Page 135 of Penalty to the Heart

It’s because of me that Erin and the girls no longer have Jack in their lives. And maybe, most probably, never will again.

The next day, when I wake up, I feel like death itself paid me a visit.

Everything hurts.

I groan as the morning light filters through the blinds, stabbing at my pounding head while ruthless thirst claws away at my parched throat. My body feels heavy and sluggish, as if every muscle were protesting the abuse from whatever party I attended the night before. I haven’t touched a drink in a while, and apparently, I’ve lost practice ‘cause this hangover is killing me.

When I finally manage to pry open my heavy eyelids, my forehead creases at a constellation of fluorescent stars plastered up on the ceiling.

Oh, shit.

I’m in the girls’ room.

Suddenly, it all comes back to me—after I visited Jack at the hospital, I came back to his place, already finding Erin and my nieces fast asleep in their rooms. So, instead of going home, I scoured through his liquor cabinet and drank myself into what I hoped would be an alcohol-induced coma. Somewhere between getting shitfaced and now, I must have found my way into the girls’ bedroom and decided that a good place to sleep would be on the floor between Cara’s bed and Fiona’s crib.

Fuck my life.

Yep.

No way will I be winning any awards for best uncle anytime soon.

Erin is going to fucking kill me.

It’s a wonder I’m still breathing at all after she found me lying here.

With my head still banging away, I walk over to the guest room, where