Chapter Twenty-Two
It had taken Saoirse all of forty-eight hours to determine with complete certainty that sobriety was stupid.
It was stupid because she didn’t feel this bad when she was hungover, and then she’d had the fun or at least the numbness of being intoxicated beforehand. Now she just felt like ass and didn’t even have anything to show for it. Fucking miserable.
At first she had wanted a drink but didn’t feel the need for one, and she’d been so distracted by the rush of spending time with Arthur as his little girl that she hadn’t completely fallen into this pit of despair. She was there now. So, so there, and moody as hell.
Her stomach lurched as she sat up. This not being able to puke was also for the birds.
It’s not that she enjoyed throwing up—who liked vomiting?—but it did have the effect of settling her stomach some. This near-constant nausea without actually hurling was terrible. And this was only day three.
She knew it was a good idea and she’d feel better when it was over, but fuck. Going through withdrawal sucked. She was never going to do anything harder than alcohol because coming off that other shit was supposed to be worse.
The carpet was soft under her feet when she got out of bed so at least not everything was terrible. And Arthur had been…well, he’d been Arthur, so, wonderful. He made sure she followed Doctor Eric’s instructions, ensuring she drank a lot of fluids—always from a bottle, of course, which she found made her feel safe and comforted and small. Lots of water, some diluted sports drinks, and special smoothies he told her were formulated to give her all the nutrition she needed while she wasn’t having much solid food.
She was glad she had insisted on no booties at night so that in her short nighty and dragging Ziggy behind her, she could go into her daddy’s room and climb into his bed. He stirred enough to turn on his side and spoon her, wrapping his arm around her waist and pressing his chest to her back. He was so warm and snuggly and his steady breathing and the weight of him lulled her quickly back to sleep.
When she woke again, she was alone but in a nest of pillows that Arthur had tucked around her. He’d also left her a bottle of watered-down blue sports drink on the bedside table with a note:
For my princess,
Drink this with the medicine in the cup. It will help you feel a little better. I love you.
Daddy
She did as she’d been told, and just as she was finishing her bottle, the door edged open and Arthur came in. Smiled when he saw her awake and she couldn’t help but smile back.
Her daddy was the handsomest and the bestest.
The mattress sank with his weight as he sat down next to her, tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
“How are you feeling, princess? Still rotten?”
She nodded and made a pouty face.
“I know, baby, I know,” he said as he shifted to sit next to her and gather her into his lap. It did make her feel better to be snuggled up on him, bury her face in that spot between his neck and shoulder that was made just for her.
“But you’re doing such a good job and being such a brave girl. I know it isn’t easy and I’m so proud of you. You’ll feel better soon, I promise. We just have to get you through the next few days and then it’ll be easier.”
She appreciated that he didn’t downplay her misery and tell her she was being dramatic, or roll his eyes and tell her it wasn’t a big deal. In the grand scheme of things, she knew it wasn’t, but that didn’t mean that in this second she didn’t feel like death had kicked her in the face.
And she liked how he didn’t expect a response, just petted and stroked and cuddled her, hopefully knowing it did make her feel better.Hemade her feel better.
“I know you’re probably not hungry, but we should get some food in your tummy, and then I thought you might like a bubble bath. Does that sound good? As good as it gets right now anyway?”
“Yes, Daddy,” she said, and he laughed a little at the muffled sound of it because her head was still buried in his shirt.
“Then let’s go,” he said, and she squawked as he hefted her in his arms and stood.
“Daddy!”
“Hold tight, little girl,” he said, and she knew it was because he liked the feel of her clinging to him and not because there was a chance in hell he would drop her. He’d never let her down, ever.
Downstairs, he tucked her in the highchair he’d brought down from the princess room and strapped her in, snapped a bib around her neck before putting a bottle full of milk and a few bits of something that looked suspiciously like cookies on her tray.
“I get cookies for breakfast?”
Not that she was going to argue, but that didn’t seem quite right.