31. Chapter 31 The Last Drop
Dylan: December
My fists slam into the brick wall. Blood drips down my knuckles, but the sting is nothing compared to the emptiness gnawing at me. Not even twenty-four hours without her, and I’m already coming apart. Desperate to outrun the pain in my chest, I lace up my running shoes and head outside for air.
She’s gone, and I’m struggling like an addict fighting withdrawals. The craving hits hard. Not for booze. Not for drugs.
But for her.
She’s inside me now. In my blood. Inside my goddamn bones. And I have no clue how to get rid of her, of her sweet laugh, her adorable clumsiness, the way she moans when she eats. She’s fucking everywhere.
And I know this affair is wrong. Terrible. Destructive. But when it comes to addiction, people find every excuse to take another hit. To justify just one more taste because the high outweighs the crash. And the good moments make the bad ones feel worth it.
It’s like being a cocaine addict and having it dangled in your face every day. You know you shouldn’t. You know it’ll ruin you. But fuck, do you want to. Only difference is, unlike coke, Jenna might actually be good for me. And that makes it even fucking harder.
So I run. And run. And run. Even if I don’t know where I’m going. I just know I can’t stop. By the time I finally slow down, I’ve covered nearly fifteen miles.
Up ahead, neon letters flicker against the dark sky, Joe’s Bar. A ghost from my past, flashing like a warning sign. I bend over, lungs burning, catching my breath. It’s been ten years since I’ve set foot in this God-awful place.
But the pull is familiar. Strong. It calls me back to old habits, to numbing, to forgetting.
I shove the door open and step into the haze of stale beer, cheap streamers, and a bunch of drunks laughing too loudly. Fuck. New Year’s. I almost forgot. Same tacky party hats. Same countdown chants. Same damn place and people, frozen in time.
I keep my head down and order a whiskey.
If I ever needed a drink, it’s now. The redheaded bartender slides it over with a wink.
I barely notice. The glass feels warm in my hand, its weight solid, grounding.
The first sip burns, then another. Two drinks turn into four.
Four into six. It hits harder than I expected.
Maybe because it’s been so long. But the ache doesn’t leave, and neither does the guilt.
As I’m about to order another, a voice cuts through the noise.
“Well, well. If it isn’t Dylan. Back from the dead, huh?”
My body tenses. All these years, and his voice still makes my skin crawl.
I turn slowly and see Mike. Same cocky grin.
Same dead eyes. The guy who used to call himself my brother’s best friend.
The one who handed him his first hit. But he doesn't look invincible anymore.
The shadows under his eyes are darker. His frame is thinner.
And his shoulders sag, like the weight of his shitty choices is finally catching up to him.
“Didn’t think I’d see you here again,” he says, his tone sarcastic. “Thought you were clean.”
“I am. Just… rough night,” I say, though I know exactly how it looks.
Mike laughs, the sound sharp and familiar. “Yeah, sure. Rough night. You always were good at excuses.” And I was, back then. He saw me at my worst, chasing a high to escape the grief of losing my brother. I clutch my glass tighter. He doesn’t know me now. And I’m not about to explain myself to him.
I toss back the rest of my drink, the sight of him stirring the anger I keep buried. “Good seeing you, Mike,” I mutter, getting up.
“Aw, come on. Stay a while, we should catch up. Let me buy you another drink,” he presses.
But being near him drags me back to places and people I’d rather forget. And I can’t shake the feeling that I’m just one fuck-up away from screwing up.
Mike’s voice drops lower. “You ever think about what happened? With your brother?”
“Every. Damn. Day.” The bitterness in my voice bleeds through each word.
He sighs. “You know… I never meant for it to go that far. I didn’t mean to—”
I cut him off, throwing down enough cash to cover the tab. “You didn’t mean shit, Mike. Take care of yourself.”
I turn to leave, shaking off everything he represents. But before I make it to the door, a hand catches mine. “Where do you think you’re going, hot stuff?” A young woman with platinum blonde hair and a short silver dress looks up at me, glancing at my ring finger, then at my mouth.
“It looks like you’re single. And I’m single. And your lips should be on mine in less than two minutes,” she slurs, gripping my hand with long manicured nails.
I smirk. “Is that so? Maybe I’ve got a girlfriend who’s out of town.”
“Do you?”
“Maybe,” I hesitate. “Or maybe I’m gay. Maybe I don’t like kissing strangers.”
She laughs. “That’s a lot of maybes.”
Maybe I should shut up and take her home. Let her make me forget about Jenna. But that’s the problem. She’s not Jenna. And I’m done with this fucking meaningless sex. Done with women. Done with this damn night.
The countdown blares over the speakers, and the energy surges. People start reaching for their loved ones, their friends, the nearest stranger.
“TEN! NINE! EIGHT!”
Silver Dress watches me, waiting.
“THREE! TWO! ONE! HAPPY NEW YEAR!”
She pulls me in before I can move, her lips crashing mine. It’s sloppy, cherry lip gloss and red wine on her lips. The room blows up with cheers, champagne popping, and noisemakers going off in every corner.
She pulls back, smirking. “Why don’t you start the new year off right at my place? I’m only a few blocks away.” She winks, and sways toward the coat rack, fully expecting me to follow. Most guys probably do. I don’t.
Outside, the cold stings my skin as I sink onto the curb, the world spinning around me. The booze numbing everything except the echo of Jenna’s voice in my head.
