"I don't know how to do this," I say. "Any of it. The sobriety. The leadership. This." I gesture between us.
"I know." She holds my gaze. "Neither do I. But I'm here. And I'm staying. So figure it out."
No softness. No gentle encouragement.
I almost smile. Almost.
Day four.
I wake clear-headed for the first time in longer than I can remember.
Not good. Not fixed. But clear.
The walls hold still when I look at them. My heart beats at a pace that could pass for normal. My hands still shake, but it's the fine tremor. Not the convulsions that made me bite through my own tongue two days ago.
Gray light through the curtains. Morning. Early.
Aoife is asleep in the chair.
Curled into herself the way I saw her in the SUV that first night. Making herself small. Her head rests against the chair back at an angle that'll leave her neck aching. Dark hair across her face. One hand tucked under her chin. The other hangs over the armrest, fingers still loosely holding the damp cloth she was using before she drifted off.
She stayed.
Three days of the absolute worst of what I am, and she's still here. Not because anyone ordered her to. Not because the contract required it.
She chose this.
I don't know what to do with that. Don't have a category for it.
I sit up slowly. Everything hurts. My mouth tastes like death. I need water, food, a shower—so badly I can smell myself.
I get my feet on the floor. The wood is cold. The room doesn't tilt.
I stand.
My legs hold. Barely. I grab the doorframe for balance and catch my reflection in the wardrobe mirror. I look like shit. Hollowed out, gray-skinned, three days of stubble and dark circles that go halfway down my face.
But my eyes are clear. For the first time in months, I can actually see myself in there.
I make it to the kitchen. Fill a glass of water from the tap and drink the whole thing standing at the sink. Fill it again. The water hits my empty stomach, and it cramps, but nothing comes up.
Progress.
Halfway through the third glass, I hear movement behind me.
"You're up."
I turn. Aoife stands in the hallway. Still in my t-shirt, hair tangled from the chair, red marks on her cheek from sleeping against the wood. Her eyes move over me. Slow. Deliberate. Like she's checking every part of me for damage.
"I'm up," I say.
She crosses her arms. "How do you feel?"
"Like I've been hit by a truck. Then the truck reversed over me. Then parked on my chest for three days."
Something shifts in her face. Not a smile. But close.
"You need to eat. And shower. You smell terrible."
