been what, a week? Two? People normally take months to taper off psych meds a little bit at a time, because you are trying to literally change the way your brain chemistry functions. And you just fucked around in there, slapped yourself on the hood and said ‘good enough’ before driving off. Absolutely not. Your brain is physiologically a disaster zone, and this will take time to fix. No wonder you’re all over the place.”
I hold his gaze with mine, trying to make him physically feel how serious I am about this. I don’t even know why I’m so serious about this, but it feels more important than anything else I’ve ever done in my life.
“I am going to help you, and you are going to let me. End of discussion.”
Tadhg blinks at me a few times and then his body softens under mine. “Alright, Bambi. Whatever you say.”
Chapter Sixteen
Micah
I’m still not a hundred percent clear what’s going on in my brother’s head right now, but it’s obviously a mess. I think our fight last night was a come-to-Jesus moment for him, though.
After we talked it out—more or less—he limited himself to slumped posture and short, muttered answers. But it was more like he was wrung out than being obstinate. He’d gotten a little drunk while he was out trawling for someone to bring home and shove in my face, and once I realized, I spent some time feeding and watering him before he eventually collapsed into bed like a wet rag.
I also made a mental note to scold him about drinking and driving later, but it was obvious it wouldn’t have sunk in at that moment.
Since then, he’s mostly slept. All night and a decent portion of the day, only waking up to take a shower, eat some more food that I shoved in front of him and then crawling back into bed.
He’s just exhausted. Between the physical toll of his injuries and the broken brain chemistry that his body is trying to fix, it makes sense. That doesn’t mean it isn’t hard to watch, though.
I’d stayed up last night, trying to keep my sleep schedule something close to organized, and then slept during the day. Tadhg hadn’t even twitched when I slipped into bed next to him. He’d continued to snooze away, and I had laid there for too long watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, and the soft expression he wears in sleep when he’s not having nightmares.
I feel like I should be more put out by the amount of space he’s taking up in my life. Even if I’m happy to do it, it should feel like an imposition to give up more than half my bed to his oversized body, and spend all my time worrying about his mood swings. It doesn’t, though, which is almost more worrying.
I like having him close, where I can reach out and touch him. It’s like I constantly need to confirm that he’s still there and in one piece. Getting him back has unlocked all the weird anxieties I used to have about him when we lived together. The ones I’d shoved deep, deep down when me and Mom ran away, and assumed I’d never have to examine again.
