The vibrating device in my palm assures me that the latter is nothing more than a pipe dream, but the bottle of Jack on my floor murmurs that not all dreams are lost.
I snatch it up and flick the partially screwed-on cap off before tipping it back for a deep swallow. The lukewarm liquid burns its way down my throat, through my veins, my lungs, before settling heavily in my empty gut.
It’s enough to wake me up, but I take another drink for good measure before dropping it onto the nightstand. The thing groans from the weight—the sound mimicking exactly how I feel.
My eyes slide across the outdated studio apartment I live in. Walls that were once covered in white floral wallpaper are now tinged a questionable yellow, telling a long tale of smoke-filled nights and sweaty days. The floors are those wooden tiles from the seventies that remind you of exactly two things: your grandma and Dahmer.
And they are, in fact, from the seventies.
Originally built for my landlord's son after college, the above-garage apartment is small, simple, and barely functional. The furniture is an eclectic mash-up of things she no longer wanted, crap he left behind, and stuff my family forced me to take.
Basically, it’s a shithole.
Agnes Whittaker, the property owner, is the oldest person in town, and like Agnes, this place is on its last leg. But it’s got four walls, a roof, and a stellar internet signal that I’d never be able to get back in Heart Springs, so it’s home.
I roll my neck, relishing the way the tight muscles stretch and tug. Lift my right arm, feeling every bone and joint pop with the movement. Jaw ticking, teeth grinding, I slowly repeat the process on my left side. My peck burns worse than the liquor, screaming at me to stop.
I don’t.
Can’t.
I have to feel it—it reminds me why I’m here. And like it always does, the thought clouds my vision like some sort of fucked-up rose-colored glasses, making me see my home with fresh eyes.
Acceptingeyes.
With a grunt, I wrap my fingers tightly around my vibrating phone and stomp toward my desk, dodging heaps of laundry left over from my recent work trip. My bare foot catches on the jerry-rigged internet cable that leads from the only window to my computer setup. Stumbling, I catch myself on my desk seconds before my already pounding skull collides with it.
My eyes slice over the notifications rapidly pinging across my wall of monitors, and my stomach sinks. I missed a meeting with my team, and my boss is pissed.
Like to say it’s unlike me to sleep in late, but that’d make me a liar. I may be many things these days—a shitty son, bad friend, messy son-of-bitch, grumpy fucker who drinks too much to combat the demons in his soul, but a liar is something I’mnot.
Despite the slight buzz burning through me, it takes me no time at all to get the most important issues handled before I switch over to emails that have accumulated over the last week I spent on a protection detail out of state.
102 Unread Messages
“Hell with this,” I mutter. I’ll hear shit for it later, but that’s future me’s problem.
Sober me.
Leaning over my keyboard, I type out an away notice in the chat and set my computer to sleep. I can’t stand to be inside this place for one more minute. I feel like the walls are closing in on me.
Foregoing a shirt, I snatch my phone and head for the door. My eyes slide across the bottle of Jack.
I pause for less than a second before muttering, “Fuck it.”
Best way to spend the anniversary of the worst day of my life? Drunk.
Sweat beads down the center of my chest as I push myself harder than I have in weeks. Harder than I should. My back arches as I press the weights high above me, feeding off the ache burning through my muscles.
I lower the barbell with control, ignoring the sharp pull in my shoulder. The pain’s buried beneath layers of damage, scar tissue, and memories I don’t want to touch. It begs me to stop.
But I don’t.
Even if I wish I could.
I’m somewhere around my twelfth set when a god-awful noise cuts through Metallica’s“Enter Sandman.” The sudden blare of a different song jars me mid-rep, and my arms give out, turning to limp pasta before I can catch myself. The bar drops toward my chest, and I twist hard to the right, barely dodging it. Plates crash to the concrete on either side, loud as hell.
Grunting, I sit up and shoot a glare at the speaker hanging in the corner. It’s old, crackles when the volume’s too high, and likes to switch over to Agnes’s talk radio at random. But it’s loyal.
