Page 125 of Return Policy
“I’m good.”
I am the opposite of good.
I am duct-tape-on-a-747-airplane’s-wings good.
“Okay…” She eyes me curiously before sliding her gaze to Theo.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Sophia, kissing her on the cheek and heading to Noah’s bathroom for a bit of privacy before I lose my damn shit.
The whiskey warms my veins, only fueling the anger festering underneath the surface. I shut myself in the bathroom and stare into the mirror, gripping the edge of the vanity. My eyes are bloodshot, muscles tense, wrinkle lines on my forehead. I look about as good as I feel.
Spinning around, I lean against the edge of the marble, dragging a hand over my face.
This bowl game should be a career highlight and instead, I'm torpedoing headfirst into a handle of whiskey. I’ve been trying to ignore the nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach ever since Sophia told me what Seth did. I wish we could talk about how I’m feeling, but I’m worried it’ll trigger her.
The one thing keeping my head above water was hoping I’d never have to see that prick again, knowing if I did, I’d probably beat him to death.
Guess that Sasquatch motherfucker is going down.
Pacing the room, I pull out my phone and instinctively hit the call button to hear the one voice that can stop me from flying off the fucking handle.
“We’re sorry. Your call could not be completed as dialed.”
I rip the phone from my ear and stare down at it.
That’s weird.
Holding my breath, I call again.
“We’re sorry. Your call could not be completed as dialed.”
“No.” I shake my head. “No.”
My hands shake, trying again.
“We’re sorry. Your call could not be completed as dialed.”
A tsunami slams into me. “No.” The phone slips through my fingers, thudding to the floor, as my only life raft deflates beneath me.
The anchor that bound me to my old life sinks rapidly, dragging me down with it, miles below the surface. The pressure is too overwhelming—too suffocating—too absolutely heartbreaking.
Tears blur my vision as I drop to my knees, flattening a palm over my pounding heart. This is the type of anguish I’ve been avoiding. Filling my life with distractions always seems a hell of a lot more enticing than falling apart on my friend’s bathroom floor in the middle of a damn celebration.
I pull myself up to my feet, and my gaze wanders back to the mirror. If I looked bad before, now I look like I’m having a straight up mental breakdown.That’s because you are having one, you fucking idiot.I shake my head, trying to expel the negative thoughts.
“Come on,” I tell myself. “Now is not the time to break down.” Tears continue dripping down my face into the sink. I bring up my hand, slapping my cheek. “Get it together!”
I wipe the tears off angrily and turn on the faucet, splashing my face with cool water before returning my attention to the mirror. “Painalwaysgoes away,” I say out loud, repeating the words all but embedded into my brain since the day I started playing football. Every tackle. Every sore muscle. Every twisted ankle. Every heartbreak.
Pain. Always. Goes. Away.
Taking calming breaths, I lock the grief back in the tiny box where it needs to stay.
After composing myself, I open the door, stepping into Noah’s room. My eyes connect with Theo’s.
“Hey.” He quickly stands from the bed, a hesitant smile on his face.
“Hey.”
