Sapphire Scars - A Mafia Romance

JUNE

I know something is wrong as soon as I open the door.

“Adrian?”

The house is dark, which usually means he’s not home yet. I’ve lost count of how many times he’s stumbled into bed in the middle of the night, seeking me out like a security blanket.

But I can smell him in here tonight. And the fact that I can smell that sickeningly familiar tang has my good mood crumbling to dust.

He promised me this time would be different.

Then again, he promised me the same thing last time, too. We all know how that turned out.

“Adrian?”

It doesn’t take long. I find him passed out, face first on the sofa. His drool pools at the edge of his mouth, staining the couch an ugly burgundy like old blood. I bought this couch with my first paycheck as a professional dancer. Back when both knees worked right, not just one of them.

There are no bottles to be seen, but I suppose the stench coming off him is proof enough that he’s fallen off the wagon. Again.

How long was this stint of sobriety? Three weeks plus a day, if I’m doing my math right. Shorter even than the last time. At least he was able to collect a one-month chip during the last go-around. I still have that stupid chip. And the one before that, and the one before that.

I don’t know why I keep them. At first, it was a gesture of my belief in him. Look at me, the supportive girlfriend. I’m not gonna cut and run when my boyfriend needs me the most. No-siree, I’m a keeper.

But at some point over the last two years, it became less about being supportive and more about keeping tabs on his failures. His failure to follow through, his failure to keep his promises, his failure to be the man I had fallen in love with from the moment I heard him strike the first chord on his piano.

Just like that, my disappointment twists and bends and transforms into anger.

I put both my hands on him and rattle him awake. He almost chokes on his own drool. His eyes are bloodshot and dazed when he blinks them open.

“J-June?”

“You’re drunk.”

“W-what?”

I shove him again, if only because it feels good to do something. “Get up. You’re leaving a stain on the sofa.”

He doesn’t seem to be registering my words. He does manage to sit up, though, just barely. “Is it… is it morning?”

“Are you so piss-drunk that you can’t tell the difference between pitch black and sunlight?”

“Stop fucking shouting.”

“I’m not shouting. It just feels that way because you’re wasted.”

“Jesus,” he growls, lumbering to his feet. “Always so damn dramatic.”

That’s the other thing with Adrian: I never know what I’m going to get with him. It’s either the mean drunk or the apologetic one. He’s been sorry the last two times he fell off the wagon, so I suppose I’m overdue for the former.

“We’ve been down this road so many times, Adrian,” I say, hearing the bitterness in my words and hating it. “Too many times.”

His eyes are yellow and slitted. “It was just a couple of beers.”

“For an alcoholic, that’s a couple of beers too many.”

He presses his fists to his face. “June, I just need some quiet—”

“And I need a boyfriend who keeps to his word. Looks like we’re both disappointed tonight.”

“Why is there a fucking stick up your ass?”

My harsh laugh is drenched with lost hope. “Of course you forgot. Even though it’s been all I’ve talked about the last few weeks. The fundraiser, Adrian. The fucking fundraiser.”

“Maybe if you spoke softer, I’d have remembered.”

I stare up at him, trying to find all the beauty in him I’d once appreciated. As mad as I am right now, I can’t help but acknowledge that yes, he’s still beautiful. That raggedy swoop of dark hair, those blue eyes—bloodshot though they may be—that burn like Arctic ice.

But that beauty is marred by the years I’ve spent waiting.

Waiting for him to change.

Waiting for him to come home.

Waiting for him to realize that I’m worth being sober for. That we are worth being sober for.

“It’s happened too many times.” My anger is softening, mutating into something sadder that doesn’t quite have a name. “You promised me. After The Accident, you prom—”

“You’re going to bring up The fucking Accident again? Again?”

His roar takes me off guard. I stumble backwards and my calves hit the edge of the coffee table hard. He’s wild drunk tonight. I’ve only ever seen that happen once before. It ended with blood and tears.

I recover fast and push at his chest. “You just—”

BAM.

I can’t even get the words out before his hand smashes across my face. My ears ring like a gong struck inside my skull. I blink a couple of times, but nothing is clear. Everything looks pixelated, fuzzy, indistinct.

I press my palm to my cheek, and when I pull it back, I see blood smeared across it. He cut me open. Of course he did—he refuses to take that stupid, gaudy ring off his finger.

Even now, the gold insignia embossed there winks mockingly at me.

“You… you hit me,” I say in disbelief.

“And I’ll do it again if you push me,” he growls, slurring his words just enough to let me know that his veins are still thrumming with poison.

This is the beast, I tell myself. This is not my Adrian.

This is not him.

This is not him.

This is not him.

But I find that the mantra I started repeating years ago no longer soothes me. Can you separate the man from the beast if they share the same body? Does it even matter where one stops and the other begins? Which one’s the lie? Which one is true?

“Get out,” I whisper.

He swings his gaze in my direction. One corner of his mouth turns up in a sneer. “Are you forgetting this is my fuckin’ house, too?”