Chapter Twenty-Four
Trenton
The whiskey had stopped burning my throat an hour before, my teeth were numb, and I was seeing two of Jorie, the bartender. Six weeks before, that would’ve been a signal for me to tab out, but since the baby’s memorial service, drinking myself just shy of unconscious was the only thing that seemed to dull the rage coursing through my veins.
At first, the fire in my throat felt like it was chasing away the edges of reality, but by the fourth—or maybe the fifth glass, it had settled into a numbness I’d come to rely on. From the stool to my right, Travis stared at me like I was the stray dog he didn’t want but couldn’t bring himself to abandon. He had that mix of pity and exasperation that my brothers did so well.
“Trent, that’s enough,” he said, his voice calm but insistent.
He knew I’d been teetering on the edge for weeks.
I laughed, the sound bitter and hollow. “I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough, Trav. And trust me, we’re not even close.”
Travis leaned forward, elbows on the sticky surface of the bar, his eyes locked on mine. “Jorie!” he called to her. “He’s done. Cut him off.”
Jorie wandered over, her towel slung over one shoulder like always. She gave me a sympathetic look before glancing at Travis. “I’m way ahead of you, already closed out his tab. I hear the girls have had to do the same almost every night for weeks. I just can’t bring myself to issue a temporary ban, poor guy.”
“Well, I’m here, and I’m calling it. He’s done,” Travis said flatly.
I groaned, throwing my head back. “Oh, come on! It’s cheaper than therapy.”
“I don’t know, liver disease is pretty expensive,” Jorie said, crossing her arms. “And I like you too much to let you self-destruct on my shift.”
“Traitor,” I muttered under my breath.
“How’s Cami?” Jorie asked.
“She hates me,” I murmured.
“No,” Travis interjected. “What she hates is that you’re never home anymore.”
I leaned forward onto my elbows, staring at my empty glass as if at any moment, it would start to commiserate with me. That’s when she showed up—a blonde knockout who looked like she’d stepped out of a shampoo ad, complete with a slow-motion hair flip and an amateur runway strut . She slid onto the empty stool beside me, oozing confidence and an air that screamed divorce pending, all wrapped in a designer dress. Someone who I, before I’d started to pursue Camille, wouldn’t have hesitated to happily escort straight to my bed.
“You should come join me and my friends,” she said, her voice low and syrupy. With a subtle tilt of her head, she motioned toward a booth packed with equally flawless women, all dressed like they were heading to a club, highly suspicious for a regular Wednesday night.
I glanced up, half-annoyed, half-amused.
She took that as a green light, resting her hand on my arm, leaning in so her freshly glossed lips were just a few inches from my face. “What do you say? We’ve got tequila, bad decisions, and more fun than you can handle.” She shrugged as if she hadn’t just casually offered an orgy. “Seems better than sitting here brooding all night.” She looked to Travis. “You’re both invited.”
Travis scoffed. “Not even if I was drunk, desperate, and just had a lobotomy.”
She ignored him, her cherry-red nails slightly digging into my arm—just in case she didn’t seem eager enough—and gave me a wink that probably melted weaker men. I leaned back, and for a split second, her smirk wavered.
“The fuck outta here,” I sneered.
She blinked, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” I stood, brushing her hand off like lint on my jacket. “You see the ring. I’m married—to the love of my life. So, take your tequila breath and your Dollar Store perfume somewhere else, Desperella. Not interested.”
She straightened, brushing off her rejection with a practiced toss of her hair. “I’m sorry. Are you stupid?”
“Beat it, Stormy Daniels, we’re busy,” Travis said, excusing her by nodding toward her friends.
She wrinkled her nose. “Your loss.”
I faced forward, steadying myself with the edge of the bar. “Pretty sure dodging a Crying Game shower scene in the morning counts as a win.”
From my peripheral, I saw her mouth fall open, and then she flipped around, stomping back to her table.
“Great,” Jorie said, exasperated. “There goes my tip. I’ve been kissing their asses for hours.”
Travis stood, putting extra cash on the bar to make up for the loss, then grabbed my arm with no regard for personal space. “C’mon, we’re going before they all come back to defend her honor.”
I shook him off, stumbling but catching myself on my stool. “Get off me, monkey! I’m fine.”
“Fine?” He raised an eyebrow, his voice dripping with disbelief. “You’ve been here every other night, drowning yourself in whiskey, while Camille sits at home grieving. It’s been six weeks, and she’s been a fucking saint, but even women like Cami have their breaking point. Do you realize what’s going to happen? You think you’ll be fine then?”
His words hit harder than I wanted to admit, but I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of seeing it. “What do you want from me? You want me to go home and pretend like I’m not a complete failure? That I didn’t lose everything that mattered?”
