“It’s the last time, too, if you expect to stay with me.” She leveled a flat gaze at him. “Now, listen. I expect I’ll have to repeat this many times before you can believe me, and at some point you will say to me, ‘how can you know? how dare you say these things?’ and I will tell you. But for now, listen. You believe it was your fault. You think, if I’d never left the Institute. If we’d never got close. If I’d protected her better. A thousand ifs.”
“It was not your fault. There are a thousand ifs on her side, on their side. By regretting it so, you demean her choice. You reduce her to nothing more than a thing, an object.” Summer put a hand under Victor’s chin. “The hardest lesson is this: shit /happens/. You cannot choose for others. Her or them.”
Victor stared at her, shocked into silence. He’d spent a majority of his life believing it as his fault what happened to Claire. He was a stubborn man too, which didn’t help. He looked down and sighed, shocked when Summer said he was reducing her to an object. “I-I..” He swallowed then tried to speak again. “It won’t happen again, Summer, I promise. Just…I’m going to need your help ok?”
“Well, of course.” Her tone was matter-of-fact. “Trust me when I say I’ve been there. But the liquor isn’t going to make you forget the way you want to — you’re the only person who can do that. And all I can do is take the edge off.” She pursed her lips, looking at him. “I’m going to find your kitchen, and you are going to finish up here, and go to bed. I’ll be right behind you.”
Victor nodded, “kitchen’s downstairs, hang a left, it’s an open layout down there so it shouldn’t be too hard to find. I’ll only be a few more minutes up here. Bedroom’s just down this hall.” His voice was quiet then he gingerly poured water over his head. “I’m sorry but if you wouldn’t mind bringing a little snack up with you when you come back to the room?”
“That’s the idea. You’ll want it when I release the painblock.” Summer rose to her feet, hair tumbling around her shoulders. She stooped again to kiss him on the forehead before striding out of the room. She was a bit bemused by the size of the house, actually; or more correctly, the ordinariness of it. But then, she supposed, he’d almost certainly simply bought whatever caught his eye, without thinking — well, alright, the things Victor might want out of a home weren’t the same as what she wanted. And she’d less than no business thinking right now of what they might want together.
A quick rummage among various cabinets and in the fridge yielded crackers, peanut butter, and a pitcher, which she filled with water. Anything else he might want, she’d come back down and get. She headed back up to the bedroom.