Cade’s eyes widen for a second, then he shakes his head.
“Nope,” he says, popping the p.
I start to sigh, but before I can figure out what to say next, he’s moving deeper into the house, pushing past me without another glance, moving faster than his aching body probably wants him to. He beelines to the fridge, first reaching in with his bad hand, wincing, then switching to the other. He moves some things around—I’ve developed a really unfortunate habit of overshopping when it comes to food. My therapist says it’s normal for people who grew up with food insecurity, which I don’t get, because I always had food. Dad made sure I had exactly the right food I needed to perform at my best, and nothing else to distract me. Even when we were living out of shitty motel rooms, I would have my specific, carefully planned meals waiting for me.
She just gave me a long look when I said that, which makes me think we’ll be revisiting the topic at some point. Right now though, Cade is crashing through a bunch of vegetables I crammed in there, cursing under his breath as he can’t find what he’s looking for.
“Fuck,” he finally snaps, closing the fridge door harder than he needs to. “I’m going out.”
There’s a single-minded determination as he avoids my eyes, heading for the door and struggling to put his boots back on.
“Where are you going?” I ask, even though I know the answer.
“Liquor store.”
He grunts with pain as he manages to tug one boot on, biting the tip of his tongue as he works to cram his other foot in and lace them both up with clumsy, swollen fingers. I’d helped him when we left the house the first time. He’d let me, without complaint, even if he’d made a stink about driving afterward. I have the feeling the suggestion wouldn’t be well received now.
I hold my tongue. By the time he stands up and reaches for the door, my brain has spun half a dozen possibilities for how this could play out, each one worse than the last.
I can’t forbid him from going. He’s an adult. And I understand the need for a little relief after the conversation we all just had. I just wish he could find relief in something less fucking fraught.
“Cade,” I start, just as he opens the door. He whips around to look at me. “You’ll come back, right? Come home and drink here. Don’t go to a bar or something and then drive yourself home.”
Because he’s normally pretty responsible about that stuff, but not always when his mood has gotten the best of him. I should probably be telling him not to drink when he’s this upset, but I can’t get into that right now. All I can think about is him getting hurt because he didn’t feel safe coming home to me and spiraling in our home.
Cade’s entire posture is piano-wire taut, but after he blinks a couple of times, I see him soften, like all the air was let out of him at once.
“Yeah, baby,” he says softly. “I’ll come home. I’ll only be a few minutes. I just—” he chews on his lip for a minute and waves his hand vaguely around. “I’ll be home soon.”
There’s a note of finality to it, and he doesn’t give me the chance to say anything else before he slips outside and shuts the front door behind him, the keys to the truck in his hand.
It’ll be fine. He’ll go pick up some beer, come home and relax, and everything will calm down. It’ll be fine.
Once the truck has rumbled away down the driveway, silence falls over the house. I’m still standing in the living room, unsure of what to do with myself. I have to be overreacting. All this fear is just anxiety. I’m catastrophizing.
Cade is fine. He’s tough. He’s been through so much and he’s always fine.
One little argument with his dad won’t be the thing that pushes him over the edge.
It sounds like a lie, even in the privacy of my head.
This all feels too big. Cade’s never been the most stable person internally, but his presence in my life has been rock-fucking-solid since he first pulled me back from the edge of that quarry. He’s a constant, and I’m abruptly realizing how much I’d been taking that for granted.
Now that he’s spinning out in a way that scares me a little, I don’t know what to do.
I need an adult. I know I’m an adult, but not enough of one. It takes all my energy just to get through the day sometimes, and as much as I want to swoop in and have all the answers, right now I don’t have shit. My brain has run so far with all the terrible possibilities that I don’t even know what’s realistic anymore.
Cade drunk-crashing the truck.
Cade getting into another bar fight and losing.
Cade deciding he’s sick of taking care of everyone in his life and finally leaving.
Images flash through my mind one after the other like a flip-book from hell, and then I’m picking up my phone with shaking hands before I even consciously make the decision.
It only rings twice before he answers.
“What’s wrong?”
