Then I stalk to the cabinet, swiping my arms across the surface on a yell, sending the glasses and bottles crashing to the floor. I yank the mini-fridge open and grab a bottle of water, glugging it back manically. I toss it aside when I’m done, immediately grabbing another and downing it. Then another. Then another. I keep going, drinking water like it can cleanse me of the alcohol and my sins, bottle after bottle. My stomach eventually revolts, and I grab a bin, throwing up into it, coughing, spluttering, and retching.

I’m done.

But I’m not done.

I take hold of the cabinet at one end and drag the solid piece across my office, blocking the door, barricading myself in. Stopping me from leaving. And anyone from coming in.

Then I fall to my knees, my eyes welling with hopeless tears.

I can’t escape. I can’t be free of this self-sabotage. I’m my own worst enemy. A failure. The deadliest kind of poison. Out of my mind in all ways.

And hopelessly in love with a woman I can never have.

Or deserve.

“Why did I fucking live and they all died?” I roar, consumed by self-hatred.

Why? I should be dead. Not them. Not. Them.

Because I’m a fuck-up, just as my dad has always said. A total, unsavable fuck-up.

That thought has me sifting through the bottles on the floor to find some more vodka.

I just need this all to end.

18

What have I done? How could I? What will my punishment be for that mistake? Can I redeem myself?

Questions run amok in my mind, one after the other, all questions with answers I can’t face.

John has come and gone. Sam and Drew have come and gone. Sarah followed me back after I released myself to use the toilet. All have stood on the other side of that door trying to force it open, calling out to me. I text them all. Told them I’m fine.

I’m far from fine. I’m a wreck. Plagued by guilt. Haunted by shame.

But while I’m suffering, at least Ava isn’t. Especially clear given she hasn’t text once.

I drag myself onto the couch, pulling my phone off charge. Saturday. I’ve been festering in here for days. I finished every drop of vodka I had for the first two days. Safe. Barricaded in my office to be numb, with no risk of more meaningless fucking, dropping off to sleep now and then, but only for an hour or two before my nightmares woke me. Then the vodka ran dry. And all that was left for the past two days was a hangover, regret, and memories of the brief time in my life when grief and guilt didn’t rule it. The hangover has passed, but I still feel like death. It’s the first time ever alcohol isn’t responsible.