1. Chapter 1 #2
I decline the call. A few steps forward and my phone buzzes again. Decline.
This has been my life for almost two years now after we separated—Heath calling, showing up, pretending like he doesn’t know exactly why we fell apart.
Pretending like he doesn’t remember all the times he tore me down, pushed me until there was nothing left of me but the shell of a man who drowned his sorrows in whiskey and mistakes.
It took everything to crawl out of that. Took help, took hard fucking lessons, took facing myself in the mirror and not recognizing the person looking back at me. And now that I’m finally back on the right track, Heath refuses to let go.
Because of course he does. The man I spent a year with, the man who was supposed to love me, the man who made me doubt my own worth—he doesn’t believe in letting things end on anyone’s terms but his own.
I grind my teeth as my phone rings again and the idea of chucking the device at the wall grows.
But that would just add to everyone’s worry, that I need more help than I’m already getting.
Ignoring Heath won’t do me any good so I answer it.
“What do you want, Heath? I’m not in the mood to go round and round until you tell me we should just get back together or I should move back in. ”
There’s a slight echo to my words and I pull the phone from my ear, staring at it for several seconds until I hear Heath’s voice. But his voice comes from behind me. I spin around and groan, the very man I’ve been trying to avoid these past few weeks currently crowding my space.
He looks posh as ever, wrapped in some sleek, tailored business suit that screams money and power, his hair slicked back, shoes so polished they probably cost more than my monthly salary. Everything about him is curated, an image he perfected over years of stepping on people to get where he is.
The problem is that there is absolutely no reason he should be here.
Heath tilts his head, that practiced smirk tugging at his lips. “Hey, I just thought…”
“Stop thinking.” My voice comes out sharper than I intend, but I don’t bother softening it.
I don’t owe him anything. “This isn’t going to happen, Heath.
We’re different people going in different directions and we figured that out years ago.
” There might have been a few good weeks after the court wedding but that was it.
Those memories aren’t as vivid as everything else he put me through.
I walk over to my desk, yanking open the drawer with more force than necessary. My fingers find the papers, the ones that should have ended this bullshit a long time ago. I turn, shoving them against Heath’s chest. “Sign the damn papers.”
He exhales dramatically, taking the stack from me, flipping through the pages lazily.
Then, just as casually, he pulls something from his pocket.
A small bottle of whiskey, the glass catching the light as he holds it up between us like a fucking peace offering.
“Noah,” he purrs, that seductive voice I once fell for making an appearance. “We should sit and talk.”
I can’t fucking believe that Heath would bring that in here.
He knows what I’ve gone through. He knows what I’ve fought against. And yet he stands there, dressed in his overpriced suit, holding out a bottle of the very thing I spent years dragging myself out of, as if a few drinks are the answer to whatever this is supposed to be.
It’s not even a thought as I grab the whiskey straight from his hand and throw it against the opposite wall, the glass shattering, amber liquid splattering against the pristine white.
My chest heaves, my hands shaking with the force of my anger, my disgust, my fucking hatred for the man who still thinks he can control me.
“Fuck you,” I bite out. “Are you really that fucking daft? You know what I’ve gone through. And for you to bring that shit in here, thinking a few glasses of poison would help me, is ridiculous.”
Heath’s expression hardens, his polished exterior cracking at the edges.
For the first time since he walked in, he doesn’t look like the untouchable businessman.
He looks like the entitled, manipulative bastard I wasted too many years on.
Heath’s lips turn up in a snarl before he lunges, shoving me back against my desk, his hand around my throat before I can react.
His fingers press in, just enough to remind me of the times I let him do this without a fight.
But this isn’t three years ago. I am no longer Kurt’s lean little brother, easy to throw around, easy to intimidate.
Days spent in the gym fighting against the demons in my head have served me well.
I grab his wrist, prying his fingers off my throat with ease, twisting just enough to make him hiss in pain.
