Page 90 of Stay With Me

His mom’s voice shakes, and her eyes go wide. “I-I didn’t call you. It must have been a pocket dial. I-I accidentally knocked over the vase and then got cut.”

“The vase of flowers you got from some other man, like the slut you are,” his father snarls at her.

Charlie’s whole body leans further into the hold he has on his dad when the word ‘slut’ flew from his father’s mouth.

Jesus, dude. Read the room and quit giving Charlie more ammunition.

“No, Charles. I swear I got them from the Sue down the street. Her garden is blooming. Charlie, please let him go!” Tears are streaming down his mom’s face.

My heart is pounding as I step over the threshold, my hands shaking. I know when Charlie’s dad notices me by the sneer on his face, but he rapidly moves his focus back to Charlie.

“You think you’re better than me, Charles? Well, you’re not. You’re a Fitzgerald through and through. Any bitch stupid enough to end up with you will be just like your mother.”

In a flash, Charlie’s arm is off his dad’s throat and his hand grips tightly under his father’s chin, hyper-extending the man’s neck. I can see he’s not squeezing, but it’s scary, nonetheless.

* * *

CHARLIE

A shaking hand touches my shoulder, and a voice I’d know anywhere whispers, “Please stop. This is scaring me.”

I look over my shoulder and find Emily standing there, her face pale and her breaths shallow. I can’t hide a wince of sadness and embarrassment as it flits across my face, and I only hold her gaze for a fraction of a second before I cast my eyes downward.

I never wanted her to see any of this—what I can become. It was naïve of me to think maybe I really could have her and not let this part of me touch her life.

I drop my hand from my old man and step back. My mom releases a relieved sob and reaches for my dad, who brushes her off and walks to the counter, grabbing his keys and wallet.

“I’m going out, Marianne. Have this fucking mess cleaned up by the time I get home.” And he stalks out the door.

My mom is crying, and I watch as Emily gingerly walks up to her. Like she’s approaching a frightened child in her kindergarten class.

“Hi, Mrs. Fitzgerald. I’m Emily, Charlie’s… friend. Let’s go over to the sink so we can check out that cut on your hand. Okay? It looks like it’s bleeding quite a bit.” Her voice is soft and soothing, and a twinge of pain pinches my chest that my ugly world has touched sweet Emily Flynn.

I walk over to the kitchen closet and pull out the trash can, broom, and dustpan and sweep up the mess on the floor. While I refuse to let myself look at Emily and my mom, I listen to every word they say.

“I think I got the glass out. But it looks pretty deep. You might need to go to the ER for stitches.”

“No,” my mom says quietly. “It’s not that bad.”

“But it’s still bleeding a lot. And maybe they could use that skin glue stuff instead of stitches, if you don’t like needles.”

“I can’t.” My mom’s voice is flat, quiet.

“I promise stitches don’t hurt that?—”

“She won’t go, Emily. They ask questions when you show up in the ER too many times with suspicious injuries.” I don’t even look at them, speaking slowly, with no inflection in my voice.

“Charlie,” Emily chastises me, her voice hushed. Back to focusing on my mom, Emily says, “I’ll hold pressure for a bit, and we’ll see how it looks after that.”

I finish cleaning up the flowers and glass, then put away the broom, dustpan, and trash can and grab a few bleach wipes. I crawl along the kitchen floor, scrubbing my mother’s drying blood off the tiles. When I’m reminded this isn’t the first time—or even the second—I’ve had to do this, I shake my head.

When I’m done, I head to the bathroom, wash my hands and look at myself in the mirror. All I see is disappointment and fear—fear that my father is right and I’m no better than him. I want to see a different man in the mirror, to know I’m not like him and not destined to ruin any woman who loves me. But, right now, I’m just not seeing it. I turn around and open the linen closet, reaching behind the cleaning supplies to pull out the small tackle box I keep stored there.

After I get back to the kitchen, I sit down at the table and place the box on top of it. “Come on over, Mom. Let me have a look.”

Just like we’ve done too many times to count, my mom sits in front of me so I can examine her injury that she’ll insist until the day she dies is her fault, not my father’s. When I pull the paper towels off of her hand, the bleeding has stopped. Emily stands behind my mom, watching, a comforting hand on my mom’s shoulder. It almost hurts to see how sweet she is.

I inspect the laceration, then clean it with an anti-bacterial wipe. I lift my gaze to my mom. “I think we can get away with the skin glue this time,” I say quietly.

---