of dishes and his hamper was overflowing.
He knew he should clean the house but he didn’t have the energy. Instead, he went to the kitchen and pulled a bottle of vodka from the freezer. There were four bottles left; a week ago, there’d been twelve. He knew he was drinking too much. He knew he should eat better and stop drinking but all he wanted to do was take the bottle and sit on the couch and drink. Vodka was good because it didn’t make your breath smell, and in the mornings, no one would know he was nursing a hangover.
He poured a glass of vodka, finished it, and poured another before walking through the empty house. His heart ached because Erin wasn’t here and if she suddenly showed up at the door, he knew he’d apologize for hitting her and they’d work things out and then they’d make love in the bedroom. He wanted to hold her and whisper how much he adored her, but he knew she wasn’t coming back, and even though he loved her, she made him so angry sometimes. A wife didn’t just leave. A wife didn’t just walk away from a marriage. He wanted to hit and kick and slap her and pull her hair for being so stupid. For being so damn selfish. He wanted to show her it was pointless to run away.
He drank a third and fourth glass of vodka.
It was all so confusing. The house was a wreck. There was an empty pizza box on the floor of the living room and the casing around the bathroom door was splintered and cracked. The door would no longer close all the way. He’d kicked it in after she’d locked it, trying to get away from him. He’d been holding her by the hair as he punched her in the kitchen and she’d run to the bathroom and he’d chased her through the house and kicked the door in. But now he couldn’t remember what they’d been fighting about.
He couldn’t remember much about that night. He couldn’t remember breaking two of her fingers, even though it was obvious that he had. But he wouldn’t let her go to the hospital for a week, not until the bruises on her face could be covered by makeup, and she’d had to cook and clean one-handed. He bought her flowers and apologized and told her that he loved her and promised it would never happen again, and after she got the cast off, he’d taken her into Boston for a dinner at Petroni’s. It was expensive and he’d smiled across the table at her. Afterward, they’d gone to a movie and on the way home he remembered thinking about how much he loved her and how lucky he was to have someone like her as his wife.
21
Alex had stayed with Katie until after midnight, listening as she’d told the story of her prior life. When she was too spent and exhausted to talk anymore, he put his arms around her and kissed her good night. On his drive home, he thought that he had never met anyone braver or stronger or more resourceful.
They spent much of the next couple of weeks together—or as much as they could, anyway. Between the hours he worked at the store and her shifts at Ivan’s, it wasn’t usually more than a few hours a day, but he anticipated his visits to her place with a sense of excitement he hadn’t felt in years. Sometimes, Kristen and Josh went with him. Other times, Joyce would shoo him out the door with a wink, urging him to have himself a good time before he headed over.
They seldom spent time at his house and when they did, it was only for short periods. In his mind, he wanted to believe it was because of the kids, that he wanted to take things slowly, but part of him realized it also had to do with Carly. Though he knew he loved Katie—and he grew more certain with every passing day—he wasn’t sure he was ready for that just yet. Katie seemed to understand his reluctance and didn’t seem to mind, if only because it was easier to be alone at her place.
Even so, they’d yet to make love. Though he often found himself imagining how wonderful it would be, especially in those moments before sleep, he knew Katie wasn’t ready for that. They both seemed to realize it would signal a change in