It wasn’t the best strategy, stealing Noah’s drinks, but if it got him out of the house, if it got him reacting instead of just sinking deeper into his own stupor, then it was something. It was the only thing I could think to do. And it worked. It got him talking to me again.
After that first night, our awkward, aching chat in the living room, he started avoiding me. He didn’t come down for the meals I cooked. He told me to leave the food in the fridge and said he’d get to it later. I thought he was eating, until I found one of the untouched meals dumped in the trash when I took out the garbage.
He was pretending for my sake. Pretending to eat, pretending to live. But I could see the truth. He was drinking, too much. The thing about Noah is, he’s a quiet drunk. The more he drinks, the
