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Then, how can it be said I am alone
When all the world is here to look on me?”Act II, Scene I
When I wake up, I’m unexpectedly trapped. Ian’s arm is heavy on my side, his chest warm against my back. My first instinct is to get away—to sneak off while he’s asleep and nurse my vulnerability hangover with a big cup of coffee alone in the kitchen. But Ian’s hand is splayed out over my stomach, and when I weave my hand in his, curling my fingers around his, and he shifts, snuggling against me, that instinct feels a little less strong.
Sleep clings to me, begging me to go back under. I fight the urge to doze for another hour. I have to check on my mom. I’m surprised I slept at all, much less as soundly as I did. I’ve had countless sleepless nights in this house, worrying about my mom after episodes less violent than this, and the nights I did fall asleep, it wasn’t without tears. And tears or no tears, sleep or nosleep, I’m always alone. Even with my grandma here, I fall asleep alone, and I wake up alone.
For the first time ever, I’m not alone. I wasn’t alone last night either. And this time, when the events of last night play on a loop in my head, I don’t just replay the moment I found my mom. I replay the moment Ian appeared in the doorway to the bathroom. The way he went to work cleaning up. The way he didn’t ask a single question. The way he didn’t pass a single judgment. The way he listened as I spilled my guts and held me through it all.
My heart pools in my chest like ice melting in the sun. I recognize this feeling. It’s a crush. It’s more than a crush. It’s that thing between liking and loving, and it’s usually the warning sign I’m in too deep.
I twist my head just enough to get a glimpse of him. He’s sound asleep, fully relaxed, as peaceful as I’ve ever seen him. I shift carefully so I can face him. He barely stirs, even when I stroke a finger across his forehead, which is free of wrinkle lines. I drag a finger down his cheek, and he doesn’t stir even then.
This is not how this was supposed to go.
We were supposed to be scene partners and maybe friends, two people thrown together in circumstances outside of their control, just making the best of it. I wasn’t supposed to feel anything for him but the bare minimum. We would part ways at the end of the semester, and I’d barely think twice about Ian Davidson ever again. He was not supposed to worm his way so deep into my life that he’d be here at one of my lowest points, holding me together, taking care of me.
A noise in the kitchen sends a jolt of panic through me. I bolt from the bed and down the hall to my mom’s bedroom, but she isn’t there. I knew she wasn’t there, but I needed to see it for myself. I fly back down the hall and down the steps, panic choking me.
Heart racing, I don’t stop until I’m in the kitchen staring at my mother stirring a whisk around in a bowl. She looks up at me, and I know immediately she’s a little drunk. Her eyes aren’t clear, and they lack the brightness of sobriety. Is she still drunk from last night? Or . . .
Panic clenches my insides when I realize I didn’t dump the alcohol last night and she might have woken up this morning and started drinking again.
“Good morning, Jade-bear,” my mother chirps, her voice raspy like she hasn’t spoken today. She’s standing at the kitchen counter mixing a batter. “I woke up this morning with just the most specific craving for cinnamon chip pancakes, and don’t you know? We actually have cinnamon chips in the pantry. That never happens, you know. You have a craving for something and it’s never there when you need it to be.”
Her movements are a little sluggish even if her words have some energy. If I had to bet money, I’d say she’s still drunk from last night, not fresh drunk. If she’s had a few drinks this morning to stave off the comedown, I can barely tell. Relief floods me, and I lean against the counter and make a noise to acknowledge her cinnamon chip rant.
But now that I’m not trying to figure out how drunk my mom is, I can really take in the state of the kitchen. Cereal boxes, probably in varying degrees of emptiness, decorate every surface. Between the fast-food wrappers, half-eaten microwave meals, empty and half-empty liquor bottles, beer cans, receipts, and chip wrappers, it looks like a tornado came through here. I didn’t register any of this last night in my search for my mom.
I start to tidy, gathering as much trash as I can carry in my hands. I work around my mom, who is completely oblivious to the mess as she scoops pancake batter into a hot pan. Even at her most sober, she’s not the tidiest person and usually has a cleaner in here once a month. She’s obviously been low since she calledme worried Rob was going to break up with her. This isn’t just a couple hours of mess.
“I didn’t recognize the car in the driveway. Is your car okay?” she asks.
“It’s in the shop,” I say, grabbing the all-purpose cleaner and a paper towel to address something sticky under a box. “The car is Ian’s.”
“Hi,” Ian says, and my mom and I both turn to where he’s standing in the doorway of the kitchen, eyes bleary, still wearing my sweats from last night. His hair is mussed, and at the sight of him I have to fight an involuntary smile. God, he’s so cute.
“Oh, hello, Ian!” My mother rushes around the kitchen counter to greet him. She’s short, standing at just over five feet tall, but it doesn’t stop her from grabbing Ian by the neck and pulling him down for a hug. He bends his six-foot frame to meet her but makes eye contact with me over her shoulder. I mouth “sorry” at him. His eyes crinkle with a smile. He gives me a thumbs-up and pats my mom on the back.
She releases him and beams the brightest smile she can muster, like she has no idea he witnessed her passed out in a bathtub last night, soaked to the bone and out-of-her-mind drunk. And truthfully, she probably doesn’t have any idea. As far as she knows, she woke up dry and warm this morning in her bed.
“Ian, I haven’t heard a thing about you. Tell me about yourself,” my mom says, rushing back to her pancakes. She flips the ones on the griddle just a little too late, and they’re a shade of brown too dark.
“I’m a tech theater major at school with Jade,” he says, leaning against the doorframe, stuffing his hands into the pockets of my borrowed sweatpants. “Not sure if she told you we’re in the one-acts together.”
“She did not. That is so fun! You’ll have to tell me when the performance is so I can come see it,” my mom says.
She’s come to most of the shows I’ve been in, but never the one-acts. Never seemed worth the drive for her to watch me act onstage for such a short time. I won’t be inviting her to these either.
Ian glances at me, and I give him a subtle shake of my head.
“Well, it’s really nice to meet you, Mrs. McKinney?—”
“Ruby,” my mom corrects him with a big smile.
“Ruby,” he acknowledges. “But I think I’m gonna grab my clothes from the dryer, and I’ll come back down for some pancakes,” he says with a tight smile.
My mom waves at him as he walks away.
