All in all, The Bait Shop had been good for him. Seth had snapped out of his funk almost as soon as they were out of the house, spending his evening mocking Summer's excitement over her love for the band, who looked and sounded like something straight out of 1985. The girls had been in rare form, giggling and screaming for the lead singer, and trading barbs with their boyfriends in old-school fashion. Ryan found himself having more fun than he could remember in a long time, and managing not to feel guilty about it. That was the miracle of the evening.
But all good things come to an end, and by the time they got home, all was as it had been. Seth headed straight from the front door to his bedroom without so much as a glance around for his mom, leaving Ryan to find her. She was stretched out on the living room couch, a pool of vodka on the floor beside her, littered with glass shards from the bottle she had dropped. Sometimes he wondered if he mopped up more than she drank.
Lifting her semi-conscious form into his arms, he started for the stairs to her room. She stirred and shifted, resting her head against his shoulder. "I didn't mean to," she whined quietly.
Ryan nodded. "I know," he whispered, kicking the door open and then shut behind him. He laid her on the far said of the bed and then carefully turned down the sheets on the near side. Picking her up again, he rested her head gently against the pillow and then pulled the blankets up around her. With a kiss to the forehead, he started to stand.
But she held on to his shirt and opened her eyes slightly. "Don't leave me," she pleaded.
Tomorrow she would forget that she had ever made the request, but he wouldn't. He never did. He would sit on the edge of the bed, his arm around her, promising her that the demons wouldn't take her soul in her sleep. But inside, he knew that they already had. These were the moments when he knew that Sandy was right, that she needed help he couldn't give her. And while he knew he couldn't be everything, he could be something, and that had to be enough. She had given him so much - a home, a family, a purpose - and this was all he had in return.
He had hit people before, hard enough to crack the skin on his own knuckles and wrench his shoulder out of socket. But his arms never hurt so bad as they did after nights of rocking her to sleep. And he had been hit before, hard enough to knock his wind out and make breathing hard for days. But his chest never ached so bad as it did after nights of crying himself to sleep over her. He had been broken before, bad enough to seemingly stop the earth on its axis and put an end to his trust in people all together. But he had never been shattered so badly as he was watching her stumble through life, a shell of the woman he had once admired for her strength and courage. Sometimes he hurt so badly that he wasn't sure he could ever be put back together again.
When her breathing had steadied and she had loosened her grip on his hand, he stood and moved toward the windows, making sure the drapes were firmly shut. He then moved to her bathroom, took four pills out of the aspirin bottle, filled a tumbler with water, and laid the medication on her bedside table. Glancing at the clock, he sighed and headed downstairs. After cleaning up the mess in the living room, it was only three forty-five.
It had been a good night, after all.