Incredibly nauseous. “Well, that’s great, that you can be forgiven, but the result is how I am now! What am I supposed to do about it now?” I pick at the torn skin around my fingernails and note that my knuckles are surprisingly not busted, for once. Somehow that takes some of the anger out of me. “There has to be something,” I say softly.

“I think you should talk to someone,” he suggests.

But his answer feels insufficient, and the anger flares back. No shit I should talk to someone—you don’t fucking say? I wave my hand into the open space between us. “What are we doing right now? We’re talking.”

“I’m referring to a professional,” he replies calmly. “You’re holding on to a lot of anger from your childhood, and unless you find some way to let it go, or at least deal with it in a healthy way, I’m afraid you won’t make any progress at all. I can’t be the one to give you these tools; I caused you all this pain to begin with, and in your angrier moments you’d doubt what I had to say, even if it was helpful.”

“So coming here was a waste of my time, then? There’s nothing you can do?” I knew I should’ve hit the bar. I could be on my second whiskey and Coke by now.

“It wasn’t a waste of time. It was a really big step in your efforts to become a better person.” He makes eye contact with me again, and I can literally taste the whiskey that I should be drinking right now instead of having this conversation. “She’ll be so proud of you,” he adds.

Proud? Why the hell would anyone be proud of me? Shocked that I’m here maybe, but proud . . . no.

“She called me a drunk,” I confess without thinking.

“Is she right?” he asks, concern clear on his face.

“I don’t know. I don’t think I am, but I don’t know.”

“If you don’t know if you’re a drunk, you may want to find out the answer before it becomes too late.”

I study my father’s face and can see real fear for me behind his eyes. He has the fear maybe I should have. “Why did you start drinking in the first place?” I probe. I’ve always wanted to know the answer to that question, but I’ve never really felt like I could ask.

He sighs, and his hand moves up to smooth his short hair. “Well, your mum and I weren’t at the best place at the time, and the downward spiral started when I left one night and got drunk. By ‘drunk,’ I mean I couldn’t even walk home, but I found that I liked the way I felt, immobile or not. It numbed me to all the pain I was feeling, and it became a habit after that. I spent more time at that damned bar across the street than I did with you and her. It got to the point where I couldn’t function without the liquor, but I wasn’t really functioning with it either. It was a losing battle.”

I don’t remember anything before my father became a drunk; I had always assumed he was like that since before I was born. “What was so painful that you were trying to escape?”

“That’s not important. What’s important is that I finally woke up one day and got sober.”

“After you left us,” I remind him.

“Yes, son, after I left you both. You both were better off without me. I was in no position to be a father or a husband. Your mum did an excellent job raising you—I wish she hadn’t had to do it alone, but it turned out better than with me around.”

Anger churns and heats inside me, and I press my fingers into the armrests of the chair. “But you can be a husband to Karen, and a father to Landon.”

There, I said it. I have so much fucking resentment toward this man who was a drunk asshole my entire life—who fucked up my life—but who manages to remarry and take on a new son and new life. Not to mention he’s rich now, and we didn’t have shit while I was growing up. Karen and Landon have everything that my mum and I should have had.

“I know it seems that way, Hardin, but it’s not true. I met Karen two years after I stopped drinking. Landon was already sixteen, and I wasn’t trying to be a father figure to him. He didn’t grow up with a man in the house either, so he was quick to embrace me. It wasn’t my intention to have a new family and ‘replace’ you—I could never replace you. You never wanted anything to do with me—and I don’t blame you for that—but, son, I spent most of my life living in the dark—a blinding, desolate darkness. And Karen was my light, the way Tessa is for you.”

My heart nearly stops at the mention of Tessa. I was so lost in reliving my shitty childhood that I was able to stop thinking about her for a moment.

“I couldn’t help but be happy and grateful that Karen came into my life, Landon included,” Ken continues. “I’d give anything to have a relationship with you the way I do with him; maybe one day that could happen.”

I can see that my father is out of breath after his long confession, and I’m left speechless. I’ve never had this type of conversation with him, or with anyone in my life but Tessa. She always seems to be the exception.

I don’t know what to say to him. I don’t forgive him for fucking up my life and choosing liquor over my mum, but I meant what I said about trying to forgive him. If I don’t, I’ll never be able to be normal. Really, I’m not even sure I’ll ever be able to be “normal” anyway, but I want to be able to go a week without breaking something, or someone.

The humiliation on Tessa’s face when I told her to leave the apartment is clear in my mind. But instead of fighting it like I always do, I embrace it. I need to be reminded of what I did to her—no more hiding from the consequences of my actions.

“You haven’t said anything,” my dad says, interrupting my thoughts. The image of Tessa’s face begins to fade, and though I try to hang on to it, it slips away. The only comfort I have is in knowing that it’ll be back to haunt me soon enough.

“I don’t really know what the hell to say. This has been a lot for me; I don’t know what to think,” I admit. The honesty in my words terrifies me, and I wait for him to make shit awkward.

But he doesn’t. He just nods in agreement and stands to his feet. “Karen is making a late dinner, if you want to stay.”

“No, I’ll pass,” I groan. I want to go home. The only problem with home is that Tessa isn’t there. And that’s my own damn fault.

I RAN INTO LANDON in the hallway as I was leaving, but I ignored him and left before he could try to force his unsolicited advice on me. I should’ve asked him where Tessa was; I’m desperate to know. But I also know myself and that I’d show up wherever she is and try to convince her to leave with me. I need to be with her, wherever she is. Listening to my dad’s explanation of why he was such a shitty father to me was a step in the right direction, but I’m not miraculously going to be able to stop being a controlling bastard all of a sudden. And if Tessa is somewhere that I don’t want her to be—like with Zed, for example . . .

Is she with Zed? Holy shit, would she be with him? I don’t think so, but it’s not like I’ve given her the option of having many friends. And if she isn’t with Landon . . .

No, she’s not with Zed. She’s just not.

I continue to convince myself of this as I ride the elevator up to our apartment. Half of me hopes that whoever the asshole was that broke into our apartment is back now; I could really use an outlet for my mounting anger.

A chill runs down my back and over my entire body. What if Tessa had been home alone when the intruder broke in? The image of her flushed, tearstained face from my nightmares flashes in front of me, and my body goes rigid. If anyone ever tried to hurt her, it would be the last thing they ever fucking did.

I’m such a fucking hypocrite! Here I am, threatening to kill someone for hurting her when that’s all I seem capable of doing.

After grabbing some water and looking around the empty apartment for a few minutes, I start to get antsy. To keep myself busy, I sort through Tessa’s book collection. She left too many behind, and I know it killed her to do so. Just more evidence of how toxic I am.