“Where is he?” I ask, sucking in a breath.
“Kitchen,” she whispers.
I practically run down the hallway and rush into the kitchen, coming to a stop. He sits at the table, facing the five rectangular floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the cul-de-sac. The curtains are open so you can see our private clubhouse in the middle.
My eyes quickly sweep over his profile view, checking for blood or any sign of injuries, but I see none. He’s wearing a black T-shirt, showing off the tattoo of April on his arm that he had Cross do. He has his ripped jeans on, and he still has his combat boots on. He sits motionless, one hand holding a glass of scotch, the other holding the open bottle.
“Kyle?” I say his name, sitting down to his right at the head of the table. He doesn’t acknowledge my presence, and I wonder if he’s already high on something. “Grave. What’s wrong?” I ask, needing him to speak to me. “We can’t help you if you don’t tell us what’s wrong.”
He blinks, lowering his blue eyes to the table. “Do you ever test yourself?” he asks, his voice low and rough, making me frown at his question. Before I can answer, he snorts. “Stupid question. You don’t have any limits.”
“That’s not true.” I reach out my hand to his, but he jerks away, so I pull back and link mine together on the table.
His knuckles whiten, gripping the glass and bottle tighter as if I’m going to take them away from him.
“I’m not an alcoholic.” He gives a rough laugh. “Spoken like a true alcoholic, huh?” Lifting the glass, he brings it to his face, and he stares at it like it holds the answer to all his problems. “I mean, I never needed a drink. I liked a drink. There’s a difference. I needed the pills, cocaine …” He swallows, setting the glass back down but not letting go, and admits, “I miss it.”
I hear something to my left and look to see April leaning up against the wall under the archway at the far end of the kitchen. She’s behind him, where he can’t see her. The look of pain in her eyes makes my chest ache.
“I hate feeling.” He sniffs. “I was doing so good. Everything seemed better. But … but I keep having the dreams. Nightmares.” He corrects himself and drops his voice to a whisper. “About the baby.”
I look back at April, and she’s gripping her robe with one hand. The other is over her mouth as she begins to silently cry at his words.
“But it’s not me. It’s like an out-of-body experience.” He frowns, confused by that thought. “I’m standing by watching April cry. And I can’t help her. I can’t talk to her. I—” He sniffs again. “I’m helpless. But I can feel pain. Her pain. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. Crippling. And I realize it’s not her crying. It’s me. My chest is so heavy, I can’t breathe.” He lifts the glass once again, but this time, he slams it down on the table, making it rattle.
Looking over at April, she now has both hands over her mouth and nose as tears run down her face.
“It’s unbearable. The thought of her feeling that.” He shakes his head. “And then like a punch to the face, it’s gone, and there’s nothing. She’s gone, and I’m watching me. The old me. I’m alone in a room, fucking high. I tell myself to stop. To move. To get up. But I can’t. I watch myself snort a line while I scream not to do it. And I’m numb.” He looks over at me for the first time, and his eyes swim in tears. It makes my breath catch. That I can’t help him. That I can’t save him from himself. “All the pain is gone,” he says, looking away. “And for those few seconds, life is back to what it was—a black hole of nothing. Nothing exists. Not to me. There’s only silence, and I realize just how much I miss it. But then.” He swallows. “Then I wake up, covered in sweat, trying to catch my breath. I look over, and April’s sleeping. She—” He clears his throat. “She looks so peaceful, and I tell myself that’s why I have to stay strong. For her. Because she’s so strong.”
“Kyle—”
He throws the glass of scotch, and it shatters one of the windows, glass flying everywhere. I watch April’s body shake as she slides down the wall, pulling her knees to her chest, still covering her mouth and nose while she sobs.
“I woke up today.” He angrily wipes the tears from his face that have started to fall. “And for the first time in a while, I still wanted to get high. Seeing her wasn’t enough. Because I’m fucking weak.” He gives a rough laugh. “That’s why I bought this bottle.” He tosses it up, catching it with his right hand. His skull ring clanks against the glass. “I thought one bottle won’t hurt. That if I had a couple of glasses, maybe it would help me sleep. Knock me out and keep the nightmares away. It was like I was in the dream, watching myself stop at the liquor store and buy it.” Holding it up, he scrunches up his face, and then he chucks it at another window, breaking it as well.