“Fucking heaven,” he grunts.
“You’re so bad,” I whisper with a smile playing softly on my lips. Moving his hands back to my feet, he drags them closer to his cock and settles against the cushions, flitting his eyes to the screen.
“I’ll show you bad,” he teases, tipping his chin towards the television. “You fucking love Bradley Cooper.”
“Only when his hair is like this,” I say, fixing the hem of my nightie as I turn my focus towards the television. “And that’s because he reminds me of you,” I admit.
“His eyes are blue.”
“We’re talking about the hair, Blackie. Would you watch the movie? Your girl, Gaga, is the lead actress.”
“My girl is right next to me,” he volleys.
Peeling my eyes away from the T.V., I look at him. He keeps his head straight but tosses me a wink.
“I love you,” I blurt, watching the smile play on his lips.
“Then we’re even because I fucking love you more than anything,” he replies, giving my foot a squeeze. “Now, watch the movie, Lacey, before I shut it off and spread you out on this couch.”
It’s a tempting offer and I contemplate it for a second before I see the smile fall from Blackie’s face. His eyes narrow as he takes in the scene playing on the screen. Turning to see what’s got him so enthralled, I go completely still as it registers.
Bradley Cooper’s character sits in the back of a car, slurring his words and clutching a bottle of booze. The scene continues to play out on the screen, and I realize I just compared my husband, who is very much a struggling addict, to a man portraying a character battling the same demons. Quickly, I fumble with the remote and pause the movie. Silence fills the air and out of the corner of my eye, I watch Blackie drop his head into his hands. I move to sit up, swinging my legs off his lap and crawl towards him.
“Blackie,” I whisper. Reaching for him, I close my hand around his wrist and pull his hands away from his face. His hair hangs in front of his eyes as he keeps his head down.
“Baby, I’m sorry…I…”
The words die on my tongue as he lifts his eyes to mine. I’ve seen that look before. It’s the look of a tortured soul. Sometimes I see it when I look in the mirror, other times I see it in the eyes of the man I love, and it splinters my heart every damn time.
“Ain’t nothing to be sorry for,” he says, pushing his fingers through his hair. I watch his throat as he swallows and tips his chin towards the television. “Put it back on.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “When I said he reminds me of you, I didn’t mean—”
Touching his finger to my lips, he silences me.
“I know,” he assures me. Dropping his finger, he turns his head and draws in a deep breath. “Look, Lace, there’s something I have to tell you.”
I wait for him to continue but all he does is clench his jaw and remain silent.
“Hey,” I call softly, cupping the back of his neck. “Look at me, Blackie.”
He hesitates for a beat before he slowly turns his head and gives me his eyes.
“You can tell me anything,” I whisper.
He shakes his head and bites his lip.
“Anything,” I repeat.
“I fucked up,” he confesses, keeping the tone of his voice so low, I barely hear him. Kneading the back of his neck, I cock my head and wait for him to elaborate. “The other night, when I came home late, I wasn’t riding.”
“Okay,” I murmur.
“I was drinking.”
The second the words leave his lips, they hang heavily between us and for a split second the past resurfaces and the future dies.
His.
Mine.
All our dreams crumble under the weight of three words.
I wait for tears to sting my eyes, for the disappointment to flood me, but it doesn’t. I don’t get mad and I don’t wish for a different life or a better man. It’s not about me and I think that’s what people sometimes don’t realize.
I once heard someone at a meeting say, to love an addict is to run out of tears. At the time, I thought it was a callous thing to say, but loving Blackie has made me understand the concept. Crying won’t fix him, it won’t change the fact he relapsed. If anything, my tears will only bring him more shame. More pain.
Like nobody grows up wishing to be an outlaw, they don’t wish to be an addict. Bad things happen to good people. It doesn’t make them any less deserving of love. In fact, I’ve come to believe the broken people are the ones who deserve the most love. They’re the ones who tend to have the biggest hearts.
I know what you’re thinking, you think if I forgive him, I’m enabling him. You’re shaking your head and calling me naïve.
He’s only going to do it again.
Once an addict, always an addict.
Well, let me tell you something, we don’t get a choice in who we love. Our hearts lead the way and we simply hang on tight for the ride. A long time ago, my heart led me to this man and in sickness and in health, I’ll hold on tight. I’ll brace for every bump in the road and lean into every curve because that’s what you do when you love someone more than the air you breathe.
You ride until one of you die.
“Jesus Christ, Lacey, say something,” he pleads hoarsely.
Taking a deep breath, I bend my head and touch my forehead to his. Our eyes lock and my fingers toy with the ends of his hair but the words...they don’t come.
“I’m sorry,” he rasps. “I’m not going to tell you it won’t happen again. We both know there are no guarantees and I don’t want to lie to you.” He pauses to take a breath, and I recognize the struggle in his eyes. I feel it every morning after I’ve suffered a bout of depression.
“Not that it changes anything,” he continues. “But I went to a meeting the next morning and before you ask, it was just alcohol. I didn’t touch a drug and I haven’t even thought about drinking since it happened.”
“Okay, baby,” I murmur, pushing down the lump in my throat. Reaching around his neck, he grabs my hands and brings them to his lips, brushing kisses across my knuckles.
“I don’t want you to think this has anything to do with us,” he says. “You and what we have, it’s the only thing in my life I don’t want to escape.”
That’s the other part of loving an addict. As strong and compassionate as you try to be, there’s a small part of you that wonders if you could be more. If you can do more. If you’re the reason, they can’t get right with themselves.
It doesn’t matter how educated you are.
You’ll wonder if you’re helping or hurting.
If your way is wrong.
If tough love is the only way.
Loving an addict means living a life filled with what ifs.
“Look at me, Lace,” he pleads softly.
“I am,” I murmur. “And you know what I see when I look at you?”
“A fucking mess.”
“I see a man who has regrets, who wishes to be better. To be right and just. A man who will spend his whole life trying to get there because he so desperately wants to be worthy of love. I love you, Blackie, and I wish you would realize you don’t have to be perfect, you just have to be well. You just have to love yourself a little bit more than you love everyone else. It’s not selfish or wrong. Recognize your strengths and stop focusing on your weaknesses. Look at your life and see all your successes, not your failures.”