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That thought only leads me to others.
What happens if he doesn't want the baby?
Could Amanda be right?
He told Dad he loved me. Callum wouldn’t have said something like that, much less to my father, if he didn’t mean it. I hate that everything is hinged on hope, but it’s all I have. Hope that everything will work out for the best. Hope that my father will find happiness again, and hope that Callum won’t abandon me when he discovers I’m pregnant.
CALLUM
What was that noise?
My eyes fly open, my heart racing out of my chest. There was a noise somewhere in the house. Unless I dreamed it—I didn't even know I had fallen asleep.
Passed out is more like it. Sitting in my chair, alone, where I ended up after I cleaned the mess on the floor. The thought of Bianca returning to the house and seeing that mess haunted me. I couldn’t just leave it, yet I also refused to have anyone else do it.
And it was a brief respite from the blame I heaped on myself once the worst of my drunken stupidity passed. I should’ve been there for my daughter. I should have been the sort of father she could come to when Kristoff first started hurting her–since I doubt it started in Europe. I should’ve been there for her in these past weeks, insisting we find her a therapist, all of it.
Somewhere along the way, I lost sight of my priorities. I’ve had the rest of the night to sit here and hate myself for it before passing out.
My heartbeat slows once I’m aware of my surroundings. All is well, minus the fact that I’m alone. It’s no one’s fault but my own. Once again, I fucked up everything.
I pull out my cell and check the time. It’s nearly midnight. My heart sinks at the lack of a text from Bianca. Hopefully, she’s okay. I should text her, ask her, except I’m sure she must’ve gone to bed by now. It doesn’t really matter. I don't deserve an update, which only makes me more convinced that Charlie’s turning her against me.
She loves you, you idiot.
I need to get my shit together. I'm spiraling and not as drunk as I was earlier. I can't blame it all on the whiskey, even if my brain is still foggy. That's not an excuse. I can't turn this into a capital offense. I cannot continue making the same mistakes. I’m stronger than this. Better than this.
My eyes are dry, tired, and I rub my knuckles over them while trying to work up the energy to get out of this chair and go up to bed before I pass out again. I’ll hate myself for it in the morning otherwise—my neck is stiff and aching from the awkward position I left it in for a couple of hours.
I let my hands fall into my lap with a sigh—only to find a mirage forming before me. That must be what it is. I’m either still asleep or imagining things because there is no way I’m looking at my little bird, the love of my life, standing in front of me, wearing an expression of worry.
“Callum? Is everything okay? What happened tonight?”
“Is it really you?” I whisper, my voice thick.
“No, it's my evil twin sister.” She snickers, her gaze swinging around the room. “What happened, and why does it smell like a distillery?” Before I can respond, she walks over to a window and opens it, allowing in a soft breeze. I’m not surprised it smells like a distillery; I did cover the floor in whiskey.
None of that matters now. Not the destruction I caused. Not the things I did or said. I can't get over the fact that she's here. That she came back. Whatever her father said to her wasn't enough to make her hate me.
“How many drinks have you had?” she asks, turning in my direction.
“Enough.”
She eyes the empty bottle in the wastebasket, her mouth curving into a frown. “Are you trying to kill yourself? Because there are quicker and cheaper ways than drinking a ten thousand dollar bottle of whiskey.”
“Don't you know by now?”
“Don't I know what?”
“That you're the only person who has the power to kill me. The only person I would even let try.”
She offers a sad smile, her blue eyes roaming my body. “I don't know. You look like you're trying hard enough yourself.” She’s not lying. My hair is disheveled, my shirt untucked and hanging open. I don’t allow anyone to see me like this, especially not her. It would make me weak in the eyes of anyone else, but I don’t care. Not right now.
“You came back,” I whisper.
“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
Her words stir a deeper longing in my chest, and I can’t help but reach for her. I need to touch her, feel her in my arms. “Come here. Please. I need you.” I can't bear to let another moment pass without touching.
