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TREY

“Goodbye, Trey.”

She knew that word would crush me. She knew, and she used it anyway. Goodbye is the word my mother taught me to use only when I’d never see someone again.

“ Goodbye means forever. Bye is just for now,” my mother said to me countless times when I was a kid.

Exactly nineteen years ago, on a rainy night in September, she said goodbye to me. I never saw her again.

Arella purposely used that word to hurt me, and it worked. I’m so wrecked by it, I haven’t found the strength to move yet. My bare feet are standing where her car stood in my driveway a minute ago. Where we both stood a minute ago, shouting at each other, saying things we didn’t mean. At least, I didn’t mean them.

Rain pelts my bare back like little bullets shooting from the sky. The hems of my workout shorts drip water down my legs. I’m not even wearing shoes, because I didn’t have time to put any on before chasing after Arella.

I tried getting her to stay. I wanted to explain and make things right, but she refused to listen.

So now I’m here...

Alone...

With a wallet-size photo of Arella and me gazing deeply into each other’s eyes.

It’s slowly curling in my hand. She shoved it at me right before taking off. I want the happiness we had when we took this photo. The happiness I have whenever I’m with her. Whenever we’re cuddling until the very last second we have to get out of bed. Whenever we’re exchanging looks from across the room that say I admire everything about you without actually saying it.

I’ve got half a mind to mount my Harley and chase after her right now—after the only person who’s ever made me feel whole. I’ll come clean. I’ll tell her everything. I’ll confess that the flat tire that brought us together wasn’t an accident and tell her what Zordinaries are. I’ll show her my powers and explain how I know for a fact that the baby growing inside her isn’t mine.

Am I risking going to z-prison? Yes.

Do I care? If it’ll get me my girl back, no .

Even knowing she’s pregnant by another man, I still want to be with her. I love her too much to not forgive her. I’ll raise that baby like it’s mine, if that’s what it takes for her to forgive me too. Will she?

She was pretty upset after finding me shirtless with another woman. But she was off sleeping with another guy for who knows how long, so what’s the difference? I guess the difference is that she saw me. I suppose if I saw her half-naked with someone else, she’d be harder to forgive. But I’d forgive her—after bashing the other guy’s face in.

No one touches my girl.

No one.

Except, she’s not my girl anymore. Was she ever?

“What happened?” Jess asks when I step back into my house. She’s draped over my couch with a slight grin on her face.

I wasn’t in the mood for her when she showed up unannounced, and I’m definitely not in the mood for her now, so my tone comes out rough. “Cut the shit. I know you heard everything.” Or did she?

With her enhanced hearing, Jess can hear something as small as dust fall. Arella’s immunity probably blocks Jess’s power like it blocks mine.

“Okay, fine.” She perks up. “Was that the Ordinary you’ve been fucking around with?”

I hate the way she says that, as if my relationship with Arella was only “fucking around.” Arella means a hell of a lot more to me than that.

“How well could you hear our conversation?” My soaked workout shorts cool against my skin as I drag my feet behind the couch. I’m dripping water all over my clean carpet, and I don’t care.

Jess twists to face me. “As well as any other person can hear. I didn’t need my gift to catch what you guys were saying. You were screaming at each other so loud, I’m sure the moon people heard y’all.”

Dammit. I didn’t mean to shout at Arella. I just couldn’t control myself when she kept lying to my face, demanding that I pay child support for another man’s child.

Okay, technically, she wasn’t demanding anything. What she actually said was that she’ll be taking a DNA test to prove that I am the father and that I should be prepared to pay child support. Because I’m an asshole and was pissed off to shit, I told her she’d be stupid to think she’s getting a dime from me, when in reality, I’d give that woman anything she wants.

Money? Done.

My house? Take it.

My car? Here ya go.

Just be with me.

With a sigh, I scold myself. I shouldn’t have let her go. I especially shouldn’t have grabbed her the forceful way I had. Add those to my long list of mistakes.

