“Why did you do that to Mom? To Alicia?”
With every question, his expression fractures further with anger and pain.
“Why did you do this to me?” he finishes, his voice breaking.
When I see the tears in his eyes, it’s like a thousand pounds hit my stomach. I don’t think. I just pull him into my arms.
At first, he doesn’t respond. Then he breaks. He sobs into my chest, his whole body shaking. “I h-hate you,” he chokes, over and over. “I hate you.”
I tighten my grip and whisper into his hair, “Not more than I hate myself.”
I hold my son the way I haven’t in over a year. Turning away from curious eyes. Shielding him from the world, holding together what I shattered.
When his sobs finally begin to quiet, I speak softly. “Come on, son.”
He shakes his head and tries to pull away. I let him, but keep one hand on his shoulder, steadying him.
“I don’t want to go with you,” he mutters.
I give his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I know you hate me. And you can keep hating me tomorrow if you need to. But I’m not leaving you here like this.”
He looks at me, bleary and unfocused.
“Just for tonight,” I murmur. “Let me be here for you. Let me take care of you, son.”
His lower lip trembles. Barely above a whisper, he asks, “You... you want to take care of me?”
I swallow hard.
“More than anything.”
He finally lets me guide him to the car. I fasten his seatbelt and close the door quickly. When I walk around to the driver’s side, I wipe the tears from my face and get in.
“Sit here,” I tell Ethan, helping him down onto the bench.
I step into the shower and turn it on, testing the water.
He didn’t say a word the entire drive, half-asleep in the passenger seat. Part of me wonders if I should just let him collapse into bed and sleep it off. But my college years taught me otherwise—if he doesn’t get some of this out of his system now, tomorrow will punish him for it.
I go back to him and help him to his feet.
As I’m pulling off his jacket, his words come out slurred. “What are you doing?” he mumbles.
I ease his shirt over his head and answer, “Helping you out. You need to get in the shower.”
I crouch to slip off his sneakers and help him out of his clothes.
Then it hits me that I don’t even know why Ethan’s not in Ithaca. Before I can ask, he speaks again.
“Where’s Ali—” he trips over the name. “Where’s Buttercup?”
The nickname makes me smile. He’s used it for Alicia since she was two and never let go of it.
“She’s at Oliver and Felicity’s. They’re having a sleepover.”
“Mmm,” he murmurs.
Once he’s down to his boxers, he slumps on the bench again. I slip off my shoes and help him to his feet. The second I guide him under the spray, he flinches, gasping as the water hits him.
