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“You good?” I ask, before lifting my hand off the bar.
He grunts, but slowly lifts, then hands the bar to me.
“...whose wife was the victim of a deadly drunk driving accident, was found dead in his home earlier today. The cause of death is not being released at the request of the family. Mr. Stamp leaves behind an eleven-year-old daughter.” A photo of him and her when she was about the age her mom died is up on the screen.
I snap my attention to the TV and almost drop the bar. The guy sits up and says, “Whoa! Give me that.” He places it back on the rack safely.
I assume. I’m not watching him. My eyes and ears are glued to the news. Without my permission, tears spring to my eyes.
Terrence Stamp is dead. I killed his wife and now he’s dead too, and it doesn’t sound like it was an accident. I literally want to throw up.
I’ve widowed a child, and while her life was already altered after her mom died, she’s now pretty much good and truly fucked.
I snatch my things and race out of the gym, where I sit in the driver’s seat of my car and fucking sob.
I’m not sure how long I sit there, but when I can finally see through the blur of tears, I wipe them away and speed home.
Pay attention to the road. Don’t be distracted,I tell myself.This is how you screwed yourself seven years ago.
I slow down and do the breathing exercises my therapist taught me.
My therapist. I have to call her immediately.
Or do I?
Fuck that. She’s just going to tell me it’s not my fault, blah blah blah. No. I think a bottle of whiskey sounds better.
I stop by the liquor store and buy a bottle of Jack, take it home, and drink it straight from the bottle.
I’m one hundred percent triggered. Anne told me to be careful about triggers, it only takes one to start drinking again. She knows I wasn’t exactly a heavy alcoholic—more like a heavy social drinker—but she told me it was important I stayed away and kept my mind and body strong. And I agreed with her. But she was also right about the trigger.
“Oh, God... that poor kid,” I mumble, sitting on the sofa in my little condo. “I can’t do this. What if she’s next? What if she grows up, or even before she’s grown, and takes her own life, or starts doing heavy drugs to drown out the pain? It will all be my fault. I can’t live with that.
My phone rings. It’s Christa. I decline the call. I refuse to let her see or hear me like this. She doesn’t deserve this ugly, blubbering human I’ve become. In fact, I don’t deserve her at all. She’s too good and pure and beautiful and perfect, and I’m just a fucked-up piece of shit who will never pay his penance. Six years in prison and losing everything wasn’t enough.
I should be dead, too. It’s the only retribution I deserve.
The phone rings again, and it’s Carter. Why the hell is he calling from his honeymoon?
I want to decline the call but curiosity and the pathetic need for the comfort of my best friend who knows me better than anyone overtakes me.
“Yeah.”
“I was calling to see if you heard the news... I guess the answer’s yes.”
“Go back to your honeymoon,” I grouse.
“No, Taryn and I are flying home tonight to be with you.”
I stand up and slam the bottle on the table with enough force to have some slosh out onto my coffee table. “Absolutely not. If you come home, I’ll be gone. You hear me? Stay in fucking Bora Bora, there’s absolutely nothing you can do for me.”
“Taryn’s worried, man. Please go stay with a friend, or Christa. You shouldn’t be alone. We—”
“Shut up. I’m fine. I’m not gonna do anything,” I lie. I still haven’t decided.
“Eric,” Taryn says, her voice shaky. “Honey, please. I’m so worried about you.”
I close my eyes, not wanting my sister’s sympathy, it’s making me feel worse. “I’m fine, Tar. I didn’t kill the guy,” I lie again. Unless he had some freak household accident, he either overdosed or took his life, judging by the fact they won’t say how he died.
