Yesterday, I tried to go to your funeral. That's a weird thing to write, isn't it?
You know, I made this promise to you years ago that I wouldn't tell anyone you had a drinking problem. See, unlike you, I'm known to keep my promises because a promise is a form of trust, and you always want people to trust you, even if you can't trust them. Now that you're dead, I don't have a reason to keep my promise, but yet, I still feel the need to protect your secret despite how much I hate you right now.
I saw your dead body, and all I wanted to do was give you your ring back. Thanks, by the way. It was a beautiful waste of money.
When I decided I couldn't sit around the funeral home crying alongside your family, who still quietly blame me for your suicide instead of the alcohol—since I kept your secret safe—I realized I didn't belong there. I'm not mourning you, Keegan. I'm grieving for you.
I don't know if I'm going to get through this without telling your loved ones the truth, although I'm sure they'll still blame me for not doing more to help you. You put me in this position to be damned no matter what I do.
You left the blame on me, and it's why I will never forgive you. You may be at peace now, but you left my life in turmoil. I hate you, Keegan.
August
I crumple the note within my hand and toss it into the water. When my hands fall to my side, Chance rests his hand on my shoulder. "You don't deserve this," he says.
"Does anyone deserve anything they get in life?" I reply.
"Well, I believe those of us who are strong need to be challenged to become stronger."
I huff a snide laugh. "I don't think this is making me stronger, but thank you for the insight."
"You may not see it now—"
I spin around and stare up at Chance, noticing the foot difference between our heights. "Do you always know just the right thing to say?"
"No," he says, sounding weak.
"Thank you for listening to me." I finally untwist the cap off the flask and press the opening to my lips, taking a swig.
"You'll never feel what he felt," Chance says.
"I can try," I argue. How does Chance know what I'm doing and why I'm doing it? I don't understand.
Chance pulls me in for an unexpected hug, and his warmth makes my chest tighten. It's like the blood in my body just figured out how to flow again. "Why are you giving me all this attention?" I ask, my voice is hardly audible.
He doesn't respond, but I feel the shrug within his shoulders. I shouldn't be in this man's arms. I don't need affection or attention right now. I need to hate Keegan, and I need to hate him until all of the pain leaves my body, or I may end up hating myself soon too.
I lift my chin, glancing up at this rough and tumble cowboy looking man, and want nothing more than for him to offer me something else to steal my focus. It's hard to stop myself from lifting my hand to sweep my fingertips along his rigid jaw. He struggles to look down at me, then swallows hard. It's loud enough to hear. I press up on my toes, bringing myself as high as I can go, but for anything else to happen, he'll have to lower his head and meet me halfway. "Make the pain stop for just a minute," I plead through a whisper.
Chance lowers his face, bringing his nose close to mine. His hand finds my cheek, and his thumb sweeps to the side of my ear. "You're not ready for the pain to stop," he says, leaving me with just a soft kiss on my forehead.
I lower my right hand to his chest and clench my fist closed around the flask, pushing him away from me. "What the hell is this? Were you just trying to make me feel stupid? Is that why you gave me a few minutes of your attention? Is it fun to embarrass me? Well, that just makes you look like a jerk. I shouldn't have even expected any more from you."
I release my grip on the flask, bring it back up to my mouth and empty the contents as fast as my throat will allow the liquid to pass through. "Hey now, stop that," Chance says. "Take a break from the whiskey. It's not going to solve your problems."
"Yeah, it is. It's making you disappear from my thoughts," I tell Chance.
"You can't make me disappear that quickly," he argues.
"Oh yeah?"
The moment I empty the flask, a wave of dizziness overwhelms me, and I take a seat back on the bench. I keep looking for my limit—when to call it quits for the day, but this time it's like a switch flipped. Nausea pulses through me, and I feel the need to lay down across the bench, curling the flask into my chest.
"August," Chance says from a few feet away. I don't respond. It would take too much effort. "August, you can't stay here." I close my eyes in hopes of blocking out his voice again.
Thankfully, it does the trick.
Chapter Seventeen
