I blink at the door, still not understanding what just happened. Was she really here, or did I drink myself into a hallucination?
“Fuck, Archie, was that her?” Cherry mumbles from the other side of the table.
“You saw her too?” I look at her hopefully for confirmation that I’m not going crazy.
“Yeah. You didn’t tell me she’s fucking stunning.” Her wide eyes turn to me. “Like stunning, man. I’m crushing so hard.”
I shift my attention back to the door. “Why did she leave?”
“Are you an idiot?” She looks at me, a stunned expression on her face.
“What?” I ask, confused.
“She thought we were doing something here!”
“What do you mean doing?” My brows furrow as I stare at her.
“Like fucking, I dunno.” She shrugs. “Petting. Flirting.”
“What?”
“Yeah.” She rolls her eyes. “I was sitting on your table,” she points at it, “and you were drinking yourself to death,” then she points at my chair, “with a happy smile on your face. Of course, she thought we had something going on.”
“Why would she think that? You’re Cherry.” It’s so obvious to me drunk, maybe sober me will understand it better tomorrow.
She quirks a brow and crosses her arms. “Does she know that?”
“What?” I blink.
She rolls her eyes and mumbles, “You truly poisoned all your brain cells with alcohol.”
“Cherry!” I cut her off, losing patience.
“She doesn’t know my name!” she yells. “Dumbass! She saw a woman next to your drunk ass. Do you get it now?”
Understanding slowly dawns on me. Fuck. Fuck!
“And besides that,” she starts picking at her cuticles, “you looked guilty as fuck. Like we really were doing something.” After a massive eye roll, she adds, “You’re so dense sometimes.”
“But I was.” I glance back at the table. “I was ashamed she saw me with a bottle again, that’s why I backed away.”
Cherry’s eyes soften. “Oh, my poor Archie.”
Not waiting to hear what she wants to say, I rush through the door, through the parlor, and run outside, but she is nowhere to be found. I run along the sidewalk, looking at the parked cars, but don’t find hers. I take my phone out and start calling her, but it goes straight to voicemail. Fuck! What have I done?
I promised myself that if I ever saw her again, I would ask for another agreement. If she wants a day, I’ll take it. A year—I’ll take it. Anything she’ll give me—I’ll take it. But I would only do that if fate brought us together on its own, and I would not seek her out on purpose because that would be wrong and unfair to her. I can always find her, always, and forcing myself in her life would give her very little choice. The insane chemistry we have is both blissful and toxic at the same time. For someone young like her, it might close off all future possibilities, and I respect and love her too much to do that to her.
I was hoping this day would come eventually but didn’t count on it since I promised myself to never visit Little Hope, so the odds would not be in my favor. What I didn’t anticipate is for her to show up here, at the only other place in the world that used to bring me joy before I met her. But for the past few weeks, it hasn’t brought me anything but disappointment.
Every time I came here looking for relief, I didn’t get any. Every time I expected endorphins to hit when I heard the buzzing of iron, I got none. The more I wanted it, the less I got.
My mind was taken by her. Completely and utterly taken. I’ve never had this feeling before. Ever. I didn’t know I was capable of this depth of obsession with someone.
So, I started drinking heavier than before—the very thing she gave me shit for. I came to work in an Uber, already drunk, and I left in one, too wasted to the point of not remembering my own name. But not once did I think about another woman. Not once, and there were plenty of opportunities. Women love me and they love my money, and before, I’d enjoy every single one of them, but not anymore. Something in me shifted after that time in the cabin. Hell, it shifted way before that, on the bridge.
But she doesn’t know all of that, and I can see now how she might have thought something was going on when she saw us together. When Leila opened the door, Cherry was trying to convince me to go to get my shit together; go to rehab before I find the balls to go to Little Hope to talk to Leila. I told her that Leila had my balls in her hands just as she opened the door at that exact moment…
She told me she loved me. I’ll never forget that. When I was balls-deep in her, she told me she loved me. I thought it was just the orgasm talking, and she’d take it back when she’d come down from the high. But she didn’t. She sent me running for the hills with parting words of love. Words I don’t deserve and never will. How can she love me? A monster responsible for the lives of his brothers? How can she do that?
I look at the parlor and decide not to go back because I can’t handle Cherry’s looks and supportive words. I know she means well, but I’m beyond saving, and we both know that.
I’m about to get into an Uber when Cherry cries out my name. I turn toward the voice and find her running to me in her high heels, shaking a newspaper in her hands. She nearly falls on her ass, and I make a move toward her to help, but she straightens herself and continues her run.
“Wait up, Archie.” She waves the paper in her hands. “You forgot this.”
“Shit, yeah. Thank you.” I take it from her. “Did you look inside?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “Something must be so important in there that she drove all the way here from Maine to hand-deliver it. I think you’re the only one she wanted to read it.”
“Thank you, Cherry.” And I mean it.
“Archie,” she sighs, “she’s the one.”
“The one?” I try to laugh. I’ve never had this conversation with her before. I mean, is she talking marriage?
