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“My advice is to just get over him. You need—”
“To focus on the plan to keep the kids. No offense, man, but I meant it. Not talking about Wizard.”
The oven timer went off, saving him from Dylan trying again to get him to spill about what was really going on with Mark. He wasn’t sure he agreed with much of Dylan’s advice—asking friends and family for help was only going to make him look weaker. But you may not have a choice. But Dylan was right about one thing—he needed to get over Mark. There was no future there. He might need a village, but Mark wasn’t going to be in it.
* * *
After Isaiah drove away with Liam and half of Mark’s heart, Mark stood in the driveway for a long time, wondering how he’d fucked up so badly. And what the fuck was he supposed to do now? He had the day off, but no family to spend it with like he’d been planning. And when had that happened, when had the guy who jealously guarded his alone time become a family man, counting down the minutes until he got to see the kids again. And Isaiah.
Isaiah who was understandably pissed at Mark. Isaiah who might never forgive him. How was Mark supposed to go on without him?
One step. Then another. Move forward. He had to yell at himself, the same way he’d urged his recruits on, the way he’d managed to keep going in the first terrible days after Danielle and Cal’s deaths. Start with something small.
Going back into the house, he started by cleaning up, trying to ensure that they wouldn’t have a repeat of the shoe debacle. All the shoes to the shoe cubby. The toys to the play area in the family room or the kids’ rooms. Then vacuuming because that was a nice, high gratification task. He was doing the upstairs hall when he caught sight of the master bedroom door.
What the fuck were you thinking, Danielle? It was the millionth time he’d had the thought, but for the first time he really let himself feel his rage. Rage at Danielle for driving drunk. Rage at everyone around her who had suspected she had a drinking problem and said nothing. Rage at himself for not realizing sooner, for not intervening somehow, for not being here to stop her. Rage at the navy, keeping him deployed so long. Rage at Cal for climbing in the passenger seat. Rage at Isaiah for letting them go to the party. Rage at everyone else at the party. Rage. Rage. Rage.
Not conscious of his footsteps, he stormed into the room. She’d left them all this mess. Hadn’t even left behind a clear blueprint for dealing. Would an updated will have been too much to ask? What did she really want for the kids? Or more precisely, who did she want? Mark hated that they’d never know. Driven by the unrelenting anger, he started doing what they’d all put off for so long, going through their personal effects.
One pile for things Isaiah might want to look at, keep for himself or the kids. Another pile for trash. Bag after bag of clothes that could be donated. He’d had to do this same task after his parents died, Danielle not up to it. And he’d had rage driving him then too. Why did everyone in his life have to leave? Why? He worked faster, harder, pushing himself to move faster, not feel the hurt.
One thing he’d learned when his parents died was that you never completely knew people—he’d learned things about each of them he’d rather have not known. Things that said people were never as trustworthy as they seemed. And it was the same here. The flask in the bedside table. Several more in the closet, strategically hidden in different purses. More signs of the problem never fully realized.
Mom was the same way. Fuck. Mark did not want that thought. Not now. Not when he was already so raw. But it was true. Heredity had not been kind to Danielle. And maybe that was why Mark hadn’t intervened—he couldn’t remember their mother in the evenings without a glass of wine or cocktail. When Dani had gone down the same path, he hadn’t stopped her, hadn’t thought how problematic the behavior was.
You can’t save everyone. Isaiah’s voice rang in his ears, the same voice that told him he did good, tried his best, wasn’t God. But fuck. She was his big sister, and he’d let her down, and no amount of logic could convince him otherwise. Shouldn’t Mark have stopped this? Shouldn’t he have been able to stop her? Save her?
Why? Why? Why? The questions piled up in his brain until they were flowing out, huge rivers of tears he wasn’t even aware he was shedding until his neck and collar were damp. Fuck. He didn’t cry. Not him. But he was, years’ worth of tears. Tears for Danielle. For Cal. For his parents. For the kids. For himself.
