When My Heart Joins the Thousand(77)

When we get home, Stanley wheels over to the kitchen pantry, retrieves a bottle of white wine from inside, and dusts it off. “Want some? I’ve been saving it for a special occasion. I think this qualifies.”

“We’re not old enough to drink,” I point out.

He grins. “I won’t tell if you don’t. Though I’ve got some of that fizzy grape juice, too.”

I consider. I’ve never had alcohol before, or experienced any particular desire to try it—I’m wary of anything that might lower my inhibitions—but it is a special day. I feel like trying something new. “Wine.”

He gets two long-stemmed glasses from the cabinet and fills them. Then, to my surprise, he removes a candle from the drawer and lights it. “Will you help me carry these into the living room?”

I set the glasses on the coffee table. He grabs the candle and the wine bottle; since his hands are occupied, I push his chair into the living room, and we sit facing each other, the candle flame dancing between us. I take a small, experimental sip. It’s more bitter than I expected, but not bad, and it feels warm going down.

In the soft glow, his skin looks smooth and touchable, like he just shaved, and his eyes are filled with candlelight. It’s been a while since he’s cut his hair. I decide I like it a little longer.

Sitting here with him, it’s easy to pretend that things have gone back to the way they used to be. I think about the first dinner we shared in this house, the pancakes he made for me. That night feels like years ago now.

I swallow another mouthful of wine. “In about two weeks, I’ll get my first paycheck. I can start saving up money. And then I’ll start looking for a new place.”

“About that.” He takes a deep breath. “I meant what I said. You don’t have to rush.”

“I don’t intend to take advantage of your generosity any longer than necessary.”

His eyebrows bunch together, and a tiny furrow forms between them. “Is that what you think you’re doing?”

I look away. “If you hadn’t taken me in, I’d be sleeping on the streets.”

The wine bottle is sitting on the coffee table, so I top off my glass. My thoughts swirl and drift, like a bunch of balloons released on a windy day, and when I grab on to one I lose track of another. I start to take another swig and I’m surprised to find that my glass is empty again, so I pour myself some more.

Stanley grips the glass, the skin around his nails white with pressure. He has barely touched his own wine. “Listen, Alvie . . . I know that for a while, back in the hospital, I acted like I didn’t want you around. But that’s because I didn’t know how to deal with what had happened. I was angry. I mean, you vanished with no explanation. You ignored my calls and my texts. And I kept asking myself—why? Did you hate me that much? Or did I just matter that little to you?”

“That’s not what it was like. You know it wasn’t.”

“I don’t know anything. How could I? You never bothered to tell me.”

I take another swig. The wine burns going down. I’m aware, dimly, that my guards are lowered and that I probably shouldn’t be talking about this right now. But I’m tired of holding everything in; I can’t muster the will to care. “I left because it was the only way to protect you.”

“From what?”

How can he even ask? Does he really not know? “From me. I hit you, Stanley.”

“You didn’t mean to. You lost control—”

“Don’t make excuses for me.” My throat has constricted to a pinhole, but I force the words out. “Yes, I lost control. And that makes it even worse. Because it means I might do it again. I can’t trust myself not to hurt you.”

“That’s ridiculous. It didn’t even hurt that much. Besides, shouldn’t I get to be the one who decides what I can and can’t handle? I’m not so weak that I need to be protected from my own choices.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and drain my glass. My head droops, and my attention fixes on the carpet. “Maybe you can accept it. But I can’t. You deserve better—”

“You’re just using that as an excuse. Because you’re scared of this.”

I grit my teeth. I am scared. But so what? That doesn’t change what I did. “What if you were the one who’d ‘lost control’ and punched me in the face. Would you think that was okay.”

There’s a brief silence. “That’s different.”

“No. It isn’t.”

His face is flushed—from the wine or something else, I don’t know. “You could have called me back, at least. We could have talked about it. You didn’t have to disappear.”

I know he’s right. I should have. But if I had allowed myself even that much, I wouldn’t be strong enough to leave him. “It doesn’t matter. It’s over now.”

“It doesn’t have to be. I don’t want to give up on this, Alvie.”

My eyes refuse to focus; my brain refuses to process his words. I should probably stop drinking. When I try to stand, my legs give out, and I sink back to the couch. “I’m drunk,” I murmur.

“I love you,” he says.

I flinch. I can’t help it.

“Why is it like this?” Stanley whispers. “Why are you so afraid of being loved?”