Jess continues with a sparkling grin. “Sooo, she’s pregnant?”

“Yep.” Admitting it out loud to another person makes it more real.

“Who’s the father?”

Isn’t that the million-dollar question? I wish I knew. At the same time, I don’t think I want to know. I’ll obsess over it, and I’ll want to know everything about him so I can figure out why she chose him over me. “I dunno, but she tried to tell me it’s mine.”

Low laughter bellows from Jess’s gut. “Wow! I’m so glad I was here to witness this. An Ordi trying to convince a Zordi she’s carrying his child? Holy shit! This is better than TV.”

Seriously? I glare at her. “Get out.”

“What?”

With the fingers not holding my precious photo, I point at the front door. It swings wide open, coming to a firm stop just before hitting the wall. “Get the fuck out.”

“Hell no! I need to know all the deets! Like, what’s her motive? Is she trying to get your money?”

“Out! Now!” I give her two seconds. When she still doesn’t move, I lose it. With a flick of my wrist, the couch shoots toward the door with her still on it.

“Whoa! All right, all right. I’m leaving. No need to be such an ass.”

She’s right. I am an ass, and she’s a bitch, so I don’t give a flying fuck what she thinks of me. I just lost the most important person in my life, and she’s laughing about it like I’m on some stupid reality TV show. I’m done being her entertainment, and I’m done being her last-minute rebound. Just get out!

Once she stands, I point at the couch and fly it back to where it belongs. The second Jess has crossed the threshold, I wave a hand at the door. It slams shut behind her, and the bolt lock clicks. I hope I never have to see her face again. Ever.

I push the sopping strands of dark hair away from my face as I storm into my music room.

Minutes later, my pen flies messily across notebook paper as lyrics tumble from my mind. It’s not long before I’ve got two new verses and a chorus written. I grab my guitar to play some chords along to the melody.

When I was eight, I learned that playing and writing music helped settle the tornado of misery swirling in my head all the time. That, and lighting stuff on fire. And throat-punching people.

As a teenager, I found out that getting drunk helps too.

As an adult, I discovered that z-drugs work the best. The higher I get, the less agony I feel. I wish I had some right now, because writing this song isn’t helping.

“Fuck!” I smash my guitar against the floor. The wood breaks with a loud crack! as the instrument snaps in half.

For the first time since I got the call about Elliott passing away, I burst into tears. Thinking about losing my Deaf mentee kid only makes me sob harder. He meant so much to me, and I only had him for a short amount of time. Sadly, I had Arella for less.

My shoulders are shaking, and I’m wheezing. I don’t even understand why I’m crying. Maybe it’s because of the way things ended with her. Maybe it’s because it happened on the anniversary of the worst day of my life. Either way, my relationship with her was doomed from the start. Whether it was now, like this, or later when the Superiors hauled me off to z-prison for having close relations with an Ordinary, eventually, our relationship would have ended, and I knew that.

So why the hell do I feel this broken? Why, for weeks, did I try to convince myself that we could make it work? Zordinaries and Ordinaries aren’t meant to be together. We can’t be together. Knowing that didn’t stop me from falling in love with her, especially when everything with her feels more natural than blinking.

* * *

My body lurches upright as I wake. The sky outside my window is black. I don’t remember falling asleep, especially not on the floor. My eyes are sore, and my neck aches from the way I was lying. Next to me is my shattered guitar in a helpless heap of broken pieces. At least my shorts are dry now... mostly.

I flop onto my back and stare at the motionless ceiling fan. I’m not sure how long I stay like that. Maybe it’s five minutes. Maybe it’s five hours. It doesn’t matter.

Eventually, my stomach rumbles. The sky is still black, so it’s not time for breakfast. It’s been a while since I ate, so I should probably eat something .

Inside the fridge, I find salad for two, chicken for two, and pie for two. Disgusted, I slam the fridge shut. Suddenly, I’m not hungry anymore.