“Not everything. Not yet. Not for lack of trying, you dumb fuck. What I want is for you to get your drunk ass in the truck so I can take you home,” he snapped, his patience clearly wearing thin.
I glared at him, but he didn’t even flinch. Typical. The guy’s been face-to-face with murderers, professional MMA fighters, and Abby when she’s pissed. I didn’t argue. No point. I had all the fight in me of a wet paper bag. So, I let him half-drag me out of The Red, past the smell of stale beer, the faint tang of sticky floors, and into the cool night air.
The sky had that strange, in-between shade of not-quite-dark, the fading daylight mixing with the glow of streetlamps and neon signs, buzzing to life like the town couldn’t decide if it was settling down or waking up. The sidewalks were still damp from an afternoon shower, puddles reflecting the string lights left up from the last festival—because in Illinois, no one ever seemed to bother taking them down. The air carried that early spring chill, the kind that teased warmth but still made you regret leaving your jacket in the car.
Normally, this was my favorite time of year. By now, I’d be stretched out on the couch with Camille, her legs draped over mine, the scent of rain still lingering in her hair. There’d be a cracked window letting in the fresh, damp air, some low-budget rom-com playing on the TV while she half-watched, half-scrolled through her phone, only looking up to roll her eyes at the predictable love story—right before tearing up at the big romantic moment like she didn’t see it coming. I’d have her tucked against me, pretending I didn’t secretly love every second of it, because as long as she was happy, I was, too.
Now, every time I looked at her, all I felt was debilitating guilt. The kind that burned in my chest like hellfire, searing deeper than any whiskey ever could. It was eating me alive that I’d failed to protect her—from Madison, from the men tangled in her twisted schemes, and from the crushing devastation of losing the one thing she’d longed for more than anything: our baby.
My wife deserved a hero, someone who could shield her from the worst life threw at her. Instead, she got me—the guy who couldn’t even save the people he loved from himself.
The drive home was silent, save for the occasional sigh from Travis. I kept my head pressed against the window, watching the streetlights blur into streaks of yellow. My stomach churned with every bump in the road, a mix of booze and self-loathing threatening to rise and spew all over Travis’s freshly detailed truck.
When we pulled into the driveway, I noticed the extra cars and groaned. “What is this, an intervention? Because if it is, I’m not in the mood.”
“Stop whining,” Travis said, cutting the engine. “Not everything is about you, dickface. They’re here for Camille. Someone needs to be here to help her get through this.”
I stumbled to the front door, my legs barely cooperating, and pushed it open. Inside, the living room was full—Camille’s brothers, Chase and Coby, were sitting around her, while Shannon was in the kitchen with Clark, waiting to rinse the dish he was scrubbing.
“Well, if it isn’t the cavalry,” I slurred, collapsing onto the couch. “Here to tell me what a screw-up I am? Take a number.”
Shannon dried her hands with a towel. “You don’t need us to tell you that, Trenton.”
Her words stung more than I wanted to admit, but I plastered on a smirk. “Ouch, Shannon. You’ve been taking lessons from Abby, haven’t you?”
“I’m trying so hard not to kill you,” Travis said, “but you keep running that mouth.”
“Don’t kill him,” Camille said, handing me a cup of coffee. “He’s not himself.”
Coby rolled his eyes. “Don’t enable him, Cam. He’s acting like—”
“Don’t,” Camille said, interrupting him. “The last thing I need is to break up a brawl in my house.”
“He’s not gonna fight me,” Coby said with a scoff. “He can barely stand.”
“Oh, I can stand, motherfu—” My words slurred as I tried to push myself off the couch.
Camille held her hand against my chest. “Don’t you dare,” she seethed.
I looked down at the black liquid steaming from the mug Camille had handed me. “What is this?”
“It’s coffee,” she said, sitting next to me. “There are other beverages besides whiskey. Drink it.”
I groaned but took a sip, wincing at the bitterness. “Happy?”
“Not even close,” she grumbled, shifting down into the cushions in a huff. She crossed her arms, glaring at me. “Drink,” she insisted.
The stillness in the room was suffocating, wrapping around me like a weighted blanket soaked in regret. I could feel the unspoken words of their judgment hanging in the air, the disappointment from everyone in the room tightening around my throat like a noose.
Finally, Chase leaned forward, his voice cutting through the uncomfortable silence. “You still have a wife, Trent. Act like it.”
I barked out a laugh, though it sounded more like a sob. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t wake up every day wondering why the hell she hasn’t left me yet?”
“She hasn’t left because she loves you,” Clark said firmly. “But if you keep this up, you’re gonna lose her. And then you’ll really have something to drink about.”
“I’m not leaving,” Camille insisted. “This is temporary. He’s hurting.”
