Page 76 of Under One Roof

“Maybe a snack too,” I say and fill a cup with water before finding the bag of cheddar popcorn in the pantry.

In the living room, Andi’s moved to the couch in only her bra and jean shorts, her stomach bare, belly button ring on display. I sit next to her, and she settles her legs on top of mine, smiling at me from where her head rests on a pillow.

She’s adorable. And clearly drunk.

“You need to soak some of that up.” I hold out the bag to her, and she takes a handful, but it’s like she can’t figure out what to do with her hands, both of them full with the wine and popcorn. She lets me take her glass so she can remember how her body works, and I can’t help my laugh. “You’re a mess.”

“You like it.”

I love it.

I run my hand up and down her shin. “I see you had fun by yourself today.”

“Stopped for wine on the way home.” Her smile fades, and she turns her head toward the blank screen of the television, eating pieces of popcorn one by one.

“You all right?” I ask and don’t believe her when she offers me a quiet, “Mm-hmm.”

But Andi is not one to keep secrets. I know she’ll tell me eventually, so I give her space to process whatever it is she needs to. The song on her playlist changes to one I’ve never heard before. It’s romantic yet melancholy. I point to her phone. “What’s this?”

Her eyes find mine, and she sits up. “‘Poison & Wine’ by the Civil Wars. Good, right?” She continues right on, not waiting for my opinion as she helps herself to another fistful of popcorn and tosses some into her mouth. She’s got terrible aim, and a few end up on the couch, so I eat those. “They broke up a few years ago. Tragic for me. They won a coupl’a Grammys and were at the height of their popularity, but one day, they up and quit.”

There is something about the way she won’t meet my gaze that I don’t like, but I listen as she goes on and on about different songs, ordering me to listen closely to certain lyrics she plays for me. Before long, she’s polished off almost the whole bag of popcorn and appears a tad more sober.

When she asks if I want to finish the rest of her wine, I put the cork back in the bottle. “I don’t drink.”

“You don’t?” She tips her head, face pinching in thought, like her brain’s been pickled in merlot. “Haven’t I ever seen you drink a beer or something?”

I shake my head.

“Really?”

I shake my head again, and she shrugs.

“Huh. So much for my skills of observation.” She picks up her glass of water and downs the whole thing before asking, “Why not?”

I sink back against the cushion, stretching my arm out to invite Andi closer. She cuddles into my side, her head resting on my chest, and I curl my hand around her bare shoulder. I should put her shirt back on her, cover her with a blanket, but I don’t. Instead, I situate her on my lap, wrapping my arms around her, holding her close.

She tucks her face against the side of my throat, fingers gently scratching at the nape of my neck. It’s a minute until she remembers. “So, why don’t you drink?”

I trace random patterns on her thigh, hearts and stars and my initials. “My dad was an alcoholic.”

She lifts her head. “You never talk about him.”

“There’s nothing really to tell.”

She hits me with a glare full of attitude, but it doesn’t have the same force when she’s tipsy.

I like to pretend it hasn’t affected me. That my dad’s behavior didn’t leave an indelible mark on my life, but his leaving was my first real heartbreak. Like all things, I don’t think or talk about it because I don’t want to remember.

Andi waits patiently until I eventually nudge her face back down to my shoulder and soothe myself with skating my hands up and down her spine. “When he was sober, he was fine, but that wasn’t very often. Supposedly, he was an athlete in college when he met my mom, but he couldn’t deal with never making it to the pros, and he never recovered. Blamed his shortcomings on my mother and all that bullshit. There was a period before I was born when he was gone for a few years. The story goes that my mom had kicked him out for drinking, and he went and found steady work and got sober and came back eventually, getting her pregnant with me. Then Taryn and Roman. My earliest memories of him are good.”

I recall a night in winter and tell her, “There was this one Christmas, I must’ve been six or so, and he packed us all up in the van, took us to the drive-thru for donuts and hot chocolate, and we drove around to look at all the lights and decorations. I remember feeling like it was for hours, but now… I guess it was probably only thirty minutes, but it felt like forever. Listening to Christmas music on the radio, singing and laughing, the four of us kids and Mom and Dad. It was nice.”

Andi makes a sad sound and kisses my pulse point once before settling again.

“But when he’d drink, he’d get mean. Unpredictable.” I pause, remembering the tension that would fill the house when he’d stumble in late at night. “I saw what it did to him, to my mother, to our family. I never wanted to be like that.” I exhale a loud breath, expelling the pent-up rage and resentment. “My mom taught full time, raised four kids, and still took extra work tutoring and teaching summer school for money because Dad spent it all. Then he’d scream and yell that we never had anything, when he was the one pouring it down his throat.” I shake my head, jaw tight. “He left eventually. One morning, we woke up, and he wasn’t there. Never came back.”

“That’s why you’re afraid,” Andi says so quietly I almost don’t hear it. “You expect everyone to leave, either by choice or by nature.”

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