Sustained(69)

“He hurts her—I know he does—and because of me, he’s going to keep on hurting her.” I look into her eyes, hoping that in them I’ll find an answer I can live with. “He’s a monster, Chelsea, and I defended him. What does that make me?”

Her heartbeat quickens, like a fluttering bird who’s only just realized it’s in a cage. She searches my face . . . searches for the words to say.

In that quietly confident voice she tries, “Jake . . . sometimes, in life, we have to make hard choices—”

I grip her arms, pulling her closer. “But that’s just it. If I was a good man, it wouldn’t be a hard choice. Sometimes . . . sometimes things are so right . . . they should be easy.”

Something inside me crumbles, under the weight of all the things I want. I want her—this fearless, stunning woman. And I want the kids. Those perfect, awful, amazing children—whom she loves with every inch of her soul. I want them to be mine. Mine to hold, mine to protect and teach. Their joy, their laughter, their love. I want to come home to it, bask in it, be the reason for it.

But even more than that, I want to deserve them.

To be worthy.

And all today did was point out the stark, cold fact . . . that I’m not.

“I shouldn’t even be here,” I tell her, my voice aching. “You deserve a man who knows what the right thing is, and who does it. I want . . . Christ, I want to be that for you.”

Wordlessly, Chelsea slides out of my grasp and moves higher up the bed, above me. So she can guide my head against her breast.

She’s soft and warm and smells so fucking good. She whispers to me, rubs my temple, the back of my neck, fingers sliding through my hair. And there is nowhere else in the entire world I would rather be.

“It’s okay, Jake. Go to sleep. Shhh . . . it’s okay.”





21


I think he’s dead.”

“He’s not dead—he’s still breathing.”

“Can you breathe if you’re dead?”

“No. Well, maybe. But you’d need a ventilator.”

Sniff, sniff.

“He smells like he’s dead.”

There’s pressure against my eyelid. And then it’s pried open—revealing Rosaleen’s blurry, peering face.

“Are you dead?” she yells.

Apparently she suspects I’m also deaf.

I reclaim my eye with a jerk of my head.

“Yes, I’m dead.” I roll onto my side, away from the voices. “Let me rest in peace.” Pounding doesn’t being to describe what’s going on in my head right now. It feels like sharp-clawed parasites have burrowed under my skull and are prying it open from the inside. My stomach churns, and although I haven’t puked from alcohol since I was twenty-two, today just might be the day it happens again.

“I could make you feel better, you know.”

That came from Raymond. I shift slowly to my back and crack open my eyes. The four of them—Raymond, Rory, Riley, and Rosaleen—gaze down at me, dressed in their school uniforms, with expressions of curious disgust. Mostly disgust.

“How?”

“Our mom was really into homeopathic cures and supplements. I could mix something for you.”

“Okay.”

And this is how desperate I am—listening to a fucking nine-year-old.

I use the walls for support as I make my way into the kitchen. Chelsea’s there—dressed in tight black leggings and a Berkeley T-shirt that makes her tits look fantastic. If only I felt well enough to show my appreciation properly.

She scoops nasty-looking green slop into Ronan’s mouth—and I almost vomit all over the floor. He seems to enjoy it. “Oh, you’re up,” she says cheerily. Then, less so, “You look awful.”

“That makes sense,” I mutter. “Awful is how I feel.”

I sit at the island while Raymond gets out the blender and starts dumping various juices, capsules, and gelcaps into it. Then he turns the blender on. And my head explodes. After two long minutes, the brown, grainy concoction gets plopped into a glass and set in front of me. They stare at me—even the baby—like I’m the wolf man at those freak-show olden-days carnivals.

“Is this really going to work?” I ask Raymond.

“Well . . .” He purses his lips. “It’ll either work or you’ll throw up. But either way, you’ll probably feel better.”

He does have a point.

I choke it down, trying not to breathe, in a few gulps. Then I burp nastily and my stomach groans. I put my head on the counter. “Somebody fucking kill me.”

“Okay, kids, time for school,” Chelsea tells them, passing out lunch bags and backpacks amid disgruntled moans. I hear them trudge down the hall and out the front door. I think I fall asleep for a few minutes, because the next time I open my eyes and lift my head, it’s just me and Chelsea in the kitchen.