This was a mistake. Jenna doesn’t know my darker side.
And I hope she never does. It’s crazy—I got sober to get my life back.
To stop craving the high. To stop numbing everything out.
And now, Jenna feels riskier than any drug I've ever touched. She’s inside my head, crawling her way into my heart. And I don’t know how to quit her.
But I can’t ask her to break up her family. I can’t accept that her kids might grow up hating me like I hated my father’s flings. The ones he kept behind my mother’s back. The ones I knew about. Jenna made the right choice. I need to respect that. I just don’t know if I can.
I pull out my phone and stare at her number. My thoughts spinning like a merry-go-fucking-round.
Message her. Tell her you need her. No, go home. Sleep this off. Tell her she’s the one you should spend your life with.
Fuck. Jenna wins.
I start typing: I wish things were different. I wish I wasn’t scared of losing someone else I care about again. I wish I could be the man you deserve. I wish we could stay friends, and I wasn’t such an idiot.
Right before I hit send, my phone dies. I laugh bitterly. Jenna would call this karma. The universe’s way of telling me to leave her alone. Let her go. Go home and fix myself.
Instead of going home, I take another detour. The Uber drops me at my dad’s ranch. The porch is a disaster—empty champagne glasses, crumbled party hats, trash spilling everywhere.
When I walk inside, the stench of whiskey follows me. Gabriella and Amelia are in the kitchen, scraping plates when they spot me. Their eyes flicker first to my face. Then to my bloodied knuckles.
"Happy fucking New Year,” I mutter, collapsing into a kitchen chair.
Gabriella freezes, dish in hand. “What the hell happened?” Her voice is tight. Worried.
Everything. I’m drunk. I fell in love with a married woman. And I picked a fight with a wall.
“Let out some frustrations,” I say, flexing my bruised fingers. “It’s nothing. The wall’s fine.”
Gabriella puts the dish down. “It’s not nothing,” she says, sitting next to me.
“I ran into Mike.” The name sits heavy between us. One we don’t talk about anymore.
Amelia stays quiet. But I see the look in her eyes.
Gabriella’s face pales. “Oh no, did he say anything?”
“Not really.” I glance down at my busted-up hands. The torn skin, just another thing I can’t fix. “Made me feel like I was back there again… like I was losing him all over.”
Amelia comes closer and places her hand over mine. “Everything we all lost.”
“I know you blame me. I blame me.” The words feel empty, like I’ve said them so many times they don’t mean anything anymore. But that’s a lie.
Her grip tightens around my bloodied fingers.
“I did. I was angry for a very long time. At you, at Dad, at everything. I needed someone to blame because I couldn’t handle losing him.
I’m sorry, Dylan. I don’t believe it was your fault.
I never really did. But if you go back down this road again, I won’t be here to watch another brother kill himself. And I just got you back.”
Her voice breaks, and it lands like a punch to the gut.
“I won’t stick around either, not even for your hot fried chicken,” Gabriella chimes in, attempting a weak smile.
“The only addiction you guys need to worry about is Jenna,” I say, my voice catching. “And what I’ll do if I can’t get her out of my head.”
Amelia crosses her arms, her face with that familiar hard-ass expression. “Dylan, do you hear yourself? She has a husband. Kids. Do you get what that means? You’re playing with fire, and it’s not just you who’s going to get burned—and you will—it’s everyone.”
Gabriella glances between us. “Come on, give him a break. It’s not that simple, Amelia,” she says, jumping in. “You can’t just choose who you fall for.”
Amelia whips her head toward Gabriella. “Seriously?” Her voice is sharp. “You’re going to defend this? You choose who you pursue. You choose to screw another man’s wife. And there are kids involved. A whole life she built, and you want him to destroy it because—what? He can’t control himself?”
“I’m not defending him!” Gabriella snaps back louder, a rare crack in her usual calm. “I’m just saying… love can be complicated and messy.”
“Complicated doesn’t excuse selfishness! Don’t give him excuses.” Amelia turns back to me, her tone resolute. “You cannot reach out to her again, Dylan. For her sake. For everyone’s sake. If you care about her, let her figure out her own life without you making it harder.”
Gabriella watches me carefully. “I agree. You deserve to be happy. But not like this.”
She nods like they have silently agreed on something I wasn’t invited to. “You’re better than this. Or at least, I thought you were. Don’t be Dad. Let her go, and sleep this off before he wakes up.”
Their words hang heavy in the air, leaving me no room to argue. Deep down, I know they’re right.
Hours later, I lie in bed, staring at my phone, trying to resist the one thing I’ve been avoiding all day. “Don’t do it,” I mutter.
But I do it anyway because I’m an idiot. Jenna’s business profile is public, and I can’t stop myself. My thumb hovers over the screen, hesitating, but I keep scrolling. Shit. I drag a hand down my face. Is she trying to torture me?
Her latest post is nothing—a shot of gold and silver New Year’s balloons in her living room. But in the corner of the frame, there it is. Her leg. Those damn legs I want wrapped around me. It’s barely noticeable, a glimpse of her, but my chest aches anyway.
It’s ridiculous. It’s just a photo, a leg, a sliver of her life. Yet here I am, obsessing over it, wondering if she’s having fun at her party, or if she’s thinking about me too.
Meanwhile, my DMs are overflowing with good-looking, available women, all eager to distract me. Seriously, there are eight billion people in the world, and I’m fucking stuck on the one I can’t have.