The Everafter by Amy Huntley Page B

with all this. To be you.”
    We hear his father stumbling up the stairs.
    Gabe sighs. “It’s been a year since the last time he had anything to drink. Then tonight—wham! Well…not even tonight. I came home this afternoon and he was already blotto. Must’ve come home from work early. Who knows how much he managed to drink before I got here? I tried to throw away what alcohol I could find, but shit—”
    Okay, this surprises me. Gabe doesn’t swear. At least not around me. This draws my attention to how worked up he is.
    “—when he gets like this he hides that fucking stuff who-knows-where.”
    Now I’m getting freaked. The F word?
    “The thing is,” Gabe goes on, “I somehow feel like I can keep him from drinking so much if I stay here with him.”
    My heart quivers as I come to understand why it always feels to me as if Gabe is… older than me. “Gabe, I don’tknow anything about alcoholism, but I do know that I’ve never been able to keep my parents from doing something they were determined to do. Can you actually stop your dad from drinking?”
    He sighs again, pulls away from me, and flops over sideways on the sofa. “I don’t know,” he says. At least I think that’s what he’s saying. It’s hard to tell for sure because he’s mashed a pillow on top of his face.
    I try to pull the pillow away from him, but he’s strong.
    “The thing is,” he says, “I know he manages to drink even when I am here. But how much more would he drink if I weren’t here to try to stop him?”
    Obviously not a question I can answer.
    “Maybe having to try to hide what he’s doing from me slows him down some, y’know? Then again, maybe I’m just fooling myself thinking I’m doing any good at all.”
    I’m still scrambling around in my head trying to find a reply to this when he says, “Still, if there’s a chance I’m making it better, I have to try.”
    Seems like a psychologist would have a few things to say about that. But even if I could figure out that he was taking on too much responsibility here, it doesn’t seem like he’s quite ready to think about that.
    I run my fingers through his hair. I’m not sure exactly what I’m managing to say with that, but it seems to work. He lets me pull the pillow farther away. I stretch out next tohim and navigate my way between his face and the pillow.
    And since we’re horizontal anyway…
    And since his dad has disappeared into an upstairs stupor…
    And since the feel of Gabe’s lips on mine and his hands wrapping around my waist is so fantastic…
    Yeah. Well…
    At least until Gabe’s dad stumbles back down the stairs. We sit up quickly as he wanders into the living room. Mr. Archer looks at me all surprised. And even though I know he’s drunk, it’s still a little disconcerting to be so easily forgotten. Makes me wonder what other important things about his son he forgets when he’s like this.
    Then Mr. Archer wanders into the kitchen, and things start clattering out there. Gabe jumps up and starts taking care of Drunk Daddy Dear, so I tell him, “I better go. I told my mom I wouldn’t be gone long.”
    “I’ll call you tomorrow,” Gabe promises.
    I decide I should call my mother to tell her I’m on the way home. That’s when I realize I don’t know where my cell phone is because—and this is totally me—I set it down somewhere when I came in and wasn’t paying any attention to what I was doing. We check every surface in the living room and the front entry hall. We look under the sofa. Behind the cushions (no kissing detours there this time, unfortunately). In desperation, Gabe finally uses hiscell phone to call mine. We track the sounds of Beethoven’s “Für Elise” back into the entryway.
    Where my purse is sitting on the entryway table.
    Imagine that. For once, I put something where it belongs.
    No wonder I couldn’t find it, I think in disgust as I open the bag to pull out—

infected
    age 15
    They’re my favorite pair of