The bedroom is worse. My sheets smell like her: sweet lavender and springtime. Groaning, I rip the linens off the bed and hurl them at the wall. The gentle way they slump to the floor pisses me off, so I rip my lamp from the outlet and chuck it across the room. It hits the wall, and the lightbulb shatters to pieces.

What else can I throw?

A book? Sure. It lands with the pages open.

Bluetooth speaker? Definitely. It leaves a dent in the wall.

Cologne bottle? Hell yeah. I thought for sure it would crack, but it merely falls to the carpet, unharmed. Lame.

This throwing stuff thing isn’t working. What can I light on fire?

I glance around for something to burn and find Arella’s dress on the floor. I pick it up and crush it against my nose. As I inhale, every memory I have of holding her in my arms comes rushing back to destroy me.

After I suck up my sorrows, I grab all the sheets and take them, with Arella’s dress, to the laundry room. Just before tossing all the linens into the washing machine, I smash her dress against my face again. Mmm. It smells so good. Like a mix of happiness and the only sense of peace I’ve ever had.

I can’t do this.

Huffing, I stomp out of the laundry room, leaving her dress on the floor.

With an achy chest, I crawl onto my bare mattress and lie facedown with my arms out wide. I could put another set of sheets on, but why? That sounds like a lot of effort right now.

My bed feels bigger without her on it. Emptier too. I can still picture her here with her back flush against my front. I’d trace my fingertips up and down her arm while kissing her neck. We’d talk about nothing and everything at the same time. I never cared what we talked about as long as I could hear her voice.

“The only stupid thing I did was fall in love with you.” Those were some of her last words to me. They keep repeating in my head.

Love. What does that word mean, anyway? Liz once told me that love is a beautiful and fulfilling experience. So far, my experience with love has only been full of pain and regret.

I should have listened to Liz when she told me to stop messing around with Ordinaries. Liz was afraid I’d hurt Arella. Little did we know Arella would be the one to hurt me.

Whatever happened to that “Ari’s perfect for you” thing? Those were Liz’s words. She said that since I can’t sense Arella’s emotions, anything I feel for Arella is real and not a reflection of her feelings for me. If Arella is perfect for me, then why do I feel like I’ve just lost a war?

I want nothing more than to see my girl right now. More so, I want to see her happy. The image of her that keeps replaying in my mind is the way I last saw her: weepy and angry. I don’t want that to be what I picture whenever I think of her. Hold on. Where’s our picture?

I fly off the mattress and scour my bedroom. It’s not here.

I sprint to the living room. I search between the couch cushions, then the kitchen. Nothing.

Where did I—Oh! My music room! I rush in there and find the photo waiting for me next to my notebook, where I wrote that sad guitar ballad about her. It’s a song that will never see the studio. The lyrics are too raw. I’d never be able to sing it without choking up.

Thankfully, the rain didn’t ruin the photo. It’s a little curled at the corners, but it still showcases a happy couple gazing lovingly at each other.

The more I stare at the picture, the more I want to rip it up. I can’t bring myself to do it though. I’m weak. Too weak to leave her when I should have. Too weak to throw her dress into the wash. Too weak to destroy the only picture I have of us.

Ripping up this picture will be like admitting it’s over.

It’s not over.

It can’t be over.

Back in my bedroom, I search for my wallet. I find it lying open on the carpet. All my cash is gone—all two thousand dollars. Of course. Why wouldn’t Jess use the time I was outside with Arella to dig through what’s not hers? Unfortunately, missing cash is the least of my problems right now.

I’m carefully tucking my precious photo between the fabric of my bifold when I catch a glimpse of some writing on the back. I flip the picture over. The loopy handwriting makes my breath hitch.

I love you, Trey. You are right.

We do belong together.

—Arella

I read it again.

And again.

And again.

The sunrise appears out of nowhere. I haven’t slept, I haven’t eaten, and I don’t feel like doing either. I also haven’t let go of this picture since I saw Arella’s note.

