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1
JUNE
I know something is wrong as soon as I open the door.
“Adrian?”
The house is dark, which usually means he’s not home yet. I’ve lost count of how many times he’s stumbled into bed in the middle of the night, seeking me out like a security blanket.
But I can smell him in here tonight. And the fact that I can smell that sickeningly familiar tang has my good mood crumbling to dust.
He promised me this time would be different.
Then again, he promised me the same thing last time, too. We all know how that turned out.
“Adrian?”
It doesn’t take long. I find him passed out, face first on the sofa. His drool pools at the edge of his mouth, staining the couch an ugly burgundy like old blood. I bought this couch with my first paycheck as a professional dancer. Back when both knees worked right, not just one of them.
There are no bottles to be seen, but I suppose the stench coming off him is proof enough that he’s fallen off the wagon. Again.
How long was this stint of sobriety? Three weeks plus a day, if I’m doing my math right. Shorter even than the last time. At least he was able to collect a one-month chip during the last go-around. I still have that stupid chip. And the one before that, and the one before that.
I don’t know why I keep them. At first, it was a gesture of my belief in him.Look at me, the supportive girlfriend. I’m not gonna cut and run when my boyfriend needs me the most. No-siree, I’m a keeper.
But at some point over the last two years, it became less about being supportive and more about keeping tabs on his failures. His failure to follow through, his failure to keep his promises, his failure to be the man I had fallen in love with from the moment I heard him strike the first chord on his piano.
Just like that, my disappointment twists and bends and transforms into anger.
I put both my hands on him and rattle him awake. He almost chokes on his own drool. His eyes are bloodshot and dazed when he blinks them open.
“J-June?”
“You’re drunk.”
“W-what?”
I shove him again, if only because it feels good to do something. “Get up. You’re leaving a stain on the sofa.”
He doesn’t seem to be registering my words. He does manage to sit up, though, just barely. “Is it… is it morning?”
“Are you so piss-drunk that you can’t tell the difference between pitch black and sunlight?”
“Stop fucking shouting.”
“I’m not shouting. It just feels that way because you’re wasted.”
“Jesus,” he growls, lumbering to his feet. “Always so damn dramatic.”
That’s the other thing with Adrian: I never know what I’m going to get with him. It’s either the mean drunk or the apologetic one. He’s been sorry the last two times he fell off the wagon, so I suppose I’m overdue for the former.
“We’ve been down this road so many times, Adrian,” I say, hearing the bitterness in my words and hating it. “Too many times.”
His eyes are yellow and slitted. “It was just a couple of beers.”
“For an alcoholic, that’s a couple of beers too many.”
He presses his fists to his face. “June, I just need some quiet—”
