“And you don’t want to leave.”
“There is nothing,” I said, leaning forward now, “nothingI want less than to walk away from him. I would fight God himself before I gave up on Jackson Morgan.”
Dad’s mouth twitched despite himself.
“But,” I continued, breath catching, “if staying means I start justifying one glass of wine…one bad night…one ‘it’s not a big deal’…then what?”
The question hung there. “What if I lose myself trying to save him?”
Dad squeezed my hand once. “Holly,” he said, voice like granite, “you can’t rescue a man who doesn’t want rescuing.”
“I know.”
“You can love him.”
“I do.”
“You can draw a line.”
I swallowed. “And if he crosses it?” I asked.
Momma Laverne’s eyes softened, but her voice didn’t. “Then you let him fall,” she said. “And you don’t fall with him.”
That hurt worse than anything else she could’ve said. I sat back hard against the booth. “I hate that answer.”
“I know,” Dad said.
A tear slid down my cheek, and I swiped angrily at it. “I am so tired of being strong,” I muttered.
Momma Laverne huffed, her own eyes watering now. Dad leaned forward again, eyes steady on mine.
“You don’t have to carry him,” he said. “You just have to stand steady. Let him see what staying sober looks like. Let him choose.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Then you protect the life you built,” he said. “And you don’t apologize for it.”
The diner hummed around us. Plates clinked. Someone argued about pie at the counter. The world kept moving. I stared at that same broken chair. I didn’t want to leave Jackson.
But I would not disappear again.
Not for love.
Not for grief.
Not for anything.
“Okay,” I said finally.
Dad squeezed my hand.
Momma Laverne stood up and pointed at the biscuits.
“Eat,” she ordered. “You make better decisions when you’re not running on caffeine and rage.”
That almost made me smile. And for the first time since the bottle showed up between us, I felt something other than panic. Not peace. But clarity. And that was just going to have to be enough.
Over the next couple of weeks, it just got worse.
