I make it to my car and stare at my reflection in the window. This feeling of loss, of grief. It’s embedded on every inch of my worn face. It’s familiar. It’s excruciating.

It’s all my fault.

Again.

My lip curls at the man staring back at me. A man I hate.

And I launch my fist into his face.

38

I push the door of my penthouse closed behind me and go to the kitchen, sliding the box onto the counter and bracing my hands on the edge, staring at it. My heart hasn’t slowed. My pulse is still booming. Has been since I entered the liquor store and bought enough vodka to kill me. I’ve ignored endless calls from John, Sarah, Sam, and Drew. Everyone in the fucking world is trying to get hold of me except the one person who could stop the train crash that’s about to happen. But this pain. This anger.

With no Ava, there is only emptiness without a cure.

I pull out a bottle and unscrew the cap, breathing in deeply, staring at the clear liquid. My nostrils flare. I snarl and take it to my lips, swigging, clenching the side of the worktop with my spare hand, closing my eyes. The burn isn’t so familiar anymore. It hurts, and I gasp, slamming the bottle down on the counter, breathing hard.

More anger.

More pain.

Drown it.

I gulp back more, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, gasping for air in between mouthfuls. And still, the agony remains. “Fuck you,” I spit, taking more, determined to be rid of this noose around my neck. I carry on swigging and pluck another bottle from the box before loading the rest into the freezer and heading for the stairs. Every single thing in my home is a trigger. It all has her name on it, and worse, I see her everywhere—on the couch, on the stairs. I finish the bottle, drop the empty at my feet, and make fast work of opening my fresh one as I take the stairs slowly, inspecting my abused, swollen fist. There’s blood everywhere, and stupidly, I don’t want to get it on any of the walls or furnishings. It’ll smear her hard work with my pathetic-ness.