forget about my coffee on the ground, and my steps become more frantic in my haste to get to her. The breath of coffee I inhale reminds me of all the mornings we spent together, enjoying a cup of joe and pastries for her sweet tooth before we’d go for a run.
Then the memories fade, and the pain returns.
I’m only six feet from her table, five steps tops to get to her, to demand answers, but before I make it, a hand on my chest halts me abruptly. I turn to the person stopping me, and my glare is met with lustrous fiery almond eyes.
My heart drops farther, if possible, striking me in another place that hasn’t felt in so long.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
Chapter One
Toby
My head rings as my phone’s alarm clock blares Journey, waking me up, while also spearing into my skull repeatedly. How much did I drink last night? How did I get home?
Why can’t I remember anything? I told myself not to drink again since benders don’t benefit me. Change. The six-letter word I’ve been trying to implement into my life. I want change. What the hell have I done now?
The smell of flowers, fresh linen, and something else invades my nose, only further worsening the pounding in my head. Who even likes this mixture? It smells like an old people’s home. You know the floral smell, the one they think old people appreciate but, in reality, hate just as bad as young people?
Is this my house? Wait. I no longer have a house. After everything, it ended up on the market and selling within two months. That’s what happens when you abandon all hope. You realize items are just that... items. They don’t matter and neither does anything else.
My eyes strain to open, forcing my spine erect. My body winces in response, the pain as fresh as the wave of nausea. My gaze scans the white bedroom, the plain walls, the clean white dressers, side tables, and carpet to match. It’s like a wedding room, one where innocence goes to die. And a moment later, someone’s groaning. A woman.
Soft delicate noises are my favorite pastime. They’re infiltrating and caressing, giving me the ease only whiskey offers.
Turning slowly, I remain as quiet as possible, and my eyes land onto a contented form. Usually after a night of partying, I don’t pay attention to someone after they’ve fulfilled my needs, but she’s somehow different. Her cinnamon spice hair fans out around her, making the room seem vacant and colorless in comparison. She’s snuggling her pillow as if it’s the source of all happiness. Her eyes are shut, serene, something I haven’t experienced in a long-ass time.
Peace.
Sleep.
Someone by my side.
The thought of those necessities, the human touch I’ve lacked for years, hits me square in the chest. I miss Lo. My Sparkle. My light. She was a driving force in my life. She made me want to get up in the morning and strive for better. She made me better and sober. She ruined you. And I welcomed that ruin like the alcohol bottle always gripped in my palm.
When we spent time together, it felt like I could conquer the world. Without her, I proved I’d fall. It’s the last thing I wanted, but it’s the reality I live with every day. My inability to staunch my alcohol dependence became clear in the first month without her. Two years later, I’m still a slave to my vices.
Waking up in a pool of vomit with an empty bottle and unabated pain only solidifies that my problems are worsening. That’s my repeat action—binge. Without her, I’m lost. Without her, I’m a shell. Without her, I’m worthless.
I collect my shame, bottling it up in a Mason jar along with my soul.
When will my collection be too much to bear?
My bedmate’s light snoring brings my attention to yet another fateful night from the bottle. Why is this stranger in my bed, or rather a bed I don’t recognize? What happened last night? I was... where the hell am I?
My mind attempts to wrap around last night’s events, but I draw many foggy images. One sticks, though. One of this auburn-haired goddess.
“Toby,” I mumble, my voice hardened. This was supposed to work out in my best interest, not give me a young twenty-something chef who has never held a job before. A year at a renowned restaurant as an intern chef isn’t considered holding a job, even if that’s what she’s