Jared
Ibolt upright.
Knives stab into my skull, my mouth bone dry as I stare around the apartment.
All the lights are still on, and I blink.
The fuck happened last night?
My body feels wired, as though I’m gearing up to run a marathon instead of waking up from an alcohol-induced semi coma. On edge.
My foot nudges against something solid, and I watch hazily as the bottle rolls across the floor, joining the many, many other bottles littered around Ben’s apartment. Every corner, every side.
That, and a few books on top of the sideboard are my only contribution.
His bed is still in the same place. Everything is still in the same place. Nothing has moved on since the night he died. Including me.
Scrubbing my hands down my face, I stumble up from my makeshift pallet on the floor and into the bathroom. I start throwing water over my face before I give up and just shove my whole head under, as far as I can get it.
Taking a few gulps, I scrub my teeth twice before I even risk glancing in the mirror.
My eyes are more red than white. I haven’t shaved in days, the stubble I normally keep close to my skin edging into beard territory.
Something flickers in the eyes of my reflection, and I frown as a flash of memory tugs at me.
Emilia… she was there.
The bar.
Arron Matthews.
It all comes back in a rush, coinciding with the nausea that surges up my throat as I lean over the toilet and lose what little is left in my stomach.
I fucked up. So fucking badly.
I let her abusive asshole of an ex-husband get into my head, and the alcohol paved the rest of the way.
You promised you would believe me.
She wouldn’t even let me walk her home. Not that I blame her in the slightest.
Twisting, I heave again, retching several times before starting to search for my phone. It’s out of battery, tucked away under the corner of my bed.
Unease has me pacing as I wait for it to charge. To light up, so I can call Em and apologise.
So I can tell her… I don’t know.
I’m not coping well.
I’m drinking too much.
I don’t know what to do without Ben.
I feel so fucking aimless that at least drinking gives me something to do. Helps to fill the hours, staring at the walls of this apartment where he died.
She doesn’t answer my call on the first try. The second. The third.
“Pick up,” I mutter, running my hand through my hair. “Pick up, Em.”
