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The most overwhelming of all my thoughts is that I'll never have Jack again, not in the way I want him. If we somehow escape this unscathed, it will be even more unsafe to continue the way we have. We'll be walking on eggshells for the rest of the year, or perhaps even longer. Who's to say if she'll keep her end of whatever bargain Jack made with her? And what kind of deal could he have made, anyway?
Whatever the case, I'm fucked.
Possibly fucked out of a job. Fucked out of a reputation that could keep me from getting another job. And worst of all, fucked out of a relationship that was beginning to mean something to me. To mean everything to me.
"Hey, Bryant. Is everything okay?"
I blink up at Tuck, who stares down at me with concern. How long has he been there?
"Are you alright?"
My nod is unconvincing at best, but I can't put enough words or thoughts together to make any excuses.
"I, uh… I need to go," I say. Without any further explanation, I stand up and grab my keys and walk out.
I don't remember the drive back to my house, or coming inside. I don't remember opening the bottle of Macallan and pouring a glass. I don't remember what the first sip tastes like, or when I started drinking directly out of the bottle.
The only thing my brain can process is Jack's face when he shows up on my doorstep and sees me holding a half empty bottle of scotch.
CHAPTER 29
JACK
Jesus.
He looks terrible. Swaying on his feet, with a depressed, glazed look in his eyes. Somehow, the past eight hours have aged him. He looks older, and broken.
His strong shoulders are sloped forward, arms drooping at his sides. His head hangs, and his posture is slouched. A half empty bottle of booze hangs loosely from his right hand.
I did this to him.
"Bryant," I whisper, my chest aching to see him this way.
He stumbles, and I lunge forward to catch him under one arm, walking him back into the house and into the small sitting room. The leather creaks when he sits down, evidence of how little this furniture has ever been used.
"I'm so sorry," I tell him, keeping my distance because I know he's upset with me. I'm upset with myself, and I wouldn't want anything to do with me if I were him.
I've undermined everything we've accomplished, both of our entire futures so close to getting flushed down the drain. All over a stupid, boneheaded decision made with the wrong head.
What's that expression—young, dumb, and full of cum?
I'm not sure dumb cuts it.
"I'm so sorry," I repeat.
"It's my fault," Bryant says, slurring a little. "I shouldn't have started this. It was inappropriate, and I pushed you into–"
"You didn't push me into anything," I say quickly, crouching down in front of him. I want to reach out to him, to touch him, console him, hold him and tell him everything is going to be okay. But I can't. "If anything, I pushed you."
"Pushed me to the edge of sanity," he says, laughing humorously as he takes a swig from the bottle.
"Right back at ya, big guy." I take the bottle from him, raise it to my mouth, and take a hefty gulp. It burns all the way down my throat and chest, warmth settling heavily in my stomach. One more swallow, and then I put the bottle on the coffee table, out of his reach.
We're silent for a long time. I snuck over here to explain what I've done to protect us—to protect him—to let him know how it has to be from now on. But he's in no condition to hear it, and he won’t remember it if I tried.
I'm worried about him in this state. He’s so unlike himself. So out of control. So defeated.
He notices me looking at him. "It's been almost seven years since I've had a drink. I thought it would help me feel less—care less. But it seems to be doing the opposite." His hazel eyes are dark, bloodshot. Full of pain. "It never was a reliable crutch."
