I shake my head. No way. I need to make sure that he leaves. What if rehab call?
“It’s okay. I think I’ll have a bath first. Go home and get some rest.”
“I don’t want to leave you when you’re ill. I don’t want to leave you, ever. I just got back.”
“If you hear me throw up again, I’m probably going to have to break up with you. It’s gross, and I don’t like it. Let me rest. As soon as I’m feeling better, I’m going to be all over you again.”
“Are you sure?” he asks, bending his head to look into my eyes.
I stare at him and want to pinch myself. I love the way he makes my heart race.
I’m not sure what he’s looking for, but he finds it and smiles. Behind that is disappointment. “All right. I’ll be back in the morning. First thing.”
“I can’t wait, Hollywood.” I walk him down to the front door.
“Indie,” he says, turning just outside.
I grip the edge of the door. “Yeah?”
“I love you so much. I need you to know that. I’d do anything for you, no questions asked.”
Oh, my heart.
“Spence.” His name comes out as a needy plea. “I love you, too.”
“Call me if you need anything.”
He’s stalling, and my stomach turns over. Please give me until morning.
“Tomorrow,” I say.
He nods. “All right. Lock the door.”
When I close it, I suck a deep breath in between my teeth. I watch and wave through the small pane of glass as he drives away.
Turning around, I lean back against the door and grip my chest. My butt hits the floor, and I curl into my knees as a tidal wave of grief, nausea, and guilt swallows me whole.
“Argh!” The cry is guttural—almost animalistic. I lay down and want to rip my hair straight out. I fall apart, sobbing until my throat is raw. I claw at the wooden floor beneath me, my tears soaking my face.
Fucking spaghetti carbonara.
Fucking alcoholic parents.
Fucking shitty life.
When I eventually lift my pounding head, I groan. I need to get it together. I wipe my tears on the back of my hand and push myself up.
I haven’t fallen apart like that before. Anya would be proud.
As I head upstairs, I send a quick reply to Spencer’s message, telling him that I’m okay, and for him to go to bed.
He won’t accept that for long. I have to work harder at being normal. Spence only just got back, and I don’t want to miss any time.
I’ve never had to pretend through the death of a parent, though. I thought I was good at hiding what I don’t want to be seen. It seems that, lately, I’ve been slipping.
So that I’m not a complete liar, I run a hot bubble bath and sink beneath the water. Laying back, I close my eyes.
This is such a mess.
Whatever happens, I’ll always have myself. I can get through anything.
I get out of the bath a new woman… or at least a fraction stronger than I was an hour ago. I have to find time to grieve Dad, take care of Mum, and maintain my relationships as normal.
Piece of cake.
After drying my hair and getting into my fluffiest pyjamas, I get into bed and tuck the quilt all around me. Spencer has left me alone since I told him I was going to have a bath and go to sleep, and it will last until first thing in the morning.
Will he expect to come over whenever he wants now?
There is absolutely no way he can be here when Mum comes home.
Besides my counsellor, I haven’t told a single soul that my parents are alcoholics and have mostly ignored me since I was six. I can’t ever tell Spencer that my dad’s I’m trying to be sober signature dish is spaghetti carbonara. He will feel awful, despite have absolutely no clue whatsoever.
I drift off to the slightly uneasy sound of silence.
In the morning, I wake with a throbbing head and a sore throat.
I pop a couple of painkillers and make a tea. I’m allowed to call Mum again today. It will be the third time. The first two were hard because she sounded broken. Now that Dad’s very small and simple funeral has been planned, there’s very little for us to talk about.
Neither of us want to delve into the harder conversations just yet.
As if he knows that I’ve just sat down to drink a tea, Spencer sends me a text.
Spencer: How are you?
Indie: Feel much better this morning. What time are you coming to pick me up?
Spencer: Leaving now.
Okay, that makes me smile. I take another sip of tea before I race upstairs to get dressed and put on a little bit of make-up. He’ll be horrified if he sees me looking red and puffy.
He’s so eager, and that’s not at all one-sided. After my cry and early night, I feel totally ready for him again. I’m not going to break down because he’s only here for a limited time.
These weeks are for us, and I’m determined to be happy with him.
Running down the stairs, I laugh when I hear his engine rumbling into the drive. I beat him, but only by seconds. He rings the doorbell just as I make it to the bottom step.
Time to be normal.
Stopping at the door, I brush my fingertips over the picture hanging on the wall. It’s me, Mum, and Dad visiting Santa when I was about four. I wore a pink princess dress with a tacky Christmas jumper over the top. We’re smiling, happy, and excited for Christmas.
It wasn’t all bad.
I open the door.
Spencer holds his palms up. “You contagious?”
I smile like a moron. “I think I’m okay. Are your parents home?”
“Yeah, you want to go now?”
“I’m hungry.”
His eyes narrow by the tiniest fraction. “You don’t have food in?”
“I think I have Pop Tarts. Shopping hasn’t been high on my list of priorities.”
