I knew—I fucking knew this day was coming. But I hoped—hell, I even prayed—that I’d be proven wrong. That Mason would be strong enough to hold out. Sure, alcohol was never his drug of choice, but I know how shit to nothing that matters.

He might as well have downed another bottle of fucking Oxy, as far as I’m concerned. It’s all the same when you’re an addict.

The question remains though—why?

It’s not like this anniversary is any different to last year’s, or the year before. He remained sober for those, so why now? Is it the weight of the years adding up? Is that it?

Or did something else happen...?

Something I’ve been dreading more than I gave conscious thought to. Not until this moment.

Please, no.

Muffled noises trickle down from the hall, and I quickly follow it to Mason’s room. I don’t know what I’m expecting when I open the door, but what I find...

Is not it.

Not it at all.

“You lock up?” Shawn asks gruffly from his spot by the far wall.

I nod, not taking my eyes off the scene on the floor in front of me.

He grunts something in acknowledgement. I know he’s not pissed; he would have done it too, had our positions been reversed.

I can’t even imagine how he’s feeling right now, being Mason’s sponsor for all intents and purposes. Watching the guy he’s supposed to guide away from the edge succumb to his vices. This is why I always thought it was a bad fucking idea. Who’s to say Shawn won’t fall off the wagon now, too, the second he leaves this room?

And where will that leave me?

Someone mutters a curse from behind me that I feel echoed silently in my own throat, and it has everything else falling away. Everything but my best friend—my brother—as my world narrows into a single point.

Mason...

Jeremy Montgomery’s sitting on the floor with his back against the bed, his legs extended out in front of him. His pale, silvery hair glimmers under the ceiling light as he looks down at the body sprawled halfway across his lap.

His long fingers comb back Mason’s ash brown hair as ice-blue eyes stare up at the ceiling with the sort of vacancy I haven’t seen in years. There are tear tracks stained dry across Mason’s flushed cheeks, and the bottle of vodka sits curled in his loose grip. The green glass cutting grotesque shapes across his battered knuckles.

He doesn’t move, except for the slow rise and fall of his chest.

“He’s drunk.”

I’m not sure why I say this. Obviously, he’s fucking drunk.