I bolt upright in bed—but not mine. And for the first time since I can remember, I’m not waking to the torment of the nightmare. Hunter’s tiny, lifeless body stretched out on that massive stainless steel gurney. The black hole gripping me as I stare down at him, pale, broken. So small, helpless. Just a baby. As I somehow try to rationalize the horror. To make it not true.
Wiping my hands down my face, I give my head a shake, trying to wake up fully. I’m so used to the dream, living it every night, every morning, that I feel almost guilty for not having it today.
Then I understand with a perfect clarity that I’m out of my element. In Melody’s bed, and that I drank a shit ton of Jack Daniels. A heavy breath escapes my lungs. Of course, you don’t dream when you’re knocked the hell out on alcohol. That’s why I did it, though, right? Why I got wasted when I woke in the fit of the nightmare, Hunter’s would-be first birthday such a despairing reality that I couldn’t manage to bend my own anymore.
I’d planned to take off to Nickel’s for the day. Spend the whole day and night brawling myself into a coma. But then…I looked over at Mel. Her creamy naked legs so gorgeous, her chest just rising and falling as she slept. Her burgundy and black strands draping her face, eyes moving beneath her lids as she dreamed.
And I couldn’t do it. Not to her.
I realize we’re not anything yet. But she means more to me than anyone else in my life. And even though she hasn’t rejected the world as a whole—the way I have—I know somehow I mean something to her, too.
The thought of her face wilted in hurt as she gazed at my bruises and cuts, the pain I’d inflict on myself becoming her pain…for the first time, I didn’t want to lose myself in a fight.
But fuck. I didn’t want to face Hunter’s birthday painfully aware, either.
One moment of weakness. One second of doubt. And I took action.
The wrong one, but I stopped myself from causing someone who I care about hurt.
Rolling out of bed, I mumble to myself, “Day one.” Starting over. My record sobriety streak goes down the toilet along with my morning piss. I flush the toilet and notice bottles and hair ties strewn around the small room.
Panic seizes me, and I throw the door open and shout, “Melody—”
No answer. Shaking my head, I summon fuzzy memories from earlier. Her saying she had to work. But wait, no, she said before she had the weekend off. I find my phone. No calls. No texts. I stare at the time: 3:32. Hell, it’s already the afternoon. I slept the day away.
Heading back toward the bedroom, my fear is starting to ease until I spot the picture of Hunter I keep in my wallet. I walk slower now, toward that picture and the understanding of why I’m here alone.
I’m locked in dread as I just stare, willing my body to move. Sickness pours through me, but I manage around it and grab the picture. Stare long and hard at Hunter’s chubby face, his blue eyes, feel the ache start to pull me under, then tuck it into my wallet.
I make my way to the kitchen and fix a glass of water, then drain the cup and fix another. Trying to curb the dehydration pulsing through my head and body. So I can think. Leaning against the kitchen counter, I reason that she probably took off. Got tired of watching me s
leep. Saw the picture and put it all together and knew the truth of how fucking fucked up I am.
I told her last night that I blamed myself for Hunter’s death. Whether or not she believed her own words, trying to convince me that I’m not to blame—I’m sure she doesn’t trust those words now.
Who could fucking be anywhere near a sick shit who loses his son?
That doesn’t stop my desperate attempt to contact her, though. I try to call her, let it ring seven times before I hang up and start to send a quick text…but my thumbs hover over the screen, frozen.
I hate this. The whole thing all over again. The not knowing what stupid shit I did or said while messed up. I haven’t had to deal with any of that for a while. And I especially don’t want to send some lame apology text to Mel.
Pocketing my phone, I find my boots near the couch. I step into them and then leave without bothering to lace them until I’m clear across the parking lot where I parked my bike. I pop the helmet over my head and kick-start the engine, the rumble that usually soothes me heightening my anxiety.
Nickel’s is tucked way back into a rundown old neighborhood on the other side of St. Augustine from where the decent folks of the city reside.
It’s dank and dirty. And it’s where I’m posted as I mentally argue with myself, trying to talk myself out of tonight’s fight. Or fights. As Turner has them lined up. I made that request, though. I’m the one who told him to “do it up.”
Like Jacquie so eloquently puts it: I hadn’t planned to walk away tonight. Not this time. I’d have either been escorted out on a stretcher, or a body bag.
But that was before last night.
Now, I’m wrestling with that fucking debasing, half-written text message, attempting to find the words to express to Melody… Shit. I don’t know what to say to her. I should’ve told her the whole truth about my son before now. Before she figured it all out on her own.
I’m not sure that I could’ve changed the outcome. She still wouldn’t want anything to do with me, but it was the right thing to do. I’m fucking disgusted with myself. All the shit I preach about—honesty, following steps, owning your own bullshit—and I failed her completely.
Instead, I swipe the on-screen keyboard away and pull up my contacts. I’m desperate.
Jacquie’s voice sounds over the earpiece. “Boone, are you all right?”