I don’t answer. I don’t understand what happened myself. I slow down, look back at the fresh mount of earth over the grave. Why am I leaving already? I can’t leave Emma here alone.
“Zane.” Matt grips my wrist and jerks me back around. “Snap out of it.” He sighs. “Listen, man. I have to tell you something. I decided to take the kids and move closer to my parents. They need all the love they can get right now, and they need someone to take care of them.”
“What?” I rub a hand over my face. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s not too far. They live in Missouri. You can come visit sometimes.”
“Where are the kids?” I turn in a circle. Everyone’s gone.
“My mom took them home. I couldn’t—”
“You can’t take them away.” I’m wheezing. “You fucking can’t. They’re Emma’s kids. You have no right.”
“Dammit, they’re my kids, too, man. I have every right.” His hands ball into fists. “You think I’m not grieving Emma, too? She was my wife! But I have to think of the kids first, their needs, their wellbeing. Put yourself in my place, and tell me you—”
“Fuck you.” I spin on my heel and head toward my truck.
“Zane, wait.”
What for? There’s nothing left for me here. Matt is fucking leaving, with the kids. I think of little Mary and her baby brother, Cole. How we kept each other company almost every weekend for more than half a year now. How Mary would sit next to me on the sofa, so I could read her stories. How Cole would fall asleep as I sang AC/DC songs—softly, as a lullaby. They are my family.
They’re gone.
It’s all gone, and I need to leave before I lose my last shred of sanity. Was this what Matt had meant all those weeks ago—when he asked if someone had my back?
My friends. Dakota. They’re all I have left now. I need to get back to them before I forget why the hell I’m still alive.
I somehow make it back to Madison without killing myself or anyone else. It’s nothing short of a miracle, because I barely remember the route and can’t even tell how fast I drove. Weird snatches of memory, like images from a dream, inform me that I stopped at some point and peed by the side of the highway. I also stopped at a liquor shop, flashed my fake ID and bought two bottles of whiskey. It has to be real because, as I park at the front of my building, I see them in a brown paper bag at my feet.
Why the hell did I buy them? I’m thirsty, but my stomach churns, making me wanna puke. I’m sweating, and I’m cold, and it all seems surreal—a man crossing the street with his dog, the cars rolling by, the skyline. The colors are muted. The world has turned black and white.
Strange.
I grab the bag, open the door and half-climb half-fall out of the truck. Dakota must be home. It’s just after noon. But when I ring the buzzer, nobody replies. Where can she be?
Fumbling with my key, I almost drop the bag twice. I’m okay. I can do this.
Why shouldn’t I be able to? A dark mist gathers in my mind. Something… something bad happened.
Emma.
I groan to myself as the memory returns. Dead. She’s dead. Oh fuck.
Pushing the main door open, I stagger into the building and up the stairs, clutching the rail and cradling the brown paper bag under my arm. It’s like walking underwater, my feet heavy, the air like molasses around me. It takes me forever to reach my apartment, and then another forever to open the door and step inside. Padlocking the door behind me, as if that can keep the world out, I shuffle inside.
The whiskey bottles clink when I put the bag on the coffee table. The sound shatters the stillness like a gunshot. Echoes come back, and I shake my head slowly to clear my ears. Clear my head.
Not working. I sink down on the sofa. Something is digging into my ass, and I pull out my cell. A light is blinking on top. Missed calls. I check them. Rafe. Asher. Erin. Dakota. I hit ‘call’ on the last one.
My hand shakes when I bring the cell to my ear. I close my eyes and wait as her line rings and rings, then stops.
“The phone you are calling,” an automated voice says, “is currently out of the service area. Please try your call again later.”
I lower the cell, stare at it. Whatever. Fuck you, too, machine. My fingers spasm around the phone, itching with the urge to throw it against the wall.
I need… I don’t know what I need. What could make the mess in my head better. I suck on the barbell in my tongue. The emptiness of the apartment is taunting me. Reminding me of what I’m trying to forget. Being alone isn’t a good idea right now.
So I call Ash. My fingers drum on the armrest as his phone rings and rings. I call Rafe, and the call goes directly to voicemail.
“I don’t wanna fucking leave a message,” I yell into the phone and try to draw a breath through my nose, try to calm the hell down.
What the hell is going on?
I call Dakota again. Same result. Breathing hard, I lean back and close my eyes. What the hell is happening? Where is everyone?
Everyone’s gone.
No, dammit. No.
I scrub my hands over my face, trying to erase the image of the coffin, the flowers, Emma’s still face.
Fuck this. I reach for the paper bag and draw a whiskey bottle out. I unscrew the lid, tip the bottle and swallow.
A hiss leaves my throat as liquid heat slides down my throat, coating my insides. Pushing away the cold. I upend the bottle, gulping the whiskey down.
My vision blurs, and I wipe a hand over my eyes. Better. Yeah, fuzziness is good. Everything inside me, the razor-sharp edge of every thought and feeling, begins to dull, so I drink some more.
I can do this. Stay here, wait until Dakota or Ash or Erin or whoever calls or comes back here. Just need to hold on to sanity a little bit longer.
Someone will come. Someone will call. I know I’ve been walking around like a loaded gun for the past few weeks, snapping at everyone or avoiding them.
Shit. Dakota will come. She will.
I drink more, the warmth of the alcohol spreading in my stomach. The room tilts, and I fall back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. It spins in lazy circles. I need to… Fuck, I don’t know anymore.
Need to fit into this fucking new world order.
My eyes fall on a pair of scissors on the table. I grab them, test the edge. Yeah, they’ll do nicely. I lift them, see my wild eyes reflected in the shiny metal. Hands shaking, I get to work, cutting through my Mohawk. It’s like cutting through cardboard. Like cutting through my childhood, through my past, through all I am.
Bad idea.
The scissors clatter to the floor, and I run my hands over the chopped tufts. My head feels too light—but the heavy feeling in my chest is only getting worse. Grabbing the bottle, I chug down half of it in one go.
Bile rises in my throat, and I swallow hard. The room spins. I’m not sure what I’m doing here.
I need to call Dakota. Where’s my cell?
Turns out it’s lying by my side on the sofa. A symbol is flashing on the screen. It’s a tiny receiver. You have a voice message.
This is funny, and I snort. Who leaves voice messages nowadays?