Page 42 of Sweet Caroline
“Was it something I said? Or did?” I ask quietly, the memory of our almost-kiss slipping back into focus yet again.
Did he not like it?
“God, no,” he says quickly. He scrubs his hands down his tired face. “Shit. Is that what you thought?”
I shrug. “I didn’t know what to think, Miles. You just disappeared.”
A muscle works in his jaw. “It was shitty of me to take off on you. Especially after I said you could trust me.”
I don’t disagree with him. “How’d you even get home?”
“Took a cab about halfway. Then my brother picked me up.” When I give him an expectant look, he goes on, his voice quiet. “Okay, so, the reason I left…Fuck.” He closes his eyes for a moment. “I’m an alcoholic, Caroline.”
“What?” I search his face.
“I’m sober. I’m in AA. And I’m doing good; I actually found a meeting online tonight when I got home, which helped… but yeah. I haven’t been sober that long.”
Why didn’t he say something?
“How long has it been?” I ask quietly.
He runs a hand through his shaggy dark hair and sits forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “’Bout ten months?”
Dropping my gaze to the scratched hardwood floor, I slouch back against the couch cushions as the puzzle pieces click into place. Drinks were all around tonight, offered up on literal silver platters from the moment we arrived. I can only imagine how intense the temptation must have been. “Miles, I’m so sorry. I never would’ve asked you to come if I’d known.”
He turns sharply toward me. “Hey, no. Nothing about this is on you. You didn’t know.”
“Why’d you agree to come? You must’ve known there’d be drinks there.”
Amusement plays on his lips. “Well, I was kinda…voluntold.”
I grimace at the reminder. Still, he could have backed out. I gave him chances to back out.
Miles grows more serious. “Plus, it’s not realistic to avoid it completely.”
“Yes, but?—”
“Look, when I saw you with Fletcher at the gallery… He obviously made you fucking uncomfortable. So I thought I could… I dunno. Help you out, I guess.”
“You didn’t have to do that for me.”
“Yeah, but I wanted to.” He meets my eyes. “I didn’t like the idea of you stuck with him any more than you did.”
“But it meant putting yourself in harm’s way.”
“Thought I could handle it.” He pushes up from the couch, then paces a few steps toward the small galley kitchen, giving me a full view of his muscular back and another chaotic-yet-cohesive collection of tattoos: wavy, twisting kelp fronds; a feather, a cartoon character I can’t place, and more I don’t catch before he faces me again.
“Thought I could just steer clear of the bar. Didn’t realize they’d be shoved in my face like that,” he says, leaning his hips against the counter behind him. “And then when…” He rubs at the back of his neck, not quite able to look me in the eye. “It just got to be too much.”
I study him, getting the feeling there’s something he’s not telling me.
“Couldn’t risk it, y’know?” he continues. “By staying any longer. I’m sorry. Again. I hope you understand. This is… this is the only way this can work for me. I have to put sobriety first.”
My eyes widen. “Oh my God, of course!”
“Even if it means running out on my fake girlfriend like an asshole, apparently.” He looks apologetic as he returns to the couch and slumps down beside me. Rubbing his hand over the koitattoo on the back of his arm, he turns to me. “Your dickbag ex give you any shit after I left?”
“No. He was probably busy hitting on some poor, unsuspecting woman.” I roll my eyes. “Or women.”
