thirty-nine
Even two weeks after seeing his mother, Danny is still not himself. Just as I knew, her visit came back to haunt him. To trigger him. He’s been drinking too much, and Matteo and Slow had to stop him from beating the shit out of a guy at the bar who’d barely looked at Mary Ann with a provocative glance. He’s been driven back to my house late at night more than a few times, and I’m grateful he’s got friends watching out for him. But I also don’t want to keep seeing him spiral.
It’s one thing to play in rough waters, but it’s another to drown.
And he knows that he’s starting to drown. I can feel it.
One morning, he wakes me with the noises he makes as he dreams, so I reach back to touch him, trying to soothe whatever nightmares have taken over. Both of us have overcome our rough sleeps after we found each other, and it hurts to hear and feel him backslide.
So, while he’s still half-asleep, I shake him and kiss him, telling him that I am here. He wakes enough to roll me out of my position, where I’m curled on my side, and onto my back. Danny comes alive as his hand gently cups throat before moving down to my collarbone, over my breasts, the curve of my waist, my hips until he reaches my thighs. He wants to give me a million things right now, and I want to give them all back, but what he really needs is an escape that is healthier than the ways he’s been taking. And I can give that to him in the safety of our connection.
For a moment, Danny tries to protest when I pull his weight on top of me, trying to get me to take my time, but my desperate, pleading words are no match for how much we both need each other this morning, so he caves and gives himself to me, and his groans are exactly what I want to hear. The sound of him drowning in me—in us, in our intimacy—and not in his pain gives me hope that our tie to each other can help him heal. His hips move so slowly, so rhythmically, and it takes a beautifully long time before he finishes. Our endless kissing after only secures our bond and my belief that we can survive anything.
After our intense morning, it’s hard to see him go, but Paul has him and a large crew working on restoring an old barn a few towns over. I’ve seen the pictures of the dilapidated structure, but it’s clear that it’s going to be lovely once it’s rebuilt.
“Go, go!” I hand him a breakfast sandwich and coffee for the road. “Send me pictures?”
“Promise. And I’ll see you tonight. You didn’t get everything you deserved this morning.” He backs me up against the doorjamb, and I nearly buckle because his mouth is so hot and so perfect. Demanding even.
When he walks away, it takes everything I have not to stop him and tell him that I’m assuredly and enduringly in love.
Later that day, after I’ve fussed with the raised beds, researched more recipes, and scoured the upstairs bathroom, Danny texts me to let me know that the tin tiles for the kitchen are ready, and he’s going to pick them up, but because it’s such a long drive, he’s going to stay overnight, and he wonders if I can watch Shallots.
I tell him that, of course, I will, but that I’m also happy to make the drive with him.
Hours later, he replies.
Already on the road. All good.
But all is not good.
The next day, Danny texts me that he’s going to spend another night away. Something vague about consulting more with the artist who did my tiles. How he could be great for other projects. When I call later, he doesn’t pick up.
And the next day, he doesn’t respond to any of my attempts to reach out.
Then, three torturous days go by with no word from Danny. No texts, no calls. Nothing. My panic becomes more than I can manage, especially when none of our friends can reach him, so I call Paul.
“You haven’t heard from him either?”
He hasn’t, and he tells me he’ll be over soon.
Not fifteen minutes later, I find Paul in front of my house, pacing. “Wait a second.” He takes out his phone and spends a few minutes before he yells out, “Fuck! Are you kidding me? I should have known she’d do something this goddamn stupid.”
Even though he forces himself to calm down for my sake, he can’t hide how distraught he is when I reach him.
“What is it?”
With hesitation, he hands me his phone. “Once in a while, I do a Google search on Andie. Just to see what she’s up to, where she is. What kind of damage she might cause.” He swears more. “Danny must have an alert set.”
The interview she gave to a prominent site is on the screen, and I cannot skim it fast enough. It takes a bit to see what has Paul so upset, but when I do, I wish I could unsee it. I wish it weren’t real.
Andie was asked if she had any children. Her amused response? The one she gave with a laugh, according to the interviewer?
Oh gosh, no kids. Having children is right for so many people, but for me? I’ve always wanted it to just be me and my art, nothing but my creativity and the freedom to explore.
Both of us frantically call and text Danny.
For two hours, Paul and I sit with each other. Neither of our phones sounds out with any response.
