“I don’t blame you for blaming me, son. I blame myself most of the time,” he says through his choked tone. “But I swear to you that I didn’t know she was sick. I would have gotten her help, and I would have never left you alone with her.”
My back slides against the wall as I sink to the floor across from the staircase.
“I prayed for her to die,” I almost whisper, and his head snaps up. The silence is almost deafening before I continue. “The last time... I prayed for her to die. Thirty-two days later, my prayers were answered.”
Until now, I’ve never spoken those words aloud. My father stands, preparing himself to come toward me. But I hold my hand up, silently pleading for him to stop. I need to get out of here. This isn’t why I came here. I don’t want to talk about it; I want to forget it. I want to hide it, lock it away, and I want to be pissed.
Before I stand, Ethan walks in, and I roll my eyes.
“Did you follow me?” I grumble, staggering back to my feet.
He narrows his eyes. “Little bit. You’re kind of a loose cannon right now.”
Great. He’s worried I’m going crazy. Maybe I am. I don’t even know when he started following me.
I feel lost without the rage that has driven me for so long. It’s almost like having a piece of me ripped out, and now there’s nothing occupying the place where it once was—nothing besides misery. A void rests inside me, and I have no fucking clue what to do about it.
“I’m leaving,” I murmur—or slur would be more accurate—but Ethan stays behind.
I hear him talking to Dad, but I ignore them as I stumble back out to my car. I’m too drunk to be driving, so I wait on Ethan to come out. He motions toward his black BMW, and I climb in on the passenger side.
I thought I’d feel better; I thought he’d make me angry and give me back what’s missing so I can cope. But it is still missing, and I only feel worse. Death is easier when you have someone or something to blame—something tangible you can yell at or hate. It’s hard to hate a sickness you can’t see, one you can’t even definitively name. It’s a lot easier to hate yourself.
***
RYE
“Feel better?” Ethan asks as he hands me some Tylenol.
I take the pills gratefully, and stare up at my ceiling. Five days. I’m through being drunk.
“I feel... tired. Miserable would be more accurate. Has her car moved today?”
“It has moved the past two days. By the way, I feel like a creep when I’m constantly staring out the window.”
I laugh lightly while sitting up. Oddly, I do feel a little better. Maybe five days of hangovers are enough.
“Thanks. I just wanted to make sure she’s not staying at home and—”
“And acting like you?” he asks, arching a brow at me.
I frown as I look around my trashed house. It probably smells like death in here. I probably smell like death.
“You still don’t want to try to win her back?” he asks.
I’d give anything to have her back, but she’s right. I’m nothing but a pile of confusing contradictions. And she was also right about deserving better.
But as I stand and let my eyes go through the window, the Camry returns, and the girl I wish I could let go steps out. All she wanted was to be it for me. No one has ever cared about me like this.
She’s all I think about. Wren met his daughter for the first time, and I couldn’t even force myself to ask him questions, because I knew my mind would only be on one thing—Brin. She’s still consuming me.
She drops her purse, and I can’t help but smile as she curses to herself. At least, I assume those beautiful, soft, tempting lips are cursing.
“I honestly... I want her back. But I’ll never be the guy she wants me to be.”
He sighs as he walks toward the door. “Well, you’d better be sure. Ash is trying to set her up with someone. Just thought I’d give you a heads up.”
A flash of red consumes me, and he grins like he just said the magic words.