The absence of her is driving me insane. I need to do the one thing that will completely block her from my mind. Unfortunately, I promised myself—more importantly, Liz—that I would never drink that much or get that high again. Although, back then, I didn’t know I’d feel so devastated.

Maybe I can black out for one day. I just won’t tell Liz.

No, no, no. I scold myself for even considering it. Nothing good can come from that. Except I could feel better, even if it’s just for one night. That’ll be worth it, right? Probably not. The second I wake up sober, this chest ache will come right back. It always does.

What I truly want is a permanent healing solution, and she’s probably in the arms of that other guy right now. The mere thought of it scratches at my throat, leaving it coarse and dry. Instead, I imagine her alone in her bed, sulking like I am. I let out a groan toward the ceiling. Neither image makes me feel good.

Should I call her? Has she tried to call me? Where’s my phone? After rubbing my sore eyes, I force myself to go phone hunting.

I don’t find it in my bedroom. Or the living room. Or the kitchen. When I still can’t find it, I search my music room twice. Nothing.

Huffing, I trudge upstairs to my workout room. Finally, I find the damn thing sitting next to my Bluetooth speaker. Now that I think about it, this was the last place I used my phone before Jess showed up during my workout yesterday.

Damn. Was that only yesterday?

My phone has five percent battery left. I’ve got two missed calls. Neither is from Arella. Three texts. None of those are from Arella either. They’re all from Liz, dated yesterday.

You coming to perform tonight or what?

T?

Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it’s September 5th. Don’t worry about coming if you don’t feel up for it.

The anniversary of seeing my parents get blown up is not the reason why I skipped out on my band’s show last night, but I’ll take it.

My phone vibrates in my hand. Liz’s name and picture appear on the screen. I let the call go to voicemail, because I’m not in the mood to talk to Liz right now—or anybody. Well, except for one. If Arella called, I wouldn’t hesitate to pick up.

A second later, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Liz.

Are you planning to come tonight?

If I’m not in the mood to talk to people, I’m definitely not in the mood to perform. Especially not on a Saturday, when the Soul House is always packed. But if I skip again, my band manager will have my head. Monique lives for any chance to yell at me. I don’t have the energy to deal with her wrath, so I suck it up, grab my leather jacket, strap on my helmet, and head toward downtown Los Angeles.

Riding my motorcycle is lonely without Arella. I can still feel her behind me and her fingers drawing figure eights over my abs. It’s not until I’ve arrived at my destination that I realize I should have stayed home.

Arella usually comes to work with me. Whenever she doesn’t, everyone asks about her. Typically, I can tell people she’ll be coming when she gets off work. This time, I can’t. What will I say instead? I sure as hell am not explaining what actually happened.

I find a parking spot in the back lot, then force myself to dismount my bike. I’d much rather go home, but I drag my feet to the backstage door anyway. On the keypad, I type in the access code.

Beep! The little light turns green, and I step inside.

Marcus is behind his drum set, spinning a drumstick around his fingers when he glances up at me. “Hey, man! Where you—” His face drops. “Damn. Who died?”

I must look like a train wreck. Definitely feel like one. I rub my stubbly cheeks. Maybe if I had trimmed my beard, I wouldn’t look so defeated.

“Is Ari comin’?” Kevin, our bass guitarist, asks through a mouthful of chips.

“Marcus! Kev!” Emmy, our pianist, rushes out of the women’s bathroom with Liz right behind her.

Liz flashes Marcus and Kevin a stern look, then pretends to zip her lips shut. The room goes silent.

The girls know. I don’t know how they know, but they know. I can tell by their distraught emotions whipping me in the face like a chilly gust of wind. Plus, they’re staring at me with a sorrowful look in their eyes.

I hate that look. It’s the pity look. It’s the same look people used to give me when I was known as the little boy whose parents died in a “house fire.” I shouldn’t have come.

