Chapter 10
Christian
Willow Springs is a quiet place on Tuesday nights, which is good for my head. It has been too loud, and I can’t shut it off. There is no volume dial I can reach or a button I can slam my fist on to turn it off.
It’s me and whatever exists in my brain.
I hold the jar in my hand, my fingers wrapped tightly around it as I push open the door of The Brew Room. It’s ten o’clock and dark, and the chatter is low inside the dimly lit bar.
I wanted to kiss her this morning and I couldn’t.
I choked. Instead, I ran away and went to the gym.
I had lunch with the guys and Princess Grace tagged along with Julian.
I drove around aimlessly, avoiding the house at all costs.
I even went back to the gym for a shower, only after a boxing session with Julian.
It’s been…a weird day.
I was punching the mitts with my gloves, and I could have sworn there was a hole in them by the time I finished. Julian just looked at me and the arch of his brow silently asked, You good?
I sniffed and nodded. And kept punching, sweating it off.
Funny, isn’t it? Just fine to eat her out on her floor and let her go down on me in the guest room, but I can’t kiss her after making her breakfast and dancing to one of our songs?
I’m fucked in the head. I want Lana more than anything—anything. More than the drugs, the alcohol—anything. From the moment I met Lana, I knew she’d become the air I’d breathe. She did—she is.
I’m suffocating under this dark cloud of shame, pushing me toward bad decisions.
After pulling it out of my hoodie, I put the jar on the bar and take a seat on the creaky, wooden stool, feeling the pain in my muscles and bones after the day I’ve had of punishing workouts.
I sit back and stare at the jar—at all the chips I’ve collected thrown into it.
“What can I get you, son?”
I nod to myself. Again and again. “I’ll, uh… Just tequila. Neat.”
The bartender dips his chin and grabs a glass to pour into. I just stare at all those chips and think about the things I’ve done as the liquid falls.
My first real drink, I was eighteen. Underage high school students always have beer first, I think. I did at sixteen, but it was at eighteen that my father poured me a drink and told me to sit with him while he went over all the ways I’ve disappointed him.
I didn’t know that day would lead to all of this.
I didn’t know that sometimes it’s genetics but you tell yourself you’re better than that anyway.
I was fine, I always told myself that. I got through the day with giant gulps that I learned could get me drunker faster. Something about drinking too fast and it getting to your head, I don’t know.
Then my father drank more and more, and I witnessed his downfall the way I’d witnessed his rise. I don’t think I’ve ever risen. The taller I felt, the lower I was going, the harder I was falling into my rock bottom.
Now I have a glass with two fingers of tequila in front of me, and I wrap my hand around the crystal. I swirl it around, watching it tornado against the glass, and wonder what it would taste like. I would hate it—the taste and how it would make me feel.
I would hate it, right?
Yes, I’d hate it. I’d hate what it would do to me if I drink it and all the things I would lose if I did. I can’t do it.
But what would it taste like? Would it taste like the safety of a home or would it taste like I’m ruining my life? Would it taste like I should be home with Lana or would it taste like she doesn’t deserve me so what’s the point?
I bring the glass to my nose. Just a quick sniff. And it smells like doom.
“You better not drink that, kid.”
I huff a laugh, my finger tracing the rim of the glass. “I’m not going to, Terrance.”
The stool next to me is pulled out, and the older man sits beside me with a glass of water and lemon. “What are you doing here, Calloway?”
“Taking a test,” I say. I look at him and see his frown. “What are you doing here?”
“Something like a test. But mostly, I was hungry.” His hand gently smacks my shoulder. “Why did you order it?”
“It’s a test,” I say again.
He sighs deeply, huskily. “Doesn’t answer my question.”
I sigh and sit up, leaning forward on my forearms and reaching for my jar. “This was mine and Lana’s.” I hand it to him. “We saved our loose change and whatever cash we had lying around in it.”
Terrance turns it in his hands, examining it and squinting to see through the glass. “What’s that say?”
“House Jar,” I answer. “It was the money we were saving for a house one day.”
Terrance snorts and sets down mine and Lana’s jar. “You drink that, you’re not only hurting her,” he says. “You’re hurting yourself.”
“I know,” I say. “But I don’t care about me.”
“You should,” he says. “She does.”
“You think I’m a shit guy, Terrance,” I sigh, spinning the glass between my thumb and fingers.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I don’t think you’re shit because you’re sitting in a bar suffering,” Terrance says. “You don’t think I’ve done what you’re doing right now? You think you’re the only one who has all those chips but some days just needs a fucking drink?”
