“Shit,” Jett mumbled as he entered and took in the devastation I’d created. Bending down to my level, Jett tried to grab the bottle from my hand, but I cradled it closer to my chest. “Kace, give me the bottle,” Jett warned in his domineering voice.

“Fuck you,” I spat, bringing the opening of the bottle to my lips.

The lid of the bottle clattered against my teeth before I was able to place my lips over the opening. In one smooth motion, I dipped my head back and waited for the liquid to burn down my throat, but I wasn’t awarded with the sweet smolder of whiskey. Instead, the bottle was ripped from my grasp, and I was pushed to the side.

My head fell forward, my neck muscles no longer working in accordance with my brain.

“Goddamn it,” Jett said. “Goldie, go get me some water and bread. I need to get something in him.”

“Don’t listen to him,” I replied, falling forward.

“Go, little one,” Jett said softly.

“Jett, I’m scared.” Goldie’s voice sounded weak. For the first time in my life, I could tell she was frightened.

“I got this, little one. Please go get some water and bread, okay?”

“Okay.” She sniffed and then left.

I felt relief at her departure. I welcomed my drunken state—I relished it, actually—but I hadn’t wanted Goldie to see me like this. I didn’t want her to see me wearing my demons like a fucking scarlet letter.

Jett pushed me back against my bed frame so my head was at eye level with his. My vision was blurry, but from what I could see, Jett wasn’t happy.

“What the fuck happened?” Jett asked, holding my head still so he could look at me straight.

“Aw, you look upset,” I taunted him.

“Of course I’m fucking upset. I haven’t seen you in a week and come to find you’re drinking your life away. What the fuck, Kace?”

I reached out to the cloudy vision of his head and made contact with his cheek. “Don’t cry, baby.”

“You’re a dick,” Jett said, grabbing hold of my arm.

“Whoa, fucking slow down,” I demanded when the room started to spin.

My world tilted on its end as Jett guided me to the bathroom, me stumbling the entire time. My stomach twisted, and I knew the quick movements were going to result in me purging every last drop of alcohol I’d stocked up on.

“Slow the fuck down,” I demanded again.

Jett didn’t listen and continued to drag me into the bathroom. “You smell like shit,” he said, pushing me toward the toilet.

The cool porcelain called to me. I grabbed hold of the round bowl, moving my head forward just in time as my stomach convulsed and I threw up.

Sitting in my own filth, not moving, just drinking, was an almost serene position, but the minute you moved me, the minute you made me focus on something other than the grain in the hardwood floors, all the alcohol I had consumed over a week threatened to come back up, and that was what happened to me now.

Jett pushed my head into the hole of the toilet, making sure everything coming up made it into the right area.

A cold chill ran over me as sweat slicked my skin from the convulsions of my stomach. Retching, I gripped the toilet, praying for it to finally be over.

Slowly, my stomach stopped rolling, and in its place was a scorching headache, throbbing through my brain.

I collapsed on the floor and placed a forearm over my eyes, blocking out the florescent lighting of the bathroom. My shirt stuck to my sweat-slicked skin and my head pounded while it rested against the tile of the floor, begging for relief.

“You done?” Jett asked, showing no mercy.

“Yeah,” I croaked. My throat burned raw from the mixture of stomach acid and alcohol. Talking was currently an alien concept to me.

“Good.” Jett picked me up again, impressing me since I had a couple more pounds of muscle than him. He dragged me into the shower, placed me on the floor, and turned on the cold water.

An arctic rainfall fell down upon me, erasing the fog in my brain.

I didn’t squirm, I didn’t even move. I welcomed the frigid water, turning my once hazy outlook into a more crisp view.

Jett stood outside the shower with his arms crossed and a disapproving look on his face. Hell, it wouldn’t be the first time I’d disappointed him.

“When was the last time you took a shower?” Jett asked.

“The last time you sucked my dick,” I retorted, pleased with my smartass comment.

“Glad you think this is funny.”

“The only thing funny in this whole world is the unrelenting bad luck I was fucking blessed with.”

“That’s cryptic,” Jett replied.

“But is it, really? You know everything about me. You should know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“All I know is you’ve taken a perfectly good life and wasted it, living in the shadows of your past and never moving forward.”

“You don’t fucking know anything,” I spat back. “You don’t know what it’s like to be me, to live with the guilt of what I did.”

“Have you even talked to them?” Jett asked, referring to Linda and Madeline. “Have you even tried to see how they’ve been? Last time you made an attempt was watching them at the tee-ball game. Now you just sneak around, being an elusive fuck and never facing them. They could be doing just fine, Kace, and you would have no clue.”

“They’re not fine. How could someone ever recover from losing a parent? Fuck, you lost your mom several years ago, and you’re still affected by it today.”

Jett went to respond but then shut his mouth.

That’s what I fucking thought. 

I reached up and turned off the water. I sat on the bottom of the shower and shucked my shirts and pants as Jett tossed me a towel. I ran it over my face and then slowly stood, letting my legs adjust to the weight of my body. I wrapped the towel around my waist, grabbed the side of the shower, and exited.

Jett stood in front of me with his hands in his pockets and the cuffs of his long-sleeved business shirt rolled up to his elbows. He exuded wealth and power, but I knew differently. The man was hurting as much as anyone else who’d lost a parent. I knew the toll it had taken on him when his mom passed away from AIDS. I knew the grief he’d experienced. I knew because I was the one person who’d stood by him during those dark days, and even though he’d been blinded by pain, he’d continued to move forward with his life, just like Linda and Madeline. He couldn’t tell me he still didn’t think of his mom.

“It was different,” Jett said. “My loss was different from theirs.”

“A loss is a loss, Jett.”

“It was different.” Jett cleared his throat. “I didn’t even get a chance to be with my mom. I had a little glimpse of what it was like to have a mother in my life at a late age. I saw what my life could have been. Madeline is young. She can move on not knowing the regret I experienced.”

“I know you like control, Jett, but you can’t dictate people’s feelings.”

“I know that, but it was different.”

Jett’s dad had been a dick of epic proportions, using Jett’s mom for providing a kin and then ditching her to the streets after she gave birth, leaving her homeless with nothing but the clothes on her back to fend for herself. It wasn’t until Jett was able to leave the raft of his father and have his own life that he was able to welcome his mom back into his life, but it was too late. He’d only had a short while with her before she died of AIDS in the comfort of his house.

I could see the difference Jett was talking about, but I stood by my statement. A loss was a loss, and who were we to judge how someone reacted? It wasn’t our place as humans to judge; it was our place to love and support or mourn and grieve with them.

I’d chosen the route of grievance, but instead of slowly coming out of my place of darkness, I felt it reasonable to stay there, to mourn for a lifetime.

“I got the water!” Goldie shouted from the bedroom, breaking the tension between Jett and myself. “Where are you?”