Chapter 12
twelve
Cole
I’m such a piece of shit . I can’t believe I got so drunk I slept with Charlie.
I knew we had chemistry. I was aware of my growing attraction to her, and I let my guard down anyway.
How in the hell am I going to finish out my stay now that I’ve crossed that line?
I messed up. I took something good and special and turned it into something cheap.
That fragile bond between two kindred spirits who were just learning to trust each other, tarnished because I got shitfaced and couldn’t keep my dick in my pants.
I feel sick. And not just because I’m once again nursing the mother of all hangovers, which is a whole other problem.
I’m drinking too much. Relying on liquor to take the edge off, and I know I have to stop while I still can.
Addiction runs in my family. After my dad died, my mom couldn’t cope and started drinking to mask her pain.
When she ran out of booze at home, she’d go out, hitting up seedy bars around our neighborhood.
She’d stay out all night, come home when the sun was already up, and crawl into bed to sleep the rest of the day away.
Her child became an afterthought. It was only alcohol at first, but when that didn’t seem to do the trick anymore, she turned to drugs instead.
A few lines turned into pills, which turned into heroin, and before long, the only thing she cared about was her next fix.
When the neighbors found me digging through the trash for the second time in the span of a week because my mom hadn’t been home in days and the hunger pains became unbearable, CPS was alerted, and I entered the foster system.
I was seven years old.
I may have been young, but watching your own mother turn into someone you no longer recognize tends to leave a lasting impression, and I’ve been hyperconscious of my alcohol consumption ever since.
I made it a point not to open a bottle after a particularly shitty day at work.
It’s not unusual for someone in my position to de-stress with a glass of whatever your choice of poison may be.
You see a lot of shit you’d rather forget in law enforcement, and it would’ve been so easy to use booze as a crutch.
Not me. I refused to end up like her. But ever since that fateful day, I’ve found myself staring at the bottom of a bottle one too many times.
Too consumed by grief to give a shit about anyone else, let alone myself.
Using them as an excuse to be weak. Elena would be fucking ashamed of me if she could see me now.
My heart squeezes painfully in my chest at the thought of her.
My stomach revolts as I push through the front door of my cabin and make my way straight into the bathroom, just in time for the retching to begin.
Once I’m done, I flush, washing away the evidence of my guilt, and sit with my back against the wall for what feels like hours.
Then I drag myself to my feet and crawl into bed, where I cry myself to sleep for the first time in months.