THIRTY-FIVE: Drowning, Part II [FLASHBACK]

By the time Bruce got Charity home and settled into the house they used to share, it was the early hours of the morning. Charity had been able to walk into the house, but only with his help. She hadn't said more than two words to him since they left the bar. When he'd gotten her into the house, she clumsily walked to their bedroom. Despite their separation, she couldn't bring herself not to think of it in terms of 'their room' and 'their bed'. When in the bedroom, she stripped off the dress she'd been wearing, her heels, push-up bra and underwear.

"Imma shower!" She called out to Bruce as she walked into the small master bathroom.

She felt disgusting, between all the whiskey she'd drank, the mess of makeup on her face, and the feeling of some stranger's hands and lips all over her. Bruce had been the only man to ever do any of those things with her and she felt dirty, almost like she'd cheated on him.

Turning on the water, she flipped the knob to as hot as it could go. She'd been shivering since being in the bar and her muscles were aching from the stress of the day and exhaustion. After shampooing her hair and scrubbing her entire body down, Charity continued to let the hot water fall on her. She still felt drunk, but at least she was gaining some semblance of self-control back.

After an hour in the shower, she stepped out into the steam-filled room and grabbed a towel. Walking into her bedroom, she dried off and dressed in an old Harley Davidson shirt of Bruce's, a pair of his old sweatpants, and knit socks. Her plan was to head out to the living room and pass out on the couch with an old movie on – she had no doubt that she was home alone and that Bruce had disappeared back wherever he'd come from.

She couldn't blame him for leaving this time around. She'd been a mess.

Surprise hit her as she went into the living room and saw him seated on the couch, at least a hundred pages into the trashy novel she'd left on the coffee table. "You're still here." Even though she was on the road to sobriety, her head was still throbbing and spinning. She wasted no time crossing the room, sitting down on the couch next to him.

"Thanks for seeing me home." Her voice was small as she grabbed the warm quilt that was folded over the back of the couch, throwing it over her. "Sorry you had to come save my stupid ass."

"Was already there." He closed the book and tossed it back on the table, staring at it when it landed as though he was trying to find meaning in that. He said nothing for a few moments, long enough for her to wonder just what was going on inside his head before he broke the silence with the clearing of his throat. "I was there. At the cemetery." He didn't look at her, "wasn't invited. Didn't wanna intrude so I left before it was over."

"Bruce-" that confession broke her heart. It wasn't as though she hadn't thought about calling him. She had, at least a thousand times a day since she'd gotten the news. She just couldn't bring herself to open up to that rejection all over again.

"Don't wanna lie, Cherry. Went from there to the bar. Drank enough to make my guts go sour... puke it all up an' start over again. Then you walk in like-" he bit his lip, that bitter smile on his face as he shook his head. "Should've been there today. Am sorry... hubris an' neep-heidedness won out."

"Sam would've liked that."

"Where is she?"

Charity sighed, "staying with a friend." She was curled up like a ball, still feeling chilled as she wrapped her arms around her knees under the blanket. She looked at Bruce and then focused on the television that was playing some infomercial. "You don't have to apologize for anything... I didn't think you'd be there."

Mimicking her actions, he kept his eyes on the screen, not really paying much attention as the spokesperson demonstrated whatever in the hell it was that they were selling. "Nae, love. Yeh were right, back there at Maureen's. Our... b-baby boy left." He faltered, a shadow of agony crossing his features. He still didn't look over at her but he kept talking, his voice a pained rasp. "I left. Now Vicky's up an' moved on tae the angels..."

At the mention of their son, more tears sprang to her eyes. "Yeah... guess the common denominator there is me, isn't it?" She wiped at them with the back of her hand. After watching Bruce, she looked up at the ceiling. "Nothing's ever gonna feel okay again." How badly she wanted to beg him to come home to her and how much she needed him.

"They say loss is part of livin'. That yeh gotta have some heartbreak tae keep movin' forward. Absolute load of tripe, if yeh ask me." He reached across the space, still without looking and rested his hand on her ankle, the blanket serving as a sort of barrier to keep it from being intimate. "Am sorry. For my part in it. For what it's worth, anyhow."