And then I push him back, not hard enough to throw him off balance, but enough to make my point. “Touch me one more time, and I’ll break your fucking fingers.”
Heath’s throat bobs as he swallows, his pulse jumping at his neck.
“Now get out of my damn office. Unless you’re going to sign the divorce papers or you have a medical emergency. And if that’s the case, I’m sure one of the many doctors down the hall would be happy to help you.”
He stays for a moment longer, weighing his options before exiting, not taking the papers that are now strewn across the floor.
I plop into my desk chair, dropping my head back with a growl of frustration.
His little appearances have been more and more frequent in the last several months, the man holding onto a dead relationship.
I let my gaze drift, needing something to ground me, anything to pull me out of my own head.
My eyes land on the framed photo sitting at the edge of my cluttered desk, the one I haven’t moved in years.
Kurt and his buddies.
The only real connection I ever had to my brother, the only thing that made me feel like I was still part of his life, even when he didn’t bother checking in. He sent one every year, like some kind of obligation. A small thread between us, but a thread nonetheless.
I reach for the frame, rubbing my thumb over the glass. They all look so damn happy, their grins wide, arms slung around each other’s shoulders like nothing in the world could touch them. The same carefree bullshit that made Kurt so easy to admire, to hate, to resent.
I scan the familiar faces, recognizing three of them instantly. Sebastian, of course, standing slightly off-center, that ever-present smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. And then there are two others I vaguely remember from college—Logan and Declan.
There had been a crazy night or two, a few reckless decisions I was never going to bring up again, even if they still made my face burn and my dick twitch in my pants.
Declan had been the first to push me up against the wall of some shitty college bar, fingers gripping my hips, mouth rough against mine, his teeth scraping against my jaw before Logan’s amused voice had broken through the haze.
Waking up between them had spurred on fantasies we never indulged, Kurt always just around the corner. We were in a fraternity together, but I was just the baby brother. And yet, for a moment I wasn’t. Just like with Sebastian, I was more than that.
Returning the picture to my desk, I glance at the clock, frowning at the time. Ronny was supposed to swing by an hour ago. My partner in crime and best friend ever since Heath and I split.
I struggled with alcohol and he struggled with his self-worth, both of us battling demons that never quite left. We held each other together when it mattered, kept each other from slipping too far into the abyss. But just because we fought through it didn’t mean we won.
We had been healing and suffering in equal measure, dragging each other out of dark places when no one else would. That didn’t mean every time he didn’t answer the phone, I wasn’t sitting on the edge of my fucking seat, wondering if something had happened.
Wondering if this was the time he didn’t make it back out.
I sit up, reaching for my phone, already knowing his contact is one of the first in my recent calls. He always swipes though, even if it’s just a quick "Hey, let’s grab lunch" or "Let’s make plans for the weekend". It’s routine. Consistent. A reminder to stay in the present.
But right now? No texts. No missed calls. Nothing. I press his name, bringing the phone to my ear. It rings, once, twice—voicemail.
Not immediately, but long enough that he should’ve picked up.
I try again. The longer it rings, the more unease coils in my gut. The sharp, bitter kind that never leads to anything good. Voicemail.
I swallow hard, shifting in my chair, gripping my phone just a little tighter. My jaw tightens as I press call again, pushing out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. "Come on, Ronny," I mutter under my breath. "Pick up."
Nothing.
A sick feeling lodges itself deep in my chest, like ice crawling through my veins. It’s irrational—I know that. Maybe his phone died. Maybe he fell asleep. Maybe he got distracted, forgot to check the time.
But I know him, and Ronny never forgets.
***
It’s been exactly thirty-six minutes since I last called Ronny’s phone, a total of two hours since he should have been here.
I can’t focus, can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong even though I keep telling myself otherwise.
One of the guys passed through for a quick check up and I moved through the motions, barely talking to him, my bedside manner leaving much to be desired.
But I can’t fucking wait any longer.
