“Said every alcoholic since the dawn of time.”
“Yeah, but I’m not an alcoholic.”
I shake my head, even madder now than I was when I started being so rudely honest. “Keep telling yourself that. Maybe one day when you drive around drunk off your ass you’ll just kill yourself and not some innocent person in another car or walking across the street.”
His face goes white and so do his fingers as the grip on his glass tightens. “I would never drink and drive.”
It’s then that I remember the story about how his wife died, and I feel instantly terrible, like the worst asshole in the history of all assholes ever.
My face falls. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I think you did.” He turns around and goes back to the kitchen, ditching the glass for the bottle. He drinks straight out of it, tipping his head back so far he looks like he’s about to do a backbend.
“Are you deliberately trying to piss me off?” I ask, hands on hips.
I swallows an entire mouthful of whiskey and answers with a hoarse voice. “Nope.” He walks over to the couch and drops down onto it, taking another sip from the bottle.
“You say you don’t drive after drinking, but you’re supposed to be leaving here as soon as the roads are open.”
He says nothing.
“Were you just saying that to shut me up?”
“Nope.”
“You’re not planning on staying here are you?”
“Nope.”
I’m so ready to wring his neck. “Are you going to say anything other than Nope to me?”
“Nope.”
I grit my teeth hard to keep from saying anything worse than I already have. Instead, I throw myself into my organizing and arranging.
Two hours later, I’m finally finished. Standing at the entrance to the alcove I smile, taking in the view of my easel in the corner with a fresh canvas ready to go, already gessoed and begging for a sketch and some paint. My little IKEA table is set up, put together by the most awesome woman in the house — me —, and my water and brush cans are all resting on top of it with the paints on the shelves below. Now all I need is some inspiration.
A snore over my shoulder interrupts my thoughts and my beautiful visions. I turn around to find Jeremy passed out on the couch with almost half the bottle of whiskey gone.
Angry at his bad choices and at the world for forcing him into the bottle he’s drowning in, I storm over, grab the whiskey from his limp hand, and go right out the front door. I stand there shivering in the cold air as the liquid pours out into the snow over the side of the railing.
After I go back inside, I search through his bag in the bedroom and find two more bottles of Jack Daniels and a six-pack of beer. All of that goes out into the snow too, along with the bottles of wine I have in the fridge. If I’m going to be stuck in this place with him for another day while we wait for the snow to be plowed, I’m not going to watch him get drunk and stupid or, God forbid, see him drive away under the influence. No. When those roads are clear, he’s outta here sober, no excuses.
Chapter Seventeen
JEREMY WAKES UP FROM HIS drunken stupor as the chicken-fried steak I have on the stove starts to sizzle. I hate to admit it, because of what it says about my feelings towards this man, but I chose this particular frozen cut of meat to thaw because I’ve gotten so many compliments on it over the years. I know it’s really just greasy-spoon-diner-type fare, but I have to take the cooking compliments where I can get them. I’m no Julia Child.
He gets off the couch and stumbles into the bathroom, bumping into furniture and walls as he goes. I’m torn between being angry and sad as I watch him go. Is this what he does every day? Gets fall-down drunk and ignores everyone and everything around him? And how long has his wife been gone? Hasn’t it been almost a year? That’s a lot of alcohol for one liver.
When he comes out of the bathroom and looks over at me, I force myself to look and sound cordial. “Did you have a nice nap?”
“I didn’t take a nap.”
“Oh. Well, you were snoring, sooo…”
“I passed out. That’s not the same thing as a nap.”
I nod. “You’re probably right about that.” At least he’s not in denial. That’s one step in the right direction, I guess.
“Where’s the Jack? I know I left it on the table.” He looks around the room and rubs his head, making his hair look even worse. “At least I think I did.”