"I already forgave you," her voice came out small and he chuckled bitterly, shaking his head.

"Oh aye, could tell-"

"I was drunk."

"Still are," Bruce countered, sighing. "Don't blow smoke up my arse, Cherry."

"I'm not!" She wiped more tears away. "Had this pipe-dream that you'd just come home. Like I'd walk in the kitchen one morning and you'd just be there, singing some silly song while you made breakfast." She couldn't stop herself from putting her hand over his. "You can always come home, Bruce. I'm not gonna close that door on you."

"Close the door. Change the locks? Should do that, love. Now that Vicky's gone... don't know what else is lurkin' out there." He deliberately missed the point of the invitation, as if he didn't want to give her a straight answer. He didn't because he was flying by the seat of his pants here. He wasn't drunk. Not anymore – the front garden would never be the same but she didn't have to know what he'd been doing while she'd been in that shower for so damned long. He craved that numbness now, that buffer against the emotions that were threatening to choke him. For the first time in ages, he was actually nearly sober and he didn't know what to do with all the things he was feeling.

"Yeah, I guess I don't." She swallowed hard and her jaw felt tense. Removing her hand from his, she tightened the blanket around herself. "I never had to worry about anything that was out there. Someone was always here. Dad stayed here sometimes... after you left. I don't know if I told you that – if you knew."

Bruce didn't say anything.

"Sam hardly ever comes home – she's a good kid. She's not out running the streets or anything like that. I just never see her and when we do, we don't really talk. She has her friends and she's moved down to the basement." She seemed to shrink in front of him, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Turning her face, she pressed it against the couch so he couldn't see her breaking apart. Silently she cried into the couch, the only indication was that her body shook with the silent sobs.

"Cherry," he sighed, feeling like an absolute horse's ass for pushing the wrong buttons. He'd thought that maybe getting her to express her grief rather than bury it with booze was a good idea – obviously he was shit at being a therapist. "Babylove..." he felt her stiffen as that old term of endearment left his lips and he pulled his hand back from that minimal contact as though the rejection had actually burned him. "The fuck'm I doin'?" The words came out as a rough whisper, barely audible as he pushed to his feet, walking off towards the kitchen as if he still lived there.

Turning her face so that the side was pressed against the couch, she focused on getting her breathing under control. Her eyes hurt, her stomach, and every single other part of her ached. Sniffling, she looked in his direction. "What're you doing, Bruce?" She sounded defeated as a hand came up and smoothed back wet strands of blonde hair. "There's lotsa food people brought. Just take whatcha want."

She heard the water running, the clink of glass on glass and cupboards opening and closing and then he appeared in the doorway, holding a glass of water in one hand and a bottle of Vic's stash of beer in the other. He'd never been a fan of Miller High Life but beggars couldn't be choosy. He needed to lubricate his thoughts before he did some more irreparable damage to the poor girl. "Here," he held out the glass towards her, "thought mebbe..."

Charity stared at him for a few seconds too long as she nodded, "thanks." Her hand came out of her blanket cocoon and took the glass from. Holding it with both hands, she brought it to her lips. She knew she needed the water, especially after all of the alcohol from earlier. Seeing the bottle of her dad's beer brought back memories, especially of that first night he'd come to her house. "Take as much of that as you want." She gestured to the bottle in his hand, "I'm not gonna drink..." she trailed off and drank more of her water.

He didn't reply, twisting off the cap. He let it drop on the coffee table and then took a generous swig. "Remember when I came here on the guise of gettin' that ol' jacket back?" He chuckled softly, shaking his head at the memory. "Yeh had it all planned out, thinkin' yeh had all the right moves down pat – so suave. I wanted tae strip yeh down, make dirty love all over that damned couch. Wonder what would've happened then?" He mused aloud, taking another swallow of the weak beer.

"I probably would've been pregnant at sixteen." The confession from Bruce caused her cheeks to go beet red as she kept her eyes on him. "It wouldn't have been as good as the first time..." She took another drink of water, a hint of a smile on her lips. "I knew I was in love with you that night..."