“The one who’ll give you a reason to live.” She places her gentle hand on my chest and holds my eyes as she speaks. “Please, Archie. Let her help you.”
“I don’t—”
“Don’t say it.” She punches her fist into my chest. “It’s me. Don’t offend me with the lies. Please.”
I shut my mouth and listen. For once. She’s been trying to cure me for many years now, just like other women tried. Cherry is family though, so it feels different, but I’d never responded to any of it. Until now.
“Please, let her help you.”
She pats my chest one more time and starts walking backward. I watch her until she disappears inside the building, and a loud horn sounds to my right. The Uber window rolls down, and the guy yells, “You comin’ or not?”
I glance toward my shop once again and get inside the car, careful not to ruin the newspaper in my hands.
On the way home, I try calling Leila a couple more times, but it goes straight to voicemail. Shit. I’ll sober up tomorrow and drive there.
Wait, maybe I should go there today. Just take a taxi. But then I get a whiff of myself—I smell like a fuckin’ distillery—she doesn’t deserve that, so I decide on going home for now and making myself presentable.
A cold, empty house greets me like it does every single time. No amount of furniture can fill it with joy or homey feelings.
I call Leila one more time with the same success, and my mood drops even lower. I’m gonna be sober tomorrow, but today I drink.
I grab a bottle of bourbon and move to the couch. Not bothering with a glass, I down a third of the bottle, and my head instantly heavies. I’m used to alcohol in big doses, but maybe this was a little too fast. Since I decided to change my path of self-destruction, I should probably slow down, so I place the bottle on the table.
Right next to the newspaper. The newspaper she wanted to hand-deliver, and I fucked up the moment. I grab it and unfold it. The headline on the first page makes my heart stop.
Heroes who have been deemed villains, got redeemed.
I open the next page with shaking hands.
…and the list goes on and on as the article continues exposing the night that ruined so many lives.
I’m wiping away the tears I didn’t know were running down my face. My nose is itchy, and I try to breathe through my mouth.
I haven’t seen their names for many years. Didn’t think I deserved to say them. They’re dead because of me. Me.
But this article says it’s not because of me? I can’t believe it. I can’t. Because if I do, it means that the system I gave years to fucked me over. That they made me live with this guilt for years. That nothing is sacred anymore.
I grab the bottle and down half at once, hoping to dull this pain in my heart that doesn’t let me breathe. But the pain is in there; it’s still there. I drink more, but it doesn’t work. It’s fucking there, eating me on the inside. I drink more, feeling nothing.
I try to rise to my feet, but it works only after a few attempts.
But I have another solution for the pain devouring me. I walk to the kitchen and grab my gun from the top of the cabinet. It’s loaded; I don’t know why I keep it there, but I do.
I’m lying. I know why it’s there.
I walk back to the couch with a bottle in one hand and the gun in the other, but I stumble over my two feet and end up kneeling on the floor by the couch. Hysterical laughter bubbles in my chest, and I can’t stop. Tears stream down my face, and I lean against the front of the couch so I don’t fall. My sides hurt, but I can’t stop laughing. All these years of pent-up self-hatred are coming through. I wipe my face and down a chug of bourbon.
The pain doesn’t go away. It intensifies.
I slightly pat the barrel, enjoying the coolness of the metal. The quiet of it. The promise of forgiveness.
It can take me to a place where pain doesn’t exist anymore.
I take another sip, and suddenly the liquid burns. So I drink more, enjoying this type of physical pain. I’ll gladly take it over the mental fuck I’m having right now. Physical pain is familiar, that’s how I get rid of the guilt.
I drink more, and it burns hotter.
I grab the phone and dial her number, not even knowing what to say if she picks up. I just want to hear her voice.
But the call goes straight to voicemail. She might have turned it off because she thinks I’m a cheating asshole and hates me. I’m about to disconnect the call, but then her sweet voice tells me to leave her a message, and I’m mesmerized by it. I realize how much I’ve missed her, so I talk. Well, I mumble nonsense, and when I comprehend that I spoke too much, I hang up. Shit, why did I tell her all of that?
And then I start hating myself, remembering the look on Leila’s face when she learned about the pain. It only took her a second to figure out why I do that, and I’m fuckin’ ashamed of it now. I smack the bottle on the floor next to me and lean my back on the couch.
Did I really think I could have something with her? Would I really do that to her? I can only drag people down. The article said I’m not a villain, but I don’t know how not to be one. I’ve been living in this cycle for so long, I forgot other ways existed. And I can’t offer her anything but my fuckin’ money. Nothing else. I’m a shell of a person I once was.
Who am I kidding? I’ve always been like that. When my father took me to live with him, the damage was fuckin’ done, and I’m no good for society anymore.
I’m not good for her.
I pick up the bottle and down the rest of the liquor. It burns good. Then I take the gun. My thumb strokes the safety lever. My heartbeat finally slows down, agreeing with the decision. I have a will—everyone I care about will be taken care of.
I raise it—
