❝𝐈'𝐦 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞, 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭?❞
[𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐎𝐅 "𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐁𝐎𝐘"] Having been married to John for five years now, Alissa spends most of her time caring for their...
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⊹ 𝟹-𝟷𝟽-𝟷𝟿𝟼𝟽 ⊹
The beer was cheap, but it got me drunk all the same.
My head was unraveling from the conversation I'd had with John earlier, and as soon as I began to feel all bloody panicky, I'd reached for perhaps the only thing that could calm my nerves before they began to buzz too uncontrollably—alcohol.
I hadn't taken one of the pills my doctor gave me in months, and to be quite honest, I didn't want to. That being said, my mental state wasn't any better than it had been—well—ever, so the feelings that made those pills necessary remained. At some point, after I'd started drinking while Julian snoozed on the couch next to me, I had also drifted off to sleep, and when I woke up, my brain was a bit foggy as I tried like hell to make sense of the world around me.
I was laying on the floor beside the couch. Julian was awake now, also trying to garner a sense for the world around him, and suddenly his little eyes went wide and I knew exactly what was about to happen, so I reached briskly for the plastic trash can that was within arms reach and hoisted it in front of Julian. Call it maternal instinct, I guess. It was like I had damn superpowers, or like I could predict the bloody future.
I realized quickly what had woke us both up—a knocking on the door. Julian appeared to be absolutely miserable as he vomited into the bin in front of him, and I felt awful leaving him behind, but I told him that I'd be right back as I pushed myself to my feet, rubbing my eyes as my head ached dully. I wrenched the front door to my apartment open, just about ready to shout at whoever was on the doormat in front of the wooden door, but I was too stunned to do anything of the sort when I saw who it was.
John.
"What in the hell are you doing here?" I asked groggily because it was the first sentence that came to mind and I was still just a little bit out of it, so my words came without much thought. Why was John on my doorstep? Wasn't he supposed to be in fucking India meditating or something?
His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Have you been drinking?" he asked me.
"Wha'? Of course not. Not good to drink when your son is ill."
"Daddy?" Julian's voice was quiet and hoarse from throwing up all day, and John and I both averted our attention to our son in unison as he spoke up.
"Christ, Jules," John said, brushing past me without waiting for permission to come in, and going to comfort his son. Once again, I rubbed my hands against my eyes, wondering if this was all real or if my drunk bloody brain was making it all up.