Liz whispers something to Emmy, who nods, turns to the boys, and gestures toward the door. Without a word, the guys obey, and they rush outside with Emmy.

When the door clicks shut, Liz approaches me with gentle steps. The closer she gets, the deeper her sadness bleeds into my head. It mixes with the pain that’s been throbbing inside me since yesterday. I really shouldn’t have come.

“T,” she says, all tender and shit.

I hate it. I hate this. I don’t want to be treated like I’m wounded. I mean, I am, but I don’t want to be treated like it.

“How do you know?” I ask dryly.

“Well, you weren’t answering your phone, so I called Ari. She said you broke up with her.”

Is that the story she’s telling people? Hearing the words broke up doesn’t help me accept it. I won’t accept it. I’m still holding out for the moment someone pops out and tells me this was all just a cruel joke. The cruelest fucking joke ever.

I drag a rough hand through my already messy hair. “What else did she say?”

“Not much.”

I swallow the hard lump in my throat. “How is she?”

Liz studies me with furrowed brows. “Uh, I’m not sure.”

Is she as miserable as I am?

“How are you ?”

I shrug halfheartedly. “Fine.”

“You don’t look fine. You look heartbroken.”

Is that what I’m feeling? Heartbroken? I guess I wouldn’t know. It’s never happened to me before. No wonder people say it sucks.

Liz keeps talking to me like I’m a lost puppy. “I thought you were in love with her?”

“I am.”

“Then I’m confused as to why you dumped her, but let’s talk about this later, okay? We’ve gotta get ready for our show.”

The idea of performing sounds as bad as explaining to Liz what happened. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“I didn’t ask if you wanted to. We’re gonna talk tonight whether you like it or not.”

“Liz...” I sigh through her name.

She lifts a gloved hand to my face. “No. Don’t argue with me. You won’t win.”

She’s right. With her, I never win.

I guess if there’s one person in this world I can talk to about Arella, it’s Liz. Liz befriended me even when I was a drunk z-drug addict headed nowhere in life. Liz, of all people, will understand.

* * *

I was wrong. Liz doesn’t understand, and I don’t think she cares to.

“What do you mean, you didn’t break up with her?” Liz has left her satin gloves lying on the backstage coffee table and has forced me to sit on the couch with her.

The rest of the band and crew left a while ago. I delayed this conversation by taking a long bathroom break. I’d still be in there if Liz hadn’t waltzed into the men’s room to call me out on my bullshit. Leave it to her to know that I was simply hiding in a stall to avoid this.

“I didn’t break up with her. Technically, she left me.” I can still hear Arella’s tires squealing from driving away so fast.

“Why would Ari do such a thing?”

“Because,” I groan, “it wasn’t working.”

“Do you want it to?”

I rub my hands over my face and groan again—louder this time. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I care about you.”

It’s ridiculous that Liz cares about me at all. I’m a fuckup. She should start investing her precious energy into someone who actually matters.

I slouch back against the couch. “You’ve never had to have a therapy session with me about any other girl before. Why do you have to start now?”

“Because Ari’s different, and you know it. With her, you’re more vibrant and happy. You two have something special most people can’t find in a lifetime. It doesn’t even make sense, because she’s an Ordinary and it’s totally illegal and against all biology for you to love her, but I’ve never seen two people more meant for each other than you and her. I know you believe that too. So why are you acting like you’re just gonna let her go?”

Liz is right. Arella is meant for me. She’s my soul mate—something I didn’t even believe in until I felt the glimmer . I used to think getting a sickening sense whenever your soul mate was in danger was just some stupid thing Zordinaries made up to put claim on each other—until last month. I was on my way to Arella’s apartment when a sudden wave of nausea hit me like bricks to the stomach. My throat went dry and I couldn’t stop coughing. Then I found Arella being attacked by spiders.

The week after, when her car was hit by a truck, my body knew something was wrong. I was nowhere near her when it happened, yet sudden nausea hit me again. I got so dizzy, I threw up. Given that Arella’s an Ordinary, my sicknesses at those exact times could have been a coincidence, but that’s one hell of a coincidence.

