“Are you sure? You did try to choke him less than twenty minutes ago.”
“And I’d do it all over again if I heard someone talking about you the way he did.”
My heart beats harder against my rib cage. “Like what?”
“Like you didn’t matter to them.”
My control over the situation slips, along with the protective shell I keep around my heart. “Cal…”
This is exactly what I was afraid of if he came back. It was always easy to pick back up where we left off every summer, like no time was lost between us.
But we lost more than time over the last six years since he left.
We lost out on whatever future we might have had together.
He breaks eye contact first. “Whatever. It was stupid of me to get pissed. So long as he makes you happy, that’s what matters.”
This is the Cal I fell in love with. The selfless man who would stop at nothing to make me happy, even if it meant sacrificing his own happiness in the process. It reminds me so much of how he was before the pills, alcohol, and lies.
Before the betrayal.
“I’m not dating Wyatt.” My confession rushes out of me.
His brows shoot up. “What?”
“He married Delilah almost a year ago. They’re celebrating their first wedding anniversary in September.”
“Wyatt got married to Delilah?”
I cross my arms against my chest. “Yup. I guess you were too busy trying to choke him out to notice the shiny wedding band on his finger.”
“Shit. You’re right.” His cheeks flush. “But if you aren’t with Wyatt…” His voice trails off.
“If I’m not with Wyatt what?”
He clears his throat. “Nothing.”
“You sure about that?”
He tips his chin up at me. “I’m sure. Night.”
“Good night.”
He stomps off the porch steps and disappears down the path toward the guesthouse.
What the hell was all that about?
I shut the door behind me and lean against it. My legs tremble beneath me, the weight of our conversation making me unsteady on my feet. If this is day one of Cal living here, I can’t imagine what’s to come.
I’m busy folding laundry upstairs in my bedroom when something heavy thuds above me, right where the attic is located. Cami knows better than to go up there, so that only leaves one person who could have caused such a loud noise. The same person who has spent the last three hours upstairs doing who knows what.
I haven’t seen Cal since he went up there with a single cardboard box. He only spoke five words to me, most likely because he was still upset after everything that happened with Wyatt yesterday.
A second crash, this time much louder, has me running for the stairs at the end of the hall. My lungs burn from exertion as I bolt up the steps two at a time.
I storm into the attic. It’s impossible to see much past the stacks of boxes nearly reaching the support beams.
“Cal?” I call out.
A groan from somewhere to my left has me working my way in that direction. The attic is a maze of boxes, chests, and containers, so it takes me longer than I’d like to find Cal laid out on the floor like a starfish.
He doesn’t move at the sound of my footsteps, although his fingers twitch at his sides. His eyes remain screwed shut as I kneel beside him and scan his body for any injuries.
“What happened?” I ask.
He doesn’t sit up. “I fell.”
“And you didn’t think to get up?”
“The room keeps spinning,” he slurs.
Concern has me jumping into action. Is he having a stroke? Or maybe something with his brain? “What—” My question is cut off at the sight of the half-filled bottle of premium vodka spilling out beside him.
Of course.
I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve seen this story play out time and time again with Cal, yet the sick feeling weaving its way through my stomach has me curling my hands into tight fists. Years’ worth of anger rises to the surface at the sight of him plastered on the floor, unable to sit up from how much alcohol he consumed.
Once an addict, always an addict.
I slide my mask into place, keeping my voice detached as I ask, “Are you hurt?”
“Only here.” He taps his chest, right over his heart.
God. It’s so sad to see a grown man like him suffer the way he does. During our childhood and early adulthood, he was always so full of life. To see him reduced to this broken version of himself only draws out the protector in me.
Cal has so much to offer the world, but his self-loathing and destructive patterns get in his way every single time. A part of me hoped that he found happiness in the six years we spent apart.
Not with someone else, but with himself.
He is no better than the day he left.
I pick up the vodka bottle so it doesn’t spill any more before taking in our surroundings. A few of Cal’s old hockey trophies are scattered around the floor, along with an old NHL jersey of his and a few opened boxes.
No wonder he was drinking. Going through those kinds of memories—the ones that represent the highest highs and the lowest lows—would upset anyone. It’s just that Cal’s way of coping is the worst.
“What happened?” My voice is much softer this time.
He blinks up at the ceiling. “I fell.”
“So you said. But how?”
“Lost my balance when trying to pick up the bottle.” He stumbles over the sentence. Despite the puddle on the floor, Cal must have drunk a decent amount if he is falling over himself and tripping over his words.
I help prop him up against one of the travel trunks, grunting from how much he weighs. “What happened before that?”
Stop asking him questions and go.
Except when I think about leaving, the image of Cal tapping his chest and saying it hurts replays in my head.
I don’t stick around for the drunk man in front of me. I stay for the man I once loved more than anything.
He steals the vodka bottle back and tips it over an open box beside him.
“Stop!” I steal the bottle from his hands and put it out of reach before assessing the damage.
“Oh, no.” I press my hand against my mouth. “What did you do?”
Vodka soaks through hundreds of photos of the Kane family. The one on top features Cal’s mother, who beams at the camera. Her blond hair looks like spun gold and is slightly lighter than Cal’s. His father has an arm wrapped around her. He looks just like I remember, stern with a hint of something lurking behind his dark, beady eyes. The three Kane brothers smile up at the camera, with Cal just barely standing taller than Declan. Rowan is the smallest, although he was probably barely ten years old here.
“Who cares? It’s all ruined anyway.”
I try to salvage some of the photos, wiping off the vodka with the bottom of my shirt. “These are memories.”
“Memories of what? A family that doesn’t exist anymore?” he snaps.
I keep at my task with every intention to save as many photos as I can. “I understand you’re upset.”