I had grown worried for Luke over the past few months. More and more lately, he found himself buried into bottles of beers and shots of tequila by the night's end, and it seemed to be the only way he knew how to deal with his stress at the end of the day. There had been multiple nights I came home to find he had one too many drinks, andI had neglected to raise the issue with him, as I feared how he might react to it.
One particular night, I had gotten home around 10 after a late night at work, only to find Luke lying on the ground, seemingly passed out from drinking too much. I dropped my purse down by the end of the couch and got on my hands and knees by his side. He was breathing, and didn't appear to show any signs of alcohol poisoning.
Muttering curse words to myself, I tipped him over onto his side, in case he threw up. I sat on the ground next to him, brushing curly blond locks of hair from his eyes. A few moments had passed, sitting in silence on the ground, before his eyes gently fluttered open.
"Hey," I whispered. "You okay?"
He let out a disgruntled breath, followed by a sharp cough, before he began trying to sit up.
I placed my hand on his arm, guiding him upwards. He sat across from me, legs crossed.
"How long have you been here?" he asked. His voice was strained and tired, evidence of the misery he felt inside.
"Not long," I whispered. I got onto my knees and scooted closer to him, sitting as close as I could on the floor. I grabbed his hands resting in his lap.
"Luke... We need to have a serious conversation in the morning. But, for right now, do you think you can stand up and I can get you into bed?"
His eyes focused in on my hands, rubbing the pads of his thumb over the back of my hands. He sniffled, and a single tear drop fell onto our joined hands. I felt him gently squeeze our hands together before he looked up at me. Piercing blue eyes, bloodshot red, and tears rimming the edges.
"Yeah, let's go upstairs," he whispered back.
I helped the intoxicated man stand up, and guided him up into the bedroom. I kicked the bedroom door shut behind us as we entered, and got him seated on the end of the bed. He managed to strip his shirt and jeans, getting down to just his underwear.
I pulled back the covers on the bed and helped him in, tucking the covers around him. I leaned down, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead. As I stepped away, he grabbed my wrist gently.
"Where are you going?" Alarm rang through his voice. He seemed to think I would leave him alone.
"I'm just gonna go change. I'll be right back."
I entered the en suite bathroom and stripped down. I pulled out the first shirt I could find from the overwhelming pile on Luke's side of the closet and stretched it over my body.
I slipped back into the bedroom and crawled into bed next to the still intoxicated boy.
His arms snaked around my waist, pulling me closer the second he felt my presence near him.
"I love you," he whispered. "I'm so sorry I've been such a fuck up."
"Hey, hey, Luke," I scolded him. "Do not say that. You are not a fuck up. You are not."
"I hate myself."
"Luke, listen to me loud and clear right now. You are not a fuck up, you have no reason to hate yourself. You have a few drinks now and then and yeah, some nights you over-do it. But you are not a fuck up. We just need to find better ways for you to cope and manage your stress."
He didn't respond, but even in the dark of our room I could see the gears turning in his mind.
"Luke, I love you so much, you know that. And we will talk more in the morning. You aren't broken, you aren't a fuck up. You just are struggling right now and some nights you find comfort in alcohol. It's stress, that's all." I cupped his face in my hands. "I love you. Get some sleep. In the morning we can talk about this, okay?"
He nodded, leaning in to place a gentle kiss on my lips.
Shortly after, we both drifted off in the comfort of each other's arms.
