The house has never felt this empty.
I stand at the window watching the sun set over the Pacific, a glass of whiskey in my hand that I don't remember pouring. This is my third, maybe my fourth. I stopped counting somewhere around noon when the silence became unbearable and the only thing that helped was the burn of alcohol sliding down my throat.
She's been gone for two days. Two days of checking my phone every thirty seconds, of jumping at every sound, of pacing these rooms like a caged animal looking for an escape that doesn't exist. The bed still smells like her shampoo, that lavender and vanilla combination that used to make me smile when I buried my face in her hair. Now it just makes my chest ache with a pain I can't name.
I should eat something. I know I should. But every time I open the refrigerator, I see the leftovers from the dinner we made together last week, before the police interview, before the fight, before everything fell apart. The thought of eating alone at that kitchen counter makes me want to put my fist through the wall.
So I drink instead.
The whiskey is expensive, a single malt I bought years ago and never opened because I was saving it for a special occasion. Nothing about this moment is special, but I don't care anymore. I pour another glass and watch the light fade from the sky, watch the ocean turn from blue to gray to black, watch the stars emerge one by one.
My phone sits on the coffee table, dark and silent. I've texted her six times since she left. Called twice, both times going straight to voicemail. She's alive, at least. Her mother would have called me if something had happened, if only to scream at me for driving her daughter away.
I need space. Going to Boston for a few days. Please don't follow me.
I read the message again, even though I've memorized every word by now. Please don't follow me. As if I could stay away. As if there's anything in this world that could keep me from her if she needed me.
But she doesn't need me. That's the whole point. She needs to be away from me, needs to breathe without me hovering over her shoulder, needs to remember who she is when I'm not there to suffocate her.
Her words echo in my head, sharper than any knife. You're controlling me. You're just like your father. Love isn't enough if I can't breathe.
I drain my glass and pour another.
The night passes in a haze of alcohol and regret. I fall asleep on the couch at some point, still dressed in yesterday's clothes, the empty whiskey bottle on the floor beside me. When I wake up, the sun is too bright and my head is pounding and there's someone knocking on my front door.
I stumble to my feet, squinting against the light, and make my way to the entrance. The face that greets me when I open the door makes my stomach drop.
My father stands on the threshold, immaculate in a charcoal suit, his dark hair slicked back, his expression unreadable. He takes one look at me and his lips thin with something that might be disappointment or disgust or both.
"You look like hell," Dad says, pushing past me into the house without waiting for an invitation. "When did you last shower?"
"Good morning to you too, Dad."
He doesn't respond, just walks through the living room, taking in the empty bottles, the scattered papers, the general chaos that's accumulated since Jade left. I watch him catalog every detail with those sharp eyes that miss nothing, and I feel a familiar mixture of shame and defiance rising in my chest.
"What are you doing here?" I ask, closing the door behind him.
"Your mother is concerned. You missed our call last night." He turns to face me, his hands in his pockets, his posture relaxed despite the tension in the air. "She wanted me to check on you."
"I'm fine."
"You're clearly not fine." He picks up the empty whiskey bottle, examines the label, and sets it back down with a soft clink. "This was a three-thousand-dollar bottle. I hope it was worth it."
I don't have an answer. I just stand there, swaying slightly, my head pounding.
Nicholas settles onto the couch, crossing one leg over the other, making himself comfortable in my disaster zone. "Where's the girl?"
The girl. As if Jade is just some nameless body I picked up at a bar. As if she doesn't have a name, a history, a soul that I've spent weeks learning to love.
"Boston," I say flatly. "Visiting her mother."
"Visiting her mother." Nicholas repeats the words slowly, tasting them, finding them lacking. "And you're here, drinking yourself into oblivion instead of going after her. Interesting choice."
"She asked me not to follow her."
"Since when do you let someone else dictate your actions?"
The question lands like a punch. I want to snap back, to defend myself, to explain that Jade isn't just some woman, that what we have is different, that I have already killed for her and would do it again without hesitation. But the words stick in my throat, too tangled with exhaustion and alcohol and the gnawing fear that I've already lost her.
