scrambling to wipe away the evidence of his actions. Like I hadn't already just seen him snort a line.
I backed into the kitchen, seeing him then as a doped-up monster and not the boyfriend I loved. “Don't. Just ... just don't.”
He stood up and held his palms out. I could see, even from where I stood, that his pupils were already dilated, creating two black holes where his beautiful, brown eyes once were.
“Andy. It's not what it—”
“Oh, give me a fucking break, Vinnie. It's exactly what it looks like. Don't treat me like I'm an idiot!”
“I know,” he said, nodding rapidly and taking a step forward. I took a step back. “I know. But, but listen to me, okay? Listen. I only did it one other time, okay? Just one other time, the other night when you weren't here. That's it. And now, obviously. But that's it.”
He was already riding the buzz. Erratic movements of his eyes and hands showcased the energy from his high and it felt so wrong, all of it. How could he still look and sound like the man I loved and wanted to be with, when there was now something inside him, making him act like a complete stranger? And I realized in that moment, why some people stay with their addicted spouses.
“You were high ... the other night,” I reiterated, trying to wrap my head around the sequence of events. As if it mattered or changed a thing. “When you called me and asked me to come back, you were fucking high.”
“Yes,” he said, then quickly shook his head and waved his hands with the motion. “Wait, wait. No, no, no. That's not what happened. I hadn't cut the line yet, Andy. I called you up to get you back so I wouldn't do it. I didn't want to be here by myself. I fuckin' hate this place. I hate how it feels like, like, like a freakin' morgue with all this dead guy's stuff around and all the quiet. And I just needed you back, to make me feel alive again. 'Cause when it's just me here, I feel dead, too.”
“So, you're blaming me,” I answered quietly, clutching my hands to my chest and slowly shaking my head. “I can't believe ... I can't believe you're blaming me.”
“No!” he shouted, startling me. “No. Sweetheart, no, I'm not blamin' you for nothin', okay? 'Cause all of this shit,” he moved his hand in a wide circle, “is all me, okay? But I was weak the other night and you make me strong, but since you weren't here, I ...” He nodded to himself. “I gave in. I tried not to, but I did.”
He claimed he wasn't blaming me for his actions and I believe he thought he was being sincere. But then, I felt weight of his addiction fall on my shoulders, breaking my back and snapping my bones. I sagged with a ragged sigh, dropping into a chair at the kitchen table and covering my face with my hands. I didn't want to look at him, still so sexy and attractive, despite the black holes that were once his eyes. And I didn't want to see his dead father, standing in the entrance of the hallway, mere feet from where Vinnie stood.
It was toxic. There was no doubting that now. This, my relationship with him and what he was doing to himself and me, it was dangerous and scary and so, so unhealthy in every sense of the word. An outsider might look at the situation and think me insane for still being inside that apartment, sitting at that table. An onlooker might say they'd never put themselves in this situation to begin with. But it was my reality now, and no, it wasn't good, but somehow, in the moment, it didn't seem as bad as one might think it should.
I cleared my throat and scrubbed my hands over my face, not giving a single shit about my makeup. “This isn't good,” I muttered behind my palms.
“I know,” he said.
“I shouldn't be here, Vinnie. I shouldn’t …” I swallowed at the bitter taste of the words in my mouth, before saying, “I shouldn’t be with you.”
“No. Definitely not. I told you, I'm no fuckin' good. Your sisters are right. I'm—”
Dropping my hands to the table, I asked, “Why do you do it?”
He cocked his head curiously. “Why did I get high? I-I told you, I—”