“Tell me what you want, T,” Liz says. “What would make you happy?”

“I dunno.” Happiness seems like a foreign idea right now.

“Do you want her back?”

“I dunno.”

“Yes, you do. You either want her or you don’t. Which is it?” Liz isn’t stupid. We both know the answer. She’s just trying to get me to say it out loud.

“Of course I want her back,” I grumble.

“Then go get her. Whatever you guys fought about, talk through it.”

“It’s not that easy.”

Liz scoffs. “You’re a smart man. Figure it out.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I just can’t,” I snap.

Like always, Liz isn’t having my attitude. She snaps right back at me. “Why not?”

I give in. “Because she slept with another man.”

“No, she didn’t.”

I scowl at the conviction in her tone. “How are you so sure?”

“Because Ari would never do that.”

That’s what I thought too—until she showed me those two lines on a pee stick. “Well, she did.”

“How do you know? Did she tell you?”

“No. I know because—” I choke up. “She’s... She’s pregnant.”

Liz gasps, covering her mouth with her hand. “No. Maybe the test was wrong.” She’s going through the denial phase. That was me for the first fifteen minutes after I saw those goddamn pregnancy brochures.

I was cleaning up my house when I accidentally dropped Arella’s purse and all her stuff spilled out. As I bent to pick it up, the words Having a Healthy Pregnancy caught my attention. I almost fell over.

“She took four store-bought tests and a test at the doctor’s office. They all came out positive.” I lift a finger. “Which, by the way, does not mean she’s positively not pregnant .”

Liz screws her face up. “Hold on. You thought positive on a pregnancy test meant positively not pregnant?”

“Well, I fuckin’ hoped.”

“You know, for a smart man, you’re kind of an idiot.”

I toss my hands into the air, letting them fall to my thighs. “Thanks for the pep talk, Liz. Really made me feel loads better. Same time tomorrow?”

Her hands go up in surrender. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I’m just... trying to process all this. If Ari is pregnant, that means she really did sleep with someone else.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to fucking tell you.”

Liz slumps back, huffing out a breath. “Damn. That changes everything.”

* * *

Sunday night used to be our night. It’s the evening I usually have off, and I’d spend those hours just being with Arella. Most of the time, we’d just talk until she fell asleep. Sometimes we’d watch movies or play card games or take walks around my neighborhood.

Sundays are special to me. We had our first date on a Sunday. I took her to my favorite pasta place in Long Beach, where I made her laugh so hard, she wheezed and slapped her knee over and over.

A couple of Sundays later, she taught me how to bake snickerdoodle cookies in my kitchen. That night ended with us throwing flour at each other and sharing our first kiss.

Then there was that one Sunday when we went stargazing at her thinking spot , a secluded oak tree at the top of a woodsy hill. There, she explained to me what love is.

“When you love someone, you put their happiness before your own.”

Later that night, I told her what really happened to my parents, and she comforted me with a simple touch of her hand to my face.

On a Sunday after that, we made love for the first time, right under that tree. It was the most magical and sensual experience I’ve ever had.

As I flop onto my still-bare mattress, I mope over the idea that this could be the first of many Sundays I spend alone.

On Monday, everything reminds me of her. Little things like waking up to her side of the bed empty, or walking into the kitchen, where she’s not in my T-shirt, pouring herself a glass of apple juice. Or stepping into my shower without a naked beauty smiling back at me.

My shower water ran cold five minutes ago. My body’s natural equilibrium is working hard to warm me because I don’t care to get out. There’s nothing waiting for me beyond these tile walls—the ones that I’m pounding my head against because I’m trying to get her out of my mind.

When I finally gather enough willpower to step out, the mirror is foggy. In the middle of the glass, I swipe a towel in a circle to reveal my face. Ew. Bloodshot pupils. Dark eyebags. Facial hair that hasn’t been trimmed in who knows how long. I look like a homeless bum.