“So are you,” Shannon said from the kitchen. “And you can’t heal if you’re ignoring your own pain to coddle Trent while he’s spiraling.”
“I thought this wasn’t an intervention?” I spat at Travis.
“It doesn’t seem to be yours,” he shot back.
I looked around, seeing my in-laws looking at my wife with expectation in their eyes. “You’re all trying to talk her into leaving me? Is that it? In my fucking house? In front of my goddamn face?”
“Baby, don’t,” Camille said, reaching for me.
I pushed her away, standing. “Get out. All of you. Get the fuck outta my house.”
“I’m sorry,” Camille said to our guests. “Come on,” she said, her voice soft. “Come to bed with me.” She guided me into the bedroom, and I could hear our brothers and Shannon filtering out the front door, murmuring about me.
“I’ll lock up,” Travis called back.
Camille closed the bedroom door, waited a beat, and then pointed to the bathroom. “Shower. Now.”
“Okay, okay,” I conceded, stumbling in the direction she pointed.
I fumbled with the buttons on my shirt, cursing under my breath when they refused to cooperate. After an awkward battle, I finally managed to shrug it off, tossed vaguely in the direction of the laundry basket—points for trying. The jeans were next, peeled off with all the grace of a guy wading through quicksand. The shower knobs felt like they required an engineering degree, but after a few failed attempts, I got the water running somewhere between skin-scalding and glacier-cold. The spray hit me, and I braced myself against the glass, letting the water work overtime to scrub away more than just the grime.
Once out, I grabbed my toothbrush, smeared on too much toothpaste, and went at it like I was fighting plaque with vengeance. Aiming for the sink was clearly asking too much because the first spit hit the counter. Close enough .
When I finally crawled into bed, Camille was already in her PJs, sitting up against the headboard, waiting for me to say something.
I lay there staring at the ceiling, the alcohol’s warmth fading, leaving behind the cold emptiness I’d tried so hard to drown.
“I’ve given you time,” Camille said. I braced myself for what she’d say next. “It’s time to feel it sober. I know it’s scary. It hasn’t exactly been a picnic for me, but I’m doing it.”
“You think I’m not feeling it?” I choked out.
She sighed, the kind that carried exhaustion, love, and a warning all at once. She slid down beside me, resting her head on my shoulder, her arm draped across my chest in a gesture so simple it nearly broke me. “I love you,” she whispered. “But you’re not here. I’ve been alone in this.”
“I’m sorry. I really am. I just… I don’t know how to…” The rest died in my throat, leaving the sentence hanging in the air like a frayed ignition wire under the hood of Dad’s truck.
“How much longer do you need?”
I swallowed hard, wondering if saying the truth out loud would be the final blow to KO our marriage.
“Say it,” she demanded.
“Every time I look at you… it hurts. I keep waiting for it to go away, but it just… doesn’t.”
She sucked in a breath, and I knew that she was fighting for her life to hold it all in—anger, tears, maybe both. Her shoulders rose and stayed tense for a moment, and I thought she might say something, might let loose the words I definitely deserved. Instead, she exhaled slowly, shaky and quiet, and then without a word, she turned her back to me, pulling the blanket over her shoulder, a protective barrier between us. The space she left behind felt colder than a hospital waiting room, and the silence that followed was louder than anything she could’ve said.
***
The next morning, the pounding in my head was only rivaled by the ache in my chest. I slogged into the kitchen to find Camille already dressed for work, her hair pulled back into a tiny, low ponytail, leaving her bangs to still graze her lashes, her eyes still puffy from what I could only assume was another night of crying.
“Morning,” I offered, my voice rough.
She glanced at me, her expression unreadable. “Morning.”
“I, uh, I’m sorry about last night,” I mumbled, not sure what else to say.
She shrugged, not meeting my eyes.
“I’m trying.” It sounded weak, even to me.
“Are you, though?” she asked, finally looking at me. Her gaze was sharp, cutting through every excuse I wanted to give.
I had to pause before speaking my next words, fighting tears. “Help me,” I begged, my voice barely above a whisper.
She dumped her coffee into the sink, slung her purse over her shoulder, and walked over to me, cupping my jaw with her hands. “Stop drinking yourself into oblivion, and cry with me until it feels like you’re not going to die from the pain. You can’t heal what you refuse to feel.”
She leaned in, her lips pressing against my cheek in a gesture that wasn’t tender or forgiving. It carried a quiet heaviness, full of fatigue and a sadness that told me she was nearing her breaking point. In that moment, I felt the truth I’d been running from—if I didn’t face my pain, if I didn’t fight for us, I was going to lose the most important person in my life. Without another word, she walked to the front door, her movements slow but deliberate. The door clicked shut, the lingering silence she left behind an undeniable, final warning.