"What? That night? Here in this room?" He shook his head, laughing it off. "Come now, surely that's a bit of an embellishment."

Charity shook her head and set her glass of water on the coffee table. "It's not. You pulled me onto your lap and opened up. I fell in love with you and knew there wouldn't be anyone else that'd come close." Sitting up on the couch, she pulled the blanket down as she was starting to get warm. "And there hasn't been."

"Never told anyone else..." that was quite a revelation, "ya brought it out of me. Never could lie, even from the get-go." He looked over at her, a bittersweet smile on his lips before he replaced it with the bottle, finishing off the rest of the beer. "Couldn't lie then. Still can't."

Feeling a surge of courage, Charity tossed the quilt back and stood up. Walking the few steps over to him, she grabbed the empty bottle from him. "If that's true," she turned and set the bottle down on the table. Looking into his eyes, her hands came up and rested on his shoulders. "Do you still want me?"

"More than anything." He didn't even consider it, replying immediately. "Never stopped, Cherry."

Her hands slid up so that her arms were around his neck. So many times, she'd done this exact thing. "Are you going to leave me again?"

Her voice was so soft, every raw emotion there in her eyes for him to see and he couldn't bring himself to lie, to tell her that everything was going to be fine. He couldn't tell her that the last three years could be erased with a simple wish for things to be back the way they were. "I..." he couldn't finish the thought, couldn't break eye contact as he realized more than just her father had gone into the ground today. His eyes were locked on hers as he licked his lips, replying in a near-whisper. "I can't answer that."

Charity glanced down at the floor for a moment as she shook her head. "Of course you can't." There was bitterness in her voice as she let her arms fall. When her father left, along with him went that feeling of having a protector. She only had herself to rely on – she knew that. "It's fine." Feeling more defeated than she ever had, she walked back to the couch and took her seat.

Bruce stood there for a few moments, the silence that fell making him wonder what was going on in her head. He'd always been able to read her like a book but now he felt like he was starting three books into a huge series where he had no idea what was going on in the slightest. "I'm gonna..." he paused when he saw her tense, almost flinching as though she expected some horrible blow. "Cherry..." he sighed, "am here. Don't know what else I can say tae impress that." He pulled the mangled pack of cigarettes from the back pocket of his dark jeans. "Was just gonna go out for a ciggy. That's all."

That was the last thing she expected him to say and her face reflected it. "Okay... I'll be here." The fear that he'd use this as an excuse to leave. Until he came back into the house, her body would still be locked in tension.

Nodding, he made his way over to the door, pausing to put on his jacket that hung on the hook there as though it belonged and seeing it next to hers cut through him in the worst way. Sighing, he turned and went out the door and down the porch steps, sitting heavily on the last one, despite the fact that it was freezing out. Now that he was out of earshot and her line of sight, he let his head hang, letting the bitter tears fall as he lit the cigarette by feel alone.

Part of him wanted to promise her the world, to offer her the damned moon and stars. He wanted to get his things out of storage, bring them back and fill the empty spaces with his junk and the illusion that he'd never left but he knew that was just a knee-jerk reaction to the loss, to staring mortality and the inevitability of a finite existence in the face. She'd take him back, he knew that. She'd said it outright and he hated her for that unconditional love that he didn't deserve. He smoked the damned thing right down to the filter and when it was done, he finally stood on legs that felt shaky. He turned, looking back at the house over his shoulder, seeing that warm and welcome light shining behind the curtains in the front window. He couldn't bring himself to go back in, to plant that seed of false hope, only to watch his own shortcomings make it wither and die all over again. They'd survived without him for the last three years and it was clear that he wasn't really needed. It was better this way.

The other part of him couldn't breathe, felt like that warm light was going to boil him. The air, although cold, was choking him. He felt like he was drowning, the undertow of darkness and sorrow wanting to pull him under once and for all – he owed Charity better than that. He couldn't protect her, couldn't provide for his family when he couldn't even look after himself.

"Am sorry," he murmured, his hand coming up to close over the crucifix around his neck as he whispered a prayer that he was sure wouldn't be heard. "Keep them safe for me. Please?"

Walking away from the light was the hardest thing he ever did.