That’s not me in these photos. Not the man I now represent. I put that shit behind me years ago. Walked away from that way of life. Sacrificed everything that made me happy to do what I thought was right. To own up to my mistakes and make things better. I was on my way home, goddamn it. Had made it through a night filled with the worst of my temptations. Had rebuffed the willing groupie. Had turned down the free booze. Caspian belongs in those photos, not me. And yet, there I am. No denying it. But, fuck, that’s why I don’t drink. That’s why I quit. Because it turns me into someone I’m not. Replaces my conscious self with some self-absorbed monster who doesn’t consider consequences. It’s like a possession. Like some puny demon taking my body for a joy ride while I’m asleep at the wheel. I beat it, though. AA was my exorcism. Al my Catholic priest. Rox’s confused tears my fucking holy water. And now that’s all going to be taken from me? For what? What possible reason could the person behind this have for ruining my life in this way?

Some questions, I’ve learned, are best left unanswered.

The images on these pages shamed me deeply. And Al had seen them. Worse, Cassie had. How many hours had she spent wondering when I’d be home, worrying about whether or not I’d relapsed? And then to receive these texts like I’m taunting her. Rubbing my relapse and crude infidelity in her face.

I talk about the sacrifices I’ve made for Cassie, like she hasn’t sacrificed for me. Like this was the life she dreamed about as a little girl. Me with my shit job and selfish tendencies, her Prince Charming. Us with our crippled kid.

Al was still staring at his hands. I was still staring at my dick.