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“Why?”

“Because that’s what family does. We take turns.”

Briggs stares at me.

“I survived last night,” I tell him. “You helped me survive mine the first time. I got you.”

His face collapses.

The first sob bends him forward, violent enough that one hand strikes the window. His knees buckle before I reach him. I catch his arm, but Briggs is too large and too far gone for either of us to remain standing. We hit the floor together, his back sliding against the glass while I drop beside him.

Briggs tries to cover his face. I catch one of his wrists and pull his hand away from the bruised eye before he can hurt himself.

“Breathe.”

“I can’t.”

“Sí puedes. Quédate conmigo, carnal.”

He shakes his head. His chest jerks beneath every broken breath while tears run into his beard.

“I’m never good enough.”

The words tear out of him so quietly that I nearly miss them beneath his crying. “What?”

“I wasn’t good enough for her.” Briggs presses his fist against the center of his chest. “I tried so fucking hard, Ry. I did everything she wanted, and I still couldn’t make her happy.”

I move closer until my shoulder presses against his and take the bottle and drink. “That isn’t on you.”

“It has to be.” He drinks.

“No.”

“She wanted me to be smarter.”

“You’re smart.”

A destroyed laugh rips through him. “You don’t have to lie because I’m crying.”

“I’m not lying.”

“She called me stupid all the time.” His voice breaks harder. “Stupid. Dumb. Embarrassing. She would ask why I couldn’t understand simple shit or tell me I sounded like an idiot in front of people. I started keeping my mouth shut because every time I talked, I waited for her face to change.”

My teeth lock together.

Briggs stares down at the bottle in his hands before drinking again. “I have a fucking psychology degree, Ry. I know every sign of narcissistic abuse. I could listen to someone else describe this exact relationship and identify every sign before they finished talking.” His fingers curl into his palms. “But I’m sitting here defending it. I’m still finding reasons it wasn’t her fault because it happened to me.” He lifts his ruined face, shame cutting through every word. “How the fuck did I get here?”

I take the bottle and drink before I say some fucked up shit that wont help right now.

“I thought if I listened more, she wouldn’t get mad. If I remembered everything she told me, dressed better, and stopped making jokes when she wanted me serious, she would stop looking at me like I was something she regretted bringing into the room. And when I finally got pissed, she became sweet and mournful. Like this fucked pattern of trying to avoid flipping out, then flip out just to have her be the woman I fell for.”

“Briggs.”

“She slapped me when I embarrassed her.”

The admission leaves him without volume. His eyes remain on his hands as though the confession belongs to someone else and he is only repeating it.

“When?”