“You underestimate him. I drove my first car when I was fifteen.”
“You’re an exception, Frank. My brother is not. He needs to learn what it means to actually earn things, not just get them at the snap of a finger from his sister’s boyfriend.”
“Say that again.”
“Which part?”
“The boyfriend part.” His lips stretched into a lazy, drunk smile. He was impossible to be mad at. “I like it.”
“Will you please stop being a baby and let me help you?” I grabbed his hand, and when he wouldn’t budge, I rolled my eyes and said, “Boyfriend.” His smile turned into a huge grin and he stood.
His body swayed dangerously as we walked through the hallway. The house was still and quiet, and all the Christmas lights in the living room were off. I stopped for a second to turn them on, and Frank continued into the bedroom on autopilot. He slowed down when he was halfway there and leaned against the wall for support. Then his back brushed the frame of one of the paintings as I hurried to catch him. He was heavy against my shoulder and we were a messy tangle of clothes and limbs when we finally reached the bed. He sat on the edge, his head hanging while I rearranged the pillows to make sure they were high enough for him to be comfortable.
“Don’t do this again,” I said, my voice something between a shake and a gasp as I struggled to lay him down.
The smell of liquor hit my face when he began to ramble, “I’m putting you through hell, aren’t I?” His palm slipped over the curve of my hip.
“You are,” I agreed, sitting next to him. “But I’m willing to stick around.” It was half joke, half the truth.
“You don’t have to.”
“That’s what people do, Frank.” I drew a deep breath through my teeth. My stomach was woozy with what I was about to say. “When they love someone. They stick around.”
The elephant had entered the room.
Frank didn’t react. His fingers were a fixed grip around my waist. I didn’t know whether the lack of response was a case of melted brain from excessive liquor consumption or just an honest kind of reply because he didn’t have anything to say to me in return, but the silence hurt.
I freed myself from his grasp. The floor beneath me shifted and the oxygen left my lungs.
“Cassy?” he rasped out in a weak, dying whisper.
I wanted to take my last sentence back. Badly. I’d messed up. I shouldn’t have said it while he was drunk, but I’d been carrying these feelings around in me for so long, they were bound to run free one day.
“I think I’m going to work for a bit. Get some rest.”
I walked out of the bedroom and shut the door. My chest went in and out, following the mad beats of my weeping heart. I hated how attached it was to Frank, how my every cell wanted to be glued to his forever. He was like the nucleus of an atom, binding all my neutrons and protons together within him and keeping me whole.
Stupid, stupid Cassy, my inner voice screamed as I rushed to the living room, toward the lights. The walls and the windows glittered as greens, golds, and reds slid across them.
My phone squawked in my purse on the couch. It was late, but I grabbed it anyway. The text was from Linda. She wanted to know how I’d come across the article about Frank and me.
My brother. Do we have a problem?
Linda Schwab: Not unless it gets on TMZ or BuzzFeed’s radar, which is highly unlikely. I’ll keep an eye on it.
Thank you.
Then I paced. This house was suddenly suffocating me with its luxury, but I was too scared to leave Frank alone. What kind of woman would desert her man when he was at his lowest? It didn’t feel right. So I stayed. I returned to the bedroom and lay by his side, listening to the sound of his labored breathing until sleep finally swept me under.
Frank was still in bed when I left for Hollywood. A conversation about what had happened last night, specifically the drinking part, was in order, but I decided to postpone it until the evening because my mother was waiting for me.
We drove down Sunset and stopped by a few smaller dealerships. I wanted to look for a car online and pay for it in cash, but she insisted on getting a loan to help Ashton build his credit.
“Mom, you understand if you co-sign and he doesn’t make a payment on time, it’ll screw your credit too?” I tried to reason with her as we were leaving the first lot. “And it’ll happen.”
“It’s not like I’m going to buy a house anytime soon.” She brushed me off.
“Funny, you never offered to co-sign when I was trying to get my first car,” I noted, getting behind the wheel of my Honda.
“You never asked. You just did whatever you had your heart set on without checking with me or your father.”
We shut the doors and were cocooned in the comfort of my modest vehicle. This was the first time in years she’d brought up dad and it struck a chord with me.
“Mom.” I spun in my seat and looked at her. “Can I ask you something?”
She flipped the visor and fixed her lipstick. “Sure.”
Years of working two jobs had worn my mother down, but she was still a beautiful woman. Today, she’d styled her hair into a French twist and had put on daring makeup. These past couple of months without Ashton around had been good for her mental health, but while I enjoyed seeing the spark in her eyes, the fears were still there, constant and obvious. She desperately clung to the fading traces of youth and it was difficult to watch. Oftentimes, I wondered if the loneliness she’d been living in ever since my father walked out wasn’t only his fault but also my and my brother’s.
“What is it?” My mother flicked her gaze at me, eyes curious.
The question was stuck in my throat, heavy like lead. I swallowed past it and muttered, “Do you remember when dad started drinking?”
She froze, lipstick still open between her fingers. “Why do you want to talk about him? He’s a goddamn quitter.” I could hear her anger.
“I just—” My voice broke. “I just want to know how it started. I don’t remember seeing him sober. Ever.”
My mother closed the lipstick and tossed it in her purse. “That’s because he never was.” She turned her head away from me and glanced at the stretch of parking lot ahead of us. “First it was a beer or two after work, then it was beer for breakfast and vodka for lunch until he lost his job and then his license.”
“What about rehab or AA? Did he ever try?”
“I talked to him about it many times. He promised to get help, but it was always tomorrow. He kept feeding me those tomorrows for years.” She turned to me, and her tired face went blank for a brief moment. “You can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped, sweetheart.”
“Do you know where he is right now?”
“No, and I don’t care.” Her expression was full of worry. “What’s gotten into you? Don’t tell me you want to see him?”
“No, it’s not that. We just never talk about him.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. He left.”
The urge to scream and bang my head against the steering wheel was so sudden, my solar plexus convulsed. Drawing a deep breath, I slid the key in the ignition and started the car.