Inversion [Camp NaNoWriMo July 2021]

day 7

d a y   7

Cian has a short shift on Sundays, early in the morning. And because I slept late last night, he's already back by the time I enter the living room on my way to the kitchen.

I know something's wrong the second I see him. He's sprawled on the couch, staring at the blank TV, eyes glazed over. But what makes me stop is the sight of the beer bottle clutched in his hand and the numerous others scattered across the coffee table, some empty and others still yet to be opened.

Because obviously alcohol is going to miraculously erase all his feelings of neglect and abandonment.

I fume silently, hands curled into fists at my sides. Memories flash through my head before I can stop them, a slideshow of pictures and sounds, pulsing lights, pounding music, sweaty bodies crowded together, laughing, drinking, stumbling, yelling, rain, blinding lights, blood, blackness.

How dare he.

Before I pause to think about what I'm doing, I storm over to the couch and wrench the bottle out of Cian's hand. He doesn't seem to notice, but the loud slam of the glass bottle on the coffee table has him jolting up, blinking blearily at me. His jaw is covered in dark stubble, his curls messy and some strands falling in front of his eyes. He's still wearing the same outfit from yesterday.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" My voice is sharp, purposefully loud, and Cian winces, leaning away from me.

"Not so loud," he mutters, the words slurred. I glare down at him and then look towards the bottles on the table. Most of them are empty, and my anger spikes.

"You think drinking your problems away is going to help?" I ask fiercely. I reach out to shove him, but he flinches before my hand can make contact, arm raised in a defensive position, head lowered. I'm too furious to do more than take an idle note of his reaction.

"You think alcohol is ever the solution?" My voice rises with each word. "Do you think if you get completely wasted that you're going to forget about the fact that your family doesn't want you?"

Cian stumbles up from the couch, his expression turning angry. Good. "My mother loved me!" he yelled right back. The sheer anguish in his tone, the way his voice cracks on that word—the past tense—makes me falter, and I pause in my tirade to stare at him. "She loved me! But then she died, and my dad married that gold-digging scumbag fucker."

My anger ebbs away, washed away by a tidal wave of sympathy and guilt. This is the most open Cian's ever been, and I don't know if I should stop him, because I doubt he would tell me this when he's sober.

"And Dad couldn't even look at me anymore." Tears shine in his eyes but don't fall. "All he cared about was that twenty-five-year-old whore who only married him for his money. And she—"

I cut him off, not wanting to hear more, not when he's like this and likely not ready to be opening up to anyone, least of all me. I reach out to wrap my arms around him, and he's too far gone to be scared, so he lets me. He clutches at me, arms wrapped tightly around my waist, head buried in my neck. The tears finally fall, staining my skin. It should be strange, that this man who's spent the past week trying to repair me, who always seems so strong, is crying on my shoulder. It should be awkward, considering we barely know each other.

But it's not.

* * *

After Cian's tears subsided, I helped him to his room, where he collapsed on the bed and was asleep before his head hit the pillow. I cleaned up the living room, placing the unopened beer in the fridge, even though I really just wanted to throw them out. By then, it was almost noon, so I heated up some leftovers from last night and sat at the counter by myself. I had taken to grabbing lunch at Melissa's, partly because I can't cook to save my life and partly because I know it reassures Cian to see me acting normal, but I didn't want to leave the apartment while Cian was in such a volatile state.