I scoffed. “Pajamas in the morning is a cause for alarm? It’s not like I have an office to go to.”
My father coughed into his fist. “She also said your words were slightly slurred, and that you were walking strangely.”
Interesting. Rosalyn hadn’t mentioned anything when she’d been here, but it made sense she’d picked up on those things. The bruise on my hip ached after a long sleep, so I’d been limping a bit. And my speech was probably at about ninety-five percent of my usual fluency due to slight morning dizziness. Rozkeying into that missing five percent would be very on-brand for her.
“What of it?” I shrugged. “She’s pissed. That doesn’t exactly make her a reliable witness.”
My mother laid a cool palm on my arm. “William, you know how much we love you.” She paused dramatically. “That’s why we wanted to come here and speak with you directly.”
“O-kay.” I dragged out the word.
“We know it can be difficult when life sort of”—she waved her free hand in a circle—“gets away from you.” My father gave her an encouraging nod. “And we realize self-medicating can seem like a very appealing option when things are a bit…chaotic.”
Huh? A shock went through me as my brain caught up with my mother’s words. I eyed her incredulously. She stared down, reluctant to meet my gaze.
Self-medicating.
Drugs.
They thought I was on drugs.
Holy shit.
I stood abruptly and balled my hands into fists, willing myself to stay calm, reminding myself that they loved me.
“Let me get this straight.” I gritted out, releasing a long, audible breath. “I got mad at Rosalyn, and she said my words sounded strange, so therefore, I must be on drugs?”
My father’s gaze narrowed. “Son, you must admit you’ve behaved out of character this past year. We didn’t like it when you left Wallingford, but at least we could respect that you’d struck out on your own. But selling your business? Your condo? Buying this apartment complex? And we’ve noticed you’ve been dressing different lately—”
“Much less polished,” Mother interjected.
My father continued, “When Rosalyn came into our office this morning and explained how you’d yelled at her and told her she wasn’t welcome in your life anymore, it all fell into place.”
I shook my head. “This can’t be happening.”
“We’re here for you, William,” my father went on as though I hadn’t spoken. “And we’ll help you with whatever you need. Rehab. Therapy. Anything.”
My gut boiled. Part of me wanted to rage at my parents. But as they peered up at me earnestly from the couch, I couldn’t hold on to my anger. Only my sadness.
They truly didn’t know me at all.
“You’re never going to stop seeing me as that kid who got into an accident, are you? The weird angsty teenager you didn’t know what to do with. No matter how much I accomplish, it’s never going to work, is it?”
“Son, we are proud of you. That’s why we want you to know it’s okay if you need to ask for our help—”
“No.No.” I threw up my hands. “You’re only proud of the things I achieve on your terms. Your definition of success. I’ve been wasting so much time and energy when it was never going to happen. You’re always going to be waiting for the other shoe to drop. That’s why I’m focused on doing the things that make me happy now.”
“Sweetheart, are you trying to tell us that drugs—marijuana or pills or whatever it is—make you happy?”
“Jesus Christ! No! I’m not on fucking drugs!”
My mother raised a hand to her chest as I glared at her. Both my parents looked skeptical, but I honestly didn’t care. I couldn’t control their perceptions, and if they were going to assume the worst, then I needed to stop trying to change their minds.
I exhaled forcefully and sat back down.
“The reason I was in my pajamas is because I’ve needed to sleep a lot lately.”
“Sleep? Why? Are you ill?” My mother leaned forward to put a hand on my forehead, wincing when I jerked away from her touch.
