My eyes roll back and my head bobs like a rag doll when I lift the corner of my mouth in what I think is a smile. “Hey, man.”
My speech is slurred, and I’m positive Frank is judging me harshly at my state of disarray.
“Good morning, Mr. Thatcher. Let me help you to your apartment.”
I pitch forward and then stumble to the left. Frank hoists me up with his big beefy arms, setting me back on my feet while we stand to wait for the elevator to open.
“Morning?” I’m confused by his statement.
He lets out a low chuckle. “Just after two a.m.”
My throat gurgles, and I hiccup loudly. He looks at me wearily. “You okay, sir?”
“Ah yeah, man. S’all good. It was my sister’s birthday today,” I mumble and slur, drool dripping from my mouth that I wipe with the back of my hand. “Or yesterday now.”
Frank props me up against the elevator wall and punches the seventh-floor button. The quick jerk upwards and the gravitational force of being flung through the elevator shaft shifts everything inside my stomach, which churns like a washing machine. I swallow the thick bile that threatens to make an escape, along with all the liquor I drank tonight.
“Looks like you were doing a lot of celebrating with your sister, sir.”
His innocent mistake is like a kick in the balls, and I nearly double over from the pain that slices through my entire body, shaking me to the core.
“She’s dead. She can’t celebrate her fucking birthday anymore.”
A protracted pause stifles any further comments from Frank, who I think I’ve just shut down, as the elevator makes its way to my floor. When the doors open, Frank maneuvers me out into the hallway, my feet dragging in an uncoordinated effort as we pass the Morgan’s apartment. My eyes glare at the door, wondering if Sutton is in there. Or if she went home with someone tonight.
The thought irks me.
It should’ve been me. When I saw her, looking audaciously sexy and sweet I should have bought her a drink. But as usual, I was too late.
“Will you be okay on your own? Can I help you inside your apartment, sir?”
I fish the keys from my pocket and shake my head, turning the key and unlocking the door. I wave him off.
“Nah, thanks, Frank. You’re a good man. I can manage from here.”
I pat him on the shoulder, and he willingly accepts my statement as truth. He turns and catches the elevator back down to the lobby entrance. But just before the doors close, as I’m still hovering in the entryway, he peers out and says, “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Thatcher. Take care.”
I sniff at his condolences and fall to the floor in a heap. Like a frigging angry toddler, I bang my fists on the floor and my head back against the doorframe.
It’s then I realize sobs have clawed their way out of my chest, tears gushing from my eyes in the most unmasculine display ever. Through the flood of hot tears, I realize this is the first time since Mel’s death that I’ve cried in grief.
And while it’s not exactly a relief, it’s possibly the closest I’ve ever gotten to expelling the hurt, shame, and regret I’ve been holding in for years.
Yet, it’s not enough for me to stop regretting who I am, what I’ve done, and who I’ve become.
Because that will never happen.
11
Sutton
I returned home justafter one a.m. after sharing a cab with Taylor, who lives with her parents somewhere close. As expected, Christiana and Layla ended up findingother rideshome, a.k.a. hookups, leaving Taylor and me on our own to get home.
I took Blackie outside so he could relieve himself before we both came back upstairs and got ready for bed. Although I imbibed more than I usually do, I wasn’t too buzzed and was actually keyed up, so I took to the couch, turned on the TV, and flipped through some of my social media accounts on my phone. Throughout the night, the girls posted several pictures of our escapades, tagging me in photos of us with shot glasses in hand, smiling, laughing, and dancing. It was a good night, although I ended up coming home alone.
I consider texting the bartender I met a few weeks back but push the thought aside as I reach out for my glass of water on the coffee table. As I do, I hear a strange, muffled noise coming from the hallway. Blackie, asleep on his bed across the room, growls a low rumble, his ears perking up, but his eyes remaining closed.
“Well, you’re a great guard dog,” I tease him because that’s what you do when you’re in an apartment by yourself with only a dog for company.
