“Is it good?” I ask, desperate to make conversation with her.

She looks at me, then past me. “I have a son, you know. The most beautiful boy. He’s going to be famous when he grows up.”

I clear my throat and grip the edge of the table, my heart splitting apart piece by fucking piece.

“I need you to go so he can sit down.” She makes a shooing motion with her hand as I fight the burning tears. A glance over my shoulder tells me there’s no one there, but she’s already muttering to whoever she sees in her head. Already talking to her son. Her imaginary one.

She doesn’t know who I am.

Not today.

I murmur something, anything, to hold on a bit longer, but she’s already drifted back into her own mind.

Fuck. I hate this.

It’s the same every time, like an addiction I can’t shake but that only destroys me more each time I see her. I dig a hand into my pocket and slide the envelope across the table to her.

She jerks her bag back. “I don’t want anything from you,” she spits out.

“It’s money. Get yourself a hotel for the night. Take a shower. Sleep in a bed.”

“They did send you, didn’t they?” She flings the envelope off the table and it flies against the wall with a thud.

My heart lurches in my throat as her agitation and paranoia grows.

I take a step back. Then another, putting my hands up as I go. If I leave she’ll stay and eat. If I don’t, she’ll run and disappear without any warm food in her belly.

I can’t breathe. The pressure in my chest is crushing as I frantically try to get outside. To draw in fresh air.

The minute I turn the corner and am around the side of the building, out of sight of everyone, I press my hands to my knees and let loose a ragged, pathetic sob.

It’s not like she remembers what she’s lost. It’s still all right there for her. In her tormented mind. In her memory.

It’s me who lost everything.

It’s me who remembers what I used to have.

It’s me whose scars have just been ripped open yet again.

I don’t realize I’ve called Vince until his voice cuts through the static in my brain. “You okay, man?”

No. No, I’m not.

“Can you come get me?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Gizmo

“You want to talk about it?”

I stare at the glass of whiskey in front of me. I’ve lost count of how many have been poured, but it’s definitely a number on more than one hand. “Same shit. Different day.”

“Nah. It’s more than that,” Vince says in that quiet, steady tone of his I’ve grown to count on.