Page 82 of Trusting You
Breathe.
I’m nothing but a tornado of fear.
I stand, holding the pill bottle, and make it to the door in a zombified state.
I hear them before I see them, Lily blabbering something at Locke while in her high chair. He’s at the stove, cooking eggs.
“Hey,” he says without turning around. He must hear the creak of the floorboards underneath my feet. “Take a seat.”
I cut a glance to the small table where Lily also sits near, and notice the place settings, the bagels already toasted and sliced, a tub of cream cheese from the deli around the corner. He’s poured me a cup of coffee. It steams near the chocolate croissants he also bought.
It’s the perfect breakfast I envisioned before I screwed it up. I ache at the sight because now it’s not me who’s the fucker.
“Locke,” I scratch out.
“Hold on.” Locke lifts the frying pan and flips the omelet. He can’t help it. He grins. “You think Lily likes mushroom omelets? Goat cheese? I’m gonna try.”
“Locke.”
It’s only a name, one syllable, but I’m tripping over the sound as it clogs in my throat. My hands are shaking—the one holding the pills—white with thinned skin and bone.
Locke drops the pan back on the stove and turns, concern etched on his face. “What’s wrong?”
Trembling, I lift my enclosed hand as an answer. His gaze shifts to it, pauses enough that I see his throat bob, then comes back to me. I move closer to Lily, putting a protective hand on her head. She thinks it’s a game and laughs as she tries to grab it.
Her noises, her giggles, echo in the kitchen like a fire bell. The tinkles of laughter amplify the tension in the room, the stark innocence of it so loud between us.
It makes my eyes well, and I angrily brush them away with the back of my wrist.
“Well?” I croak.
“Well, those must be left over from my surgery. Where’d you find them?”
My shoulders sag. During my trek across the main room, a sweet, naïve voice inside kept assuring that Locke might not hedge. Maybe he’ll fess up to his addiction to pain killers, tell me about his fight to end it, and this is nothing but forgotten leftovers.
Locke learned my body last night. Accessed the most precious place I possessed. Shouldn’t that mean I deserve honesty from him?
Locke seems impatient with my silence, and he jerks forward to grab the pills from my now loose fist and reads it himself. “Yeah, see? The ‘scrip is from six months ago.” He gives it a good shake. “Looks like they’re all there.”
His voice is friendly, explanatory, but his attention continues to flick in my direction, assessing the situation. And quickly figuring out that his excuses aren’t working. “Carter? Why don’t you say something already?”
“Because I…” I rub my neck like it’s the reason I can’t speak. “Because your sister told me.”
Locke’s eyes turn to slits. “Told you?”
There’s no turning back now. “About your injury. The surgery. The…the need for more pills.”
I don’t know how to put it. Screaming you’re an addict at him isn’t the right way to go. Not in front of Lily. I was fearful for her but didn’t want to be fearful to her.
Yet, I have to make sure Locke understands the seriousness of this discovery. That at any moment, I have every right to pick up Lily, walk out, and go straight to child services.
It’s that choice giving me a swaying sickness in my belly. The disappointment, fear, the terrible realization that Locke isn’t who he portrays himself to be, swirling into sewage. The rawness of it, the acid, burns my throat.
“Fucking Astor,” he seethes, rubbing at his face. He opens his mouth—
“You’ve been lying this whole time,” I say before he can start his excuses. “Forget about your personal battles. Everybody carries shit with them. But it’s the fact that you deliberately left it out of all our discussions this past week. You purposefully kept it from me, because you knew how I’d react, and God knows if you kept it from CPS.”
He lifts a hand, his expression darkening. “Now, hang on—”