Easton uses the remote to turn the TV off. The room is bathed in darkness except for the lone foyer light.
I called it ambiance for the romantic comedy we just watched.
Easton called it perfect let’s-have-sex mood lighting.
“We should go to bed,” I murmur but make no attempt to move from where I’m snuggled perfectly in his arms. He doesn’t respond and yet I know he’s not asleep because his finger is tracing aimlessly up and down my bicep.
“Hey. You okay?” I ask, curious about where his thoughts have been.
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“Mm-hmm.”
We fall back in silence as my mind races a million miles an hour to try and figure out what’s made him so preoccupied. I can list several things—his dad, his mom, Santiago, if he’s retiring or not—but remain quiet, lulled slowly to sleep by his even breathing and warm arms.
“I don’t know how to fix this.”
“Fix what?”
“My fucked-up family.”
“Oh.” He’s avoided talking about it for over a week and just when I’ve given up trying to make him so he doesn’t keep it all bottled up inside, he says this.
“The movie was all about family and how it makes you crazy but you kind of have to go with the flow or in the end you’ll end up all alone.” He pauses as he links his fingers through mine. “And it got me thinking about things. About you and how well you are taking everything with your dad in stride. I know it’s tough and I know at some point you’re going to break while I stand by and hold all your pieces, but you appreciate every single second of the time you have with him. You have one parent who will be gone soon and I’m sitting here with two parents I haven’t even talked to because I don’t know how to move forward.”
“It’s two totally different circumstances, Easton,” I say to try and redirect the discord in his voice. “You can’t compare them.”
“I know but at the same time, I feel selfish . . . but I don’t know where to go from here.”
“You’ve had an awful lot thrown at you in the past couple weeks. Unfortunately, there’s no guidebook on how to handle it or what steps to take.”
“I know.” He sighs and presses a kiss to the top of my head.
“Your mom,” I prompt in the hopes that I can somehow help him. Although I’m the furthest thing there is from a therapist, I tackle the easiest one first. There’s no hope for any type of relationship with Santiago—as there shouldn’t be—and his dad’s a tough one I’m not sure he’s ready to deal with yet . . . so, his mom, it is.
“What about her?”
“What’s changed for you with her?”
“Nothing really, I guess. She’s still her. She’s still in love with her bottle, and she’s more convinced than ever that my dad is going to come back for her.”
“So you don’t love her any less than you did before, right?”
He falls silent as he mulls over my question. “No . . . but I’m angry with her. According to my dad, her drinking is what drove him away. It was the catalyst for him to look outside their marriage and ultimately break it apart. She’s an alcoholic—that will never change. I have a lot of resentment for both of them right now, and I’m not sure how to deal with it.”
“If she called you right now and needed your help, would you go?”
I feel his body tense and know he’s trying to figure out where I’m going with this. He’s hesitant to answer but he finally does. “Yes. Of course.”
“Then nothing has really changed there. She is your mom, Easton. It’s her you love and her addiction you hate. Give it some time. You just found out a lot of things, but that doesn’t change anything between you.”
“Blood is thicker than alcohol,” he murmurs with a sigh followed by a disbelieving laugh.
“There’s that,” I say, thankful he still has his sense of humor.
“My mom is the easy one. Things get a little more complicated from there.”
It’s my turn to chuckle, knowing he’s talking about his dad. “That’s a whole mess of complicated.”
“You’ve got that right.” He sighs deeply. “How do I forgive him?”
“No one said you had to.”
“But isn’t that the only way to move forward?”
“I wasn’t aware you wanted to,” I say, leading him.
“I don’t know what I want. Can I partially forgive him? Can I empathize with the lonely husband who had an alcoholic wife? In recent years, I’ve been the one who has taken care of her like he once had to. I know firsthand it’s a lonely place to be.”
“That’s a huge first step,” I murmur. “It’s very mature of you to think that way.”
“Well, hold that thought because the immature side of me is going to come out now. I don’t know how I can move past him being so blinded by his need to keep his reputation intact, that he brought his problem to my doorstep.”
“True but—”
“Better yet, let’s not talk about this,” he says as his hands run up the sides of my ribcage, thumbs strategically placed to graze over my nipples.
“Mm. Talking is overrated at times,” I murmur, appreciating his knack for changing the subject. It’s his way of telling me he’s not ready to figure out what to do about his dad yet. And that’s perfectly fine.
“It sure is,” he says right before his lips meet the curve of my neck.
“Then I suggest you put those lips of yours to good use, Mr. Wylder.”
“I’ve got a whole lot more I can put to use than my lips.” He nips my earlobe. “But they sure are a good start.”