Page 43 of You're The One
The next time I open my eyes, the scenery has changed. I’m no longer in the back seat of the car, but in my bed. Dominic stands at my side, hands tucked into his pockets.
“How did I get here?” I blink up at him.
“I carried you. I know you were worried about my strength and my ability to haul your hundred-and-something pounds, but you’ll be happy to know I got you all the way here with ease.” He flashes a teasing, self-satisfied smile.
“You didn’t have to?—”
“I did. How about you just say ‘thanks, Dominic’?”
“Thanks, Dominic,” I deadpan.
“No problem. Want to get ready for bed?”
I look down and see I’m still in the day’s outfit. Well, at least he didn’t undress me. I’ve been spared that embarrassment.
“Yeah, I probably should.” I rummage for pajamas and head to the bathroom, making quick work of my nighttime routine. I’m eager to get back into the comfort of my bed, and with any luck, Dominic will have excused himself.
No such luck. He’s sitting on the corner of the bed, but shoots to his feet when he sees me, holding up the covers like I couldn’t manage them myself. It’s alittleendearing.
A pounding begins behind my eyes. I remind myself, it’s not an aneurysm, probably just dehydration from too much wine. There’s a full glass of water on the nightstand that I don’t recall being there earlier. Still, I gulp it down.
“You’re smart not to drink,” I say as I nestle into bed.
“Mm-hmm.” He pulls the cover over me, then lingers, like he’s not quite ready to leave.
“Why don’t you drink?” I’ve always wondered… though not enough to ask him. I did try to get the information out of my brother but was disappointed when he said he wasn’t actually sure.
I think I’m going to get the same dodge from Dominic when he stays silent, now focusing too deeply on smoothing the wrinkles from the comforter. Then, to my surprise, he starts.
“My mom was an alcoholic…isan alcoholic. Or at least, I assume. I haven’t talked to her in years.”
Well, shit.Now I feel like an asshole. I thought he was one of those “I don’t need drugs or alcohol to have fun” people. All sunshine and clean living.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.
He meets my gaze. “You didn’t know. No one does. I don’t talk about it much.”
I nod, unsure what to say. Instead, I reach out and squeeze his forearm, hoping he takes it as the comfort I mean it to be. He doesn’t pull away, but rather lets out a long breath and goes back to sitting on the edge of the bed.
“I didn’t really get it when I was a kid,” he adds after a pause. “I just thought I had the cool mom. She was always fun, always up for a game or an adventure. Always so full of joy, borderline too much joy. When I was six, she took me to Chuck E. Cheese…Do you remember that place? God, I wonder if they even exist anymore.”
His lips twitch in something almost like a smile, but it disappears quickly.
“Anyway, we got pulled over on the way home. She was arrested for drinking and driving. I didn’t understand what was going on, just that everything got really scary really fast. Later, my dad sat me down and explained it as best he could. That was the moment things changed.
“He gave her an ultimatum: get sober or leave. And she left. Who does that? Who just walks away from their kid?”
He shakes his head, like he’s still trying to figure it out all these years later.
“I didn’t see her for a long time. But then in high school, she cleaned up her act. We started rebuilding… something. I let myself believe she’d changed. Then she picked the bottle over meagain. It became a pattern. Over and over and over.”
He exhales sharply, like admitting it all out loud has winded him.
“The last straw was at the end of my rookie contract. I made headlines when I renewed with the Saints. It was a big deal, all over the media. She didn’t even pretend she wanted to reconnect that time. Just asked for money. And like an idiot, I gave it to her.”
My chest tightens. “You’re not an idiot.”
“It felt like it at the time. That was eight years ago. I haven’t seen her since. I hear she’s living out here now, somewhere in California, but I try not to think about it too much. Some stuff is best left in the past.”
