Page 22 of I’m Already Gone

“I missed her birthday,” I said, the bitter laugh scraping its way out of my throat. I took another drink, though it did nothing to dull the shame. “Then I told her she deserved someone better. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, I walked away from her.”

I walked away from my Sunshine after promising her I never would. That’s one of the million promises I’ll always regret breaking.

“I’m sure she understood you said it out of anger,” Emma said. “Maybe apologize the right way this time.”

“And say what?” I scoffed. “Sorry I chose work over you again. Sorry I chose everything else and everyone else but you and the kids.”

I shook my head, the room spinning slightly. She wouldn’t forgive me for this. Missing out on their lives was a betrayal. Their laughter. Game nights. Movie nights. Hanging out at the beach.

“You made a mistake, Ethan. You’re being too hard on yourself,” Emma whispered as she took a step closer.

“I have neglected my wife,” I confessed. “That’s not a mistake. My actions prove that I failed as a husband and a father.”

She reached for my glass, her fingertips brushing mine. I pulled my hand back sharply, resting the glass on my lap. “Leave it.”

Emma’s hand slowly retreated.

Placing her hands on the edge, she leaned slightly forward. “Like I said, you made a mistake, but it doesn’t mean you can’t fix it,” she whispered, her words slithering into the haze of my drunken mind.

“Why are you really here, Emma?” I asked, the words slightly slurred as I fought to pull my thoughts into focus.

“Because you looked like you needed a friend.”

“And you thought that friend should be you?”

She nodded slowly, her gaze never leaving mine.

“Why?” I pressed.

“Because I know what it feels like to lose everything,” she said. “I saw pieces of who I used to be in you before my marriage fell apart. I didn’t want you to be alone.”

“You shouldn’t be here, Emma.” The words were a warning to her, but more so to myself.

A rush of adrenaline coursed through my veins, sharpening my senses, every detail heightened: her sultry voice, the way she smiled at me, the intoxicating scent of her floral perfume. The smell was nothing like my Lily. My Sunshine.

She leaned in, her warm breath brushing against my ear. I could feel the soft curve of her hip grazing against my arm. “I know, but I want to be.”

Heat rushed to my face, and my palms grew clammy. I didn’t move or pull away from her touch. I sat there like a fucking idiot, a willing participant in this game.

Was there something in this drink? Why the hell else would I be grappling with the guilt for wanting to enjoy this moment with Emma? A woman who was not my wife. But Emma didn’t look at me with disappointment. She understood me. I hadn’t failed Emma. But Lily was my wife. Not Emma.

Before my already muddled brain could process what the hell was happening, she plucked the heavy crystal glass from my hand and set it on the table.

“Emma,” I tried, the name a clumsy, foreign sound on my tongue.

“This isn’t right,” she whispered, almost as if she’s trying to convince herself.

“What isn’t right?”

“Having feelings for a man who is taken. This is so wrong on so many levels.”

“Yes, it is,” I agreed. My mind was too foggy, too clouded by the bourbon and self-pity to grasp the gravity of this situation. All I kept seeing was Lily’s face, etched with sadness, and the crushing weight of how much I had failed her.

The air between us thickened, heavy with a dangerous cocktail of want, desire, and the bitter taste of regret. My hand rose to cup the back of her neck, my fingers tangling in the silken strands of her hair. I squeezed in a desperate need for connection, for grounding, for something to hold onto. My forehead rested against hers.

“Ethan, we shouldn’t,” she says, her voice barely audible, yet her hands found my shoulders, her fingers digging in, a mirror of my own desperate grip. As if she, too, was trying to hold back a rising tide. But maybe this moment with her could get rid of this self-loathing, this corrosive acid wreaking havoc inside me.

“I know,” I rasped.