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“They’re broken,” I whispered, dragging in another painful breath. “They’re broken, and I can’t fix them. I can’t fix the pieces, Nolan. They’re broken. And the pieces are everywhere. I can’t fix the broken pieces, Nolan. They’re broken, and they don’t deserve to be broken. The pieces are everywhere, and I can’t fix them. I don’t know how to fix them, Nolan! How do I fix them? How do I fix them, Nolan? How do I fix the cups?”
I had no control over the word vomit spilling out of me. Panic clashed with a slew of emotions I had no hope of understanding.
“Okay, okay, okay,” Nolan replied, his voice gentle. His fingers tightened around mine. “I’ll get rid of the cups.”
“We can’t get rid of the cups!” I rushed to say. My sobs grew worse, wracking my whole body as I tried to gulp down air. “They’re supposed to go together, Nolan. They’re a set! They need to be together, and now they’re just broken and can’t be fixed and—”
“Breathe, Ginny,” he interrupted. Carefully, as if I were fragile, he guided me closer and hugged me tight. I gave in and clung to him, crying pathetically. “It’s okay. We’ll fix it, okay? We’ll find a way to fix it.”
I didn’t believe him. There were too many broken pieces everywhere—too much damage done.
Chapter 66
Killian
Two and a half hours outside of Cedar Harbor, I stopped in a small fucking town with a name I didn’t know. Not that I fucking cared. I just needed gas, and then I’d keep going. To where? I wasn’t really sure. Back to Iron Falls maybe. Or maybe I’d find somewhere else to go. Who fucking knew.
Only I didn’t pass through like I should’ve.
Instead, I ended up in the dingy bar across the street. It was one of those old places where normal fucking regulations didn’t seem to exist. People smoked, the food was absolute shit, and the bar served questionable beer.
But I wanted that. I wanted to drown in questionable fucking beer. I desperately needed a reprieve from the rampant thoughts in my head—just a fucking moment of silence that wasn’t fueled by guilt, grief, or shame.
Fuck, I was a goddamn mess.
I slid onto a stool, careful to keep my jacket tight around me. Should I have worn my gun into the bar? Probably not. Did I fucking care? No, I really fucking didn’t. It’d probably get my ass kicked out, but I didn’t give a fuck. It was my proverbial armor.
“What’ll you have?” the bartender asked.
“Whatever’s on tap,” I said, and she left without a word. Good. It was one of those fucking bars—the keep to yourself kind, not the talk to everyone kind. I couldn’t fucking do the latter.
I needed the simplicity of dropping my cash, expecting no change, and getting my goddamn beer. If I was going to drink and be fucking miserable, I wanted to do it alone.
There was no denying the slight tremble in my hand as I held the chilled glass. Gripping it a little tighter, I stared at the amber liquid in search of some magical answers about what the fuck I should do.
Beer had nothing to offer except the promise of reprieve from how her broken voice haunted me—had haunted me for two and a half hours straight.
“You left me, Killian! Alone and bleeding in the hospital!”
I took a sip and let the cold liquid sit on my tongue. Two fucking years sober and it still felt like nothing changed as I swallowed hard. I leaned into the familiarity of its taste.
“You just walked out of my life and left me there to deal with all of it!”
I took another long swig, trying to chase away the sound of her voice in my head.
“It was supposed to be you and me! You were supposed to be there for me! I only wanted you.”
Another drink, another desperate prayer for quiet.
“You’re sorry? What good does that do me?”
And another.
“You didn’t care.”
I downed half the fucking glass before I took a deep breath. Nothing. That single sentence played on repeat in my head.
She thought I didn’t care about her. About our son. About any of it.
