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Or maybe he’s the balloon. Holding onto me grounds him, keeps him from disappearing into the atmosphere. Either way, I’m gripping his hand just as tight.
He doesn’t ask me to stay the night. He doesn’t have to. I won’t leave him alone tonight.
We enter the gym and shuffle up the stairs into his apartment. Stripping off our clothes in silence, we lay on the bed facing each other. My lids are heavy and swollen, yet the tears continue to fall. TJ strokes my cheek with his thumb, gazing through my eyes and penetrating my soul.
Sometime after midnight, I ask, “Is this my fault?”
“No, Carla. How could you ever think that?”
“I was the last one to see her. I didn’t notice anything wrong. I should’ve seen it. I should’ve been there for her.”
TJ draws me closer, stroking my face, my hair. “You need to understand that this had nothing to do with you. This did not happen because of anything you did or didn’t do. Kimmie was an addict, and sometimes this is what happens to addicts.”
“Could this happen to you?”
“It won’t.”
My lower lip trembles. The more I try to imagine my life without TJ in it, the more impossible it becomes. “I don’t want this to happen to you.”
TJ opens his mouth to speak but I cut him off. “No. Please. Promise me you’ll tell me if you need help. Promise me I won’t ever find you like … like that. Please.”
“Shhh. It’s okay.” TJ envelops me in his arms, pressing my cheek against his bare chest. “That won’t ever be me. Don’t worry your pretty head about that.”
“I need you to promise me.” I lift my chin to look into his eyes. “Promise me you’ll talk to me if you need help.”
“I promise.” His nose nuzzles the tip of mine. “Even though I don’t deserve your help.”
“You deserve everything good in this world.”
TJ’s cradles my face and presses his soft, plump lips to mine.
We fall asleep soon after.
Chapter Thirty
The Past
TJ
“Close your eyes. Take a few slow, deep breaths. Relax your mind and listen to my voice.”
I’d laugh if I wasn’t so nervous. Here I am, on my therapist’s couch, about to do some hypnosis voodoo shit. All that’s missing is the swinging pocket watch. Look into my eyes. Great. Now I’m envisioning Dracula when I’m supposed to be relaxing my mind.
But how am I supposed to relax when I’m about to recount what happened the day my mom died? That’s a memory I’ve stuffed down so far, I don’t even know where to begin.
But I promised Reggie I’d make him proud. I held his hand on his death bed and promised him I’d keep fighting. If this is what I need to do, consider it done.
And so I begin. “On my thirteenth birthday, we were about to have cake. Mom, Dad, and me. My birthday was never a big deal growing up. Mom tried to make it special. Balloons, cake, a present to open after dinner. But Dad always found a way to ruin it.
“That particular day, Dad started complaining because he hated ice cream cake. Mom told him it was my favorite. Vanilla and chocolate with the crunchies in the middle.” I smile but it fades just as quickly. “Dad slapped her for talking back to him. He said it didn’t matter what my favorite kind of cake was, because he was the one who paid for it. He always threw it in her face, the fact that she didn’t work, though he’d never let her get a job.
“It made me so mad to see him hurt her, especially over something as irrelevant as cake. Sometimes, she knew when to keep quiet. He’d hit her once, and it would end there. But that night, she wanted to defend me. She told him he didn’t have to eat the cake if he didn’t like it. That’s when the night took a turn.
“It’s all a blur now. His glass of scotch smashing against the wall. Mom screaming at me to go to my room. I tried to stop him. I jumped on his back but that seemed to make him even angrier. Then he took her by the throat. I pulled on his arm, but he shoved me so hard I lost my balance and hit my head on the side table.”
My body tenses, hands ball into fists.
“It’s okay, TJ. I’m here. You’re safe. Tell me what happens next.”