I swallow, nodding slowly. “I don’t want to hurt her.”
“You know how you stop hurting people, kid? You stop hurting yourself. You stop killing yourself and bleeding on people who have never even held a knife to you. And you, Christian, used to bleed all over that girl when all she was trying to do was bring you some bandaids,” he says, and I sniff.
“If I think you’re a shit person doesn’t matter. Do you think you’re a shit person?”
I shrug, sniff again, and scratch at my jaw. I take a beat to breathe and stare down at the tequila in the glass, waiting to be drunk. It isn’t calling my name the way it used to, maybe it’s just me calling out instead. This is just the wrong thing.
I release the glass and, with shaky fingers, push it away from me.
“Sometimes,” I answer. “Sometimes, yeah.”
“Why?”
I blink. “What?”
“Why do you sometimes think you’re a shit person?”
I shrug. “I just… The decisions…”
“Those decisions are your past, Christian,” Terrance says gently.
“This, now, here with her—this is your present. You want to know if I think you’re a shit person?
I don’t. You aren’t the guy you were, I know that.
You just seem too busy proving that to other people but not enough time to prove it to yourself. ”
Terrance drinks his water and asks for a refill, and I push the class of tequila even farther until it’s close to the other edge of the bar.
“I’m not drinking it,” I say.
He gulps down half of his water and sighs, refreshed. “And who are you not drinking it for?”
“Myself,” I murmur.
“Go home, kid. She’s waiting for you.” Terrance claps my shoulder and gives me a small smile before he begins to walk away.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “Hey, Terrance?”
He pauses and turns to me. “What’s up?”
“Do you think you could be my sponsor?”
He smiles. “I’d like that.”
I return the smile and stand. I leave a twenty on the bar and walk out to my car. Main Street is quiet, the lamps pale and flickering, but a few bright and yellow. Cicadas sing and there’s a summer breeze, and I get behind the wheel to go home to her.
Without turning on the radio, the only sound is the hum of my engine as I turn left onto our road and allow myself to sit in the silence.
The emptiness in my ears makes this feel so much more urgent because I just want to get to the house, strip off my clothes, and get into bed beside her and sleep.
Finally, I pull into the driveway beside her Jeep, and rush into the house. I let myself in, toe off my shoes, and it’s dark. Quiet.
Of course she’s asleep, she wakes up early every day, she needs rest. I lock the front door, double check it’s security, and walk toward the back door where the moon light is flooding into the kitchen and seating area.
Sighing, I sit on the sectional and lean forward with my elbows on my knees, burying my face in my hands. “Fuck,” I groan, pressing my heels into my eyes.
I didn’t do it.
I’m not a shit person because of my past. I’m a better person for leaving my past where it belongs. I didn’t do it, and I’m proud of myself for it. So why does it feel like this? Like I should’ve drank it even if I didn’t want to.
“Where were you?” she asks quietly, worry dripping from her tone in a way that digs talon in my heart.
I pick up my head to find her in her usual pajamas of an oversized shirt and shorts with her hair loose, cascading down to her ribs. Her eyes are soft, her brows slightly pinched in concern, and I don’t deserve any of it.
I shake my head. “Nowhere important.”
She takes a step. “You didn’t…”
I shake my head again. “I didn’t.”
“Terrance called me,” she says softly, and for the first time, that soft tone isn’t comforting. “He was worried.”
“Yell at me,” I say, defeated. “Please. Be mad at me.”
“I’m not going to do that.” Lana takes a few steps forward, leaving about two feet between us, but it feels like a hundred. “I’m not going to make you feel worse than you already do.”
“You should,” I croak.
“But you didn’t do it,” Lana says firmly and stands between my knees, lifting my chin with her delicate fingers until I’m looking right at her.
Her fingers rake through my hair, pushing back the messy strands, and my eyes flutter shut. “What happened tonight, Christian?” she asks softly.
My head drops forward onto her stomach. “I don’t know,” I choke.
Her nails are scratching my head and it feels so good that it hurts. It’s comfort I don’t deserve and safety I haven’t earned. She’s holding me in the dark, no one else in the world but us right here, and I think I might be okay eventually.
“Christian?”
My arms go around her thighs and backside, holding her to me, and I keep my face buried into her stomach.
I shake my head and she whispers, “Okay. Okay, later.”