Waving the last patient off, I drag my phone out and dial Ronny again.
No answer. So, I try his house like I have over the last hour, hoping and praying someone will pick up.
He’s nearly thirty minutes outside the city, and I’m seconds away from jumping into the car to go check on him.
But he’s living with his mother and the maid he grew up with.
He’s safe.
The dial tone ends and I hold my breath, unsure of what to say. A timid ‘hello’ tumbles from my mouth, a soft sigh on the other side breaking my heart.
“Is this Noah?” The voice wobbles, and I recognize it as the maid, Sarah.
My breath hitches, guilt filling my chest as I grip the phone a little tighter.
I clear my throat and lighten my voice even as the dread sets in.
“Yeah. Where’s Ronny? We were supposed to meet up a couple hours ago.
” Silence meets my question and the worst feeling I have experienced since my ex threatened me settles in my chest. “Hello?”
There’s a sniffle and then a pause. “Noah, it’s been a little tough over here.” Another sniffle. “I didn’t think it would be this difficult. Ronny… he… he’s no longer with us. He passed away this morning.”
My heart stops as the first of many sobs break through. “What happened?” I have no right to ask that, but I can’t help feeling I should have done more, should have called him last night, talked to him, maybe took him out to dinner.
“He was found in his bathtub this morning and although his mother called the ambulance, he didn’t make it.”
I fall to the floor in my office, confused and angry and miserable.
“How’s his mother? How’s Ginny? I should…
” I don’t know what I should do. Would she think it’s my fault?
Or would she welcome me as we mourned her son together?
“I’ll be…” I reach out to steady myself, about to push to my feet but there’s no strength left.
“Noah. Listen to me.” Sarah lets out a heavy breath. “He was so precious to us and you were a gift to him. A shining light in the darkness when he got back to the States.”
“It wasn’t enough. I should–”
She cuts me off again. “Soon, sweetie. But I need you to know that this isn’t your fault. That he was here longer on this Earth because of you and for that? I’m thankful.”
It doesn’t feel like that. It doesn’t feel like I helped keep him here when he’s no longer around. “Sarah… I don’t know what to say.” My voice cracks and the sigh in my throat gets caught.
“There aren't always words that can express our emotions. Give us a few hours before you come through. I don’t want you to see this. You’ve been through enough.”
Sarah mutters a goodbye and hangs up as I wonder how she could be so strong on the phone when I’m falling apart. And I’ve been through enough? Ginny lost a son and damn, Sarah basically did as well. But she’s still protecting my peace?
Shock takes over as I stare into the distance, my phone cradled in my hand, my entire body stiffening as I try to wrap my head around Sarah’s words. He’s gone. I try to swallow but it gets caught in my throat and I cough, beating against my chest, unable to think.
He’s gone.
This shit is my fault. I haven’t done my job. What good am I as a doctor if I can’t even save my best friend?
Terror and helplessness wash over me. I couldn’t save him.
The need to silence the sudden pain coursing through me has me glancing at the bottom drawer of my cabinet, a place I used to keep poison to drown out the world around me.
My gaze moves to the wall, a small part of me wishing I hadn’t smashed that whiskey bottle so that there would be some left.
I know that my career depends on me staying away from the poison, my perfect little job hanging in the balance.
But the temptation grows, the idea that I can sip just a little bit of that whiskey and be okay.
I know it’s just lies that my subconscious is trying to tell me, but fuck, I want it so bad.
Something to take me away from the failure that I let my best friend succumb to his demons.
I dig my fingers into my chest, relishing in the bite of pain that comes with it as I move to sit back at my desk, my head falling to the surface.
He’s gone . I can only imagine how his mother and Sarah are feeling after finding him this morning, hoping that he would pull through, wishing that his demons hadn’t taken him.
That’s when the first tear falls, my throat dry as I heave for air, anguish flooding my senses. I have absolutely no idea what comes next.