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“Good luck with that. I won’t be here.”
“You will.”
“And why is that?”
“When you enter the Hall of Fame, this moment will be your speech. You’ll share with the crowd about the day you stopped drinking and how that decision transformed your life.”
Tears well up, and I grind my molars to stop them. “I don’t care about the Hall of Fame.”
He glances behind me at the pictures of Aurora. “What about the girl who loves you but doesn’t love your addiction? Do you care about her? If not, let me know. I’d love to?—”
My chest cracks wide open. “Shut the fuck up. Do not finish that fucking sentence.”
“That’s what I thought. Seven on the ice, not a minute later.”
I regret coming home immediately. Scratch that—this is not a home. It’s nothing but an empty shell.
In the doorway, I contemplate whether to stay or leave.
If I stay, I’ll be bombarded with memories, and it’ll fucking hurt. It might drive me to drink—or worse.
But if I go back to my father’s, there’s a 99.9 percent probability I’m getting drunk or high.Most likely both.
The thought of checking out of reality is inviting. My heart races, my mouth goes dry, and that familiar, relentless craving claws at my brain.
What about the girl who loves you but doesn’t love your addiction? Do you care about her?
Fuck him.
The irritation of Ethan’s words drives me forward, into the penthouse and away from the door. This place is a strange dream, a nightmare, and I leave my shoes on.
Aurora should be living here. I gave it to her when I left.
I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and down it as I survey the hollow space.
There’s nothing here, not a single trace of her. That can’t be right. She lived here for nearly two years. There has to be something of hers here.
I search the cabinets, find an open bag of Jolly Ranchers used for drinks, and pop one into my mouth. The sweetness tricks my brain and quenches my dry throat, and I continue searching.
There’s nothing in the kitchen, not her bubbly water or that ridiculous kettle corn she can’t live without. I make a mental list of her favorite foods and decide to order them.Why? I don’t know. To feel close to her?
I move to the living room, throwing off all the couch cushions. Nothing. It’s spotless. The maids have cleaned. I open every drawer and cabinet. I stop and think. Did she have anything here? Only personal items, and they remained in the bedroom and bathroom.
Was she even comfortable here?
She gave me a PlayStation for Christmas, and I check the media room. It’s still here. I used it at most twice. Why didn’t I use it? I’d tell her I was going to playCODwith the guys, and I never did. It was an excuse to leave and get high.
She bought me the PlayStation so I’d stay home, and guilt hits me hard in the chest.
More fucking tears.
The pain is unbearable.
I can’t be sober for this.
My gaze flashes to the balcony.
Just end it. End all this torment.