With a towel around my waist, I drag my feet into my walk-in closet. All her clothes are still hanging up on her side. I debate shoving it all into a box and driving it back to her. It’d be an excuse to see her, but returning her things means she won’t be coming back. I’m not ready to admit that yet.

On Tuesday, I don’t do anything productive all day. Unless lugging my feet around my empty house and finding things to throw fireballs at counts as productive.

Around noon on Wednesday, Liz FaceTimes me. I almost don’t answer, but if I don’t, she’ll show up here, and that would be worse.

“Hey,” I mumble when her face appears on my screen. I take a seat at my kitchen counter.

“Don’t even think about skipping tonight. If you don’t show up to rehearsal by four, I’ll drive over there and throw water balls at you until you beg me to stop.”

“Can’t I get one pass?” I prop my phone up against my salt shaker. It’s too much effort to hold my phone up.

“Hell no. I’ve given you passes for two days.” That’s true. I skipped our recording session yesterday and our writing session the day before that. “It’s not good for you to be alone, T. I know how you get.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Have you been staying sober?”

“Unfortunately,” I say with a scoff.

“Good. Now get yourself together and show up tonight.”

Let’s see... Get pounded with water by Liz or leave my house and be forced to talk to other humans? I think I’ll take the water balls.

“Come on, T. Please?”

I sigh heavily. “Fine.”

“Fabulous. I’ll see you later then. And for the love of all things holy, please, trim your beard.”

I rub my palm against my long chin hairs. “Is it that bad?”

“You look like the Wish version of Henry Cavill.”

On Thursday, only because hunger is clawing a hole through my stomach, I force myself to make some lunch. For the first time in months, I’m cooking for one—that is, if sticking a frozen pizza into the oven counts as cooking.

On Friday, I arrive home from the Soul House mentally exhausted. The fans got a halfhearted performance from me tonight. During the meet and greet, I fake-smiled for all the photos until it was finally over. All of it felt trivial. What’s the point when I don’t have her?

I can’t take it anymore. I need the pain to stop, and I need it to stop now.

I don’t register that my feet have moved until I’m already in the kitchen with the cabinet open. From it, I drag down a half bottle of bourbon, some tequila, and a tiny bit of vodka. I don’t think about it as I unscrew the vodka cap and chug it all in one breath. It burns on its way down my throat.

The tequila is next. It takes three breaths to finish.

The bourbon takes four.

This isn’t enough to get me buzzed, and I need to black out. Years of being a drunk have built up my alcohol tolerance. Couple that with my body filtering it out way faster than the average Ordinary can, and I’m gonna need at least three more bottles—full ones.

My nights used to be filled with popping questionable pills and trying any z-drug I could get my hands on. Hollow sex with women in skimpy outfits. Meaningless fights with big guys in bars. Talking shit to bouncers at clubs, just to get them to drive a hard one into my face. I used to do anything so I could feel something other than the emptiness in my chest.

Two years ago, I cleaned up. Liz made me realize that a pathetic trainwreck isn’t what I want to be. Tonight, I don’t give a shit what I am.

Through heavy rainfall, I drive to the nearest liquor store, getting there ten minutes before closing. Something makes me go apeshit in the aisles. I toss practically every hard liquor in sight into my basket.

When I arrive back home, I don’t waste a second. In my silent living room, on the vacant couch, I rip the seal off a bottle and chug.

The last time I drank with the intent of passing out was after I got the call telling me the cancer had finally taken Elliott. I would have given anything to cure that precious little boy. Right now, I’d give anything to have Arella back.

She would hate me if she saw me drinking like this. The smell of alcohol triggers bad memories of her ex in her head. Because of that, I never drank around her. And now, she’s gone.

Only once two bottles lie empty beside me do I start to feel something. The blackout is coming, but it’s not coming fast enough, so I reach for another bottle. Bottoms up.