Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Their sharp edges dug into his fingers when he clutched them. Just like the air, the metal was cold. He shivered again and wished for a blanket or a coat...or a friend.
But Ange was gone. The boys were still pissed at him and he’d lost all connection with his brother.
Maybe it wasn’t the apartment that was cold. Maybe it was him.
Could loneliness turn your bones to ice? Could regret make your heart freeze?
There was a note in Ange’s handwriting where the keys had been.
Love yourself first, it read.
And next to it was a brochure for Alcoholics Anonymous.
He stared at the words until they blurred.
Love yourself first. Like it was that easy. Like he could just forget what a mess he was and forgive all the terrible things he’d done. Like he could ignore the people he’d hurt.
Thunder shook the windowpanes, and drops of rain splattered on the glass, a fitting soundtrack to the turmoil of his life. He was sick of it. So much drama, heartache, so much fucking pain. He was ready for it to end. He closed his eyes and Ray’s weather-beaten face appeared in his mind’s eye.
There had been no outward sign of the depression that took Ray away from them. He wondered if Ray had felt like this—done. Finished. Ready to give up.
And if Ansel didn’t do something to change his life, would he eventually end up like his hero? Would Z’s prediction come true?
The idea frightened him more than anything else.
His stomach knotted at the certainty of that future. He’d tried with Fitch. He’d tried to be the type of person who might get a happy ending, but at the first obstacle he’d fallen back into his old habits. He’d failed. Failing had hurt so much. He didn’t know if he was capable of trying again. But he knew for sure that if he didn’t try, he might as well drink every last drop of alcohol in the apartment and jump off the roof because he’d be a walking corpse anyway.
He didn’t want to end up like Ray. He didn’t want to be a disaster his friends kept having to clean up until they finally had enough of the mess and left him to wither.
There had to be more to life. And even if he didn’t get his happy ending, at least he could say he’d tried. That he’d fought.
He wouldn’t just give up.
If there was one thing he’d learned in his life it was to keep moving forward. This was his crossroads. His one chance for redemption.
He’d picked up the brochure and started to read.
They said the first step was admitting you had a problem. He’d lost Fitch. He’d lost the apartment. He’d lost his budding relationship with his brother. He’d lost his roommate and he’d lost the boys’ trust.
Not all of it was caused by drinking, but some of it was. Ange was right.
He needed help.
Ever since he left home he’d turned to alcohol to numb the pain. If he were honest, he’d started before that. He used to raid his parents’ liquor cabinet after every berating, every beating. It had become his escape. A way to deal with the shit life handed him.
But being drunk hadn’t helped in a long time. Friday night was the most recent example of the trouble it could cause. The drink had propelled a painful situation into a disaster that hurt his friends. He’d had so many other options. He could have called them and told them how upset he was. He could have surrounded himself in their accepting warmth. Instead, he’d sucked down the poison like he’d always done before. Now he was homeless again.
Homeless. Fuck.
He thought he was through with the streets. Ray would be so fucking disappointed—all the guy ever wanted was for him and Ange to be safe, to have a roof over their heads. And he’d done it too. He’d made Ray proud. Then he went and screwed everything up.
Well, he’d just have to start again.
This time, sober.
It was dark in the apartment when he finally rose from the table with trembling legs and crossed to the sink. Only the streetlights outside provided illumination through the dirty windows to color the room in a sickening green hue.
The open bottle of whiskey was still clenched in his fist like an extension of his arm. A piece of him. A heavy burden he’d been carrying for far too long.
His chest hurt, his stomach ached, his head pounded and fear shook him so hard he had to steady himself with a hand to the cold Formica countertop. He was forced to breathe through his mouth because if he didn’t, the tempting scent of the bottle’s contents might make him change his mind. Already his mouth was watering for a taste, like Pavlov’s fucking dog. But he’d made his decision. So, with more strength than he’d thought he had, he lifted the whiskey and began pouring it down the drain. Every glug-glug-glug was a pull on his soul, like part of him was slithering down the pipes, sliding away into the darkness. But it didn’t make him feel any lighter.