Pippa is lying on the floor on her back, laughing hysterically. I come to a halt, one fist raised, struggling to understand what I’m actually seeing. Pippa on the floor? Pippa on the floor, laughing? She sees me, her eyes sluggish as she tries to focus on me, and lets out a shriek. “Zeth! Zeth’s back!”
I hear a strangled sound somewhere farther into the apartment—the bathroom, maybe? Sloane’s head peeks out in the hallway. “There you are!” She comes running and throws herself at me. Her arms wrap around my neck, her legs around my hips. She kisses me, and she tastes like beer. It takes me a moment to kiss her back. Not because I don’t want to be kissing her, but because I’m savoring the moment. Her lips on mine, her body pressed up against me. I was glad when she gave me some space yesterday—I needed it desperately—but right now having Sloane this close feels imperative.
I fix my arms around her back, fiercely holding onto her the same way she’s holding onto me. She stops kissing me then, and rests her forehead against mine.
“You’re drunk,” I tell her, in case she hasn’t realized.
“I know. You were gone.”
“I know. I’m sorry. It was worth it, though, I promise.”
“Michael’s sick. He drank himself sick,” Sloane whispers. She looks adorable like this, wide-eyed and more than a little drunk.
“Looks like you all did, huh?” She nods, and I have an overwhelming urge to carry her out of this apartment and away. I have no idea where, just away. Somewhere I can keep her to myself. Instead, I carry her to the bedroom and place her in the bed, fully dressed. “Take a nap. I’ll be back soon,” I tell her. She doesn’t need much convincing; her eyes are already dropping closed by the time I’ve covered her over with the blankets.
There’s broken glass all over the tiles in the bathroom—that was the smashing sound I heard out in the hallway. Michael’s slumped over the toilet, head resting on his forearm, completely out cold. “Fuck’s sake.” I just look at him for a moment, and I consider leaving his ass there. But I know why he’s like this right now. He was as close to Lace as I was. I can’t blame him. If I let a single drop of alcohol past my lips, I would be way, way worse than he is. I’d be catatonic. I’d be broken. I’d be dead. I couldn’t let that happen this time.
I grab hold of his wrist and lift him, hauling him up so I can lift him under his shoulder. It’s a short, awkward shuffle to the shower, guiding him so we avoid the pool of beer and shards of glass all over the tiles. My boy can’t stand up in the shower, so I stand in there with him, holding him up, and I crank the cold tap.
The frigid water sprays down on the both of us, and Michael nearly jumps out of his skin. Suddenly wide awake with the shock of the cold, he grabs hold of my shirt with both fists and yells.
“Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck. What the hell, man?” I just hold him up, making sure he stays under the flow of the icy water. Anger flares in his eyes; he tries to push me away, but I hold onto him tight. “What the hell, Zeth?” he shouts.
“Just deal with it.”
“Get the fuck off me,” he roars.
“No.”
He hits me. It’s a good job he’s blind fucking drunk, or I’d feel compelled to return the favor. His blow is barely felt, anyway. I’m too numb from the cold, and to be honest, I kind of need it. I feel dangerously numb in general. He raises his fist and lashes out again, though this time there’s no intention to hurt. It’s a matter of seconds before he’s collapsing into my arms and he’s crying.
He cries silently, his body shaking with the power of it, and I let him. I love him for this. I love him because he loved Lacey. I stare at the grout in between the tiles, trying not to join him. I cried for Lace yesterday, though. I cried for the first time since my uncle decided it would be okay to raise his fist to me twenty-eight years ago.
“I’m sorry, man. I’m sorry.” Michael says this over and over again, as though he somehow thinks what happened to Lace was his fault. I don’t say anything, because I know he won’t remember. When he calms down and begins to take some of his weight on his own legs, I turn off the water and guide him out of the shower, careful around the glass again, and then into one of the unoccupied bedrooms. I give him a towel and his privacy, and go to check on the third component of this little free-for-all. Pippa’s fallen asleep in exactly the same position she was in when I rushed into the apartment, flat out on her back, arms and legs star-fished out.
A very large part of me wants to actually leave her there—be fucking uncomfortable to wake up on a cold, hard floor in the morning, which would serve the woman right—but she came here when I asked her to. And she didn’t call the cops when I went to her apartment. I suppose some people would call that progress.
I put her to bed in the third and final bedroom, and then I make sure Michael’s not choking on his own vomit. Fucking idiots. I have a quick, hot shower, and then I find myself standing in the hallway outside Sloane’s room. With all the spare beds now occupied, I should go and sleep on the couch. If not the couch, then in one of the rooms in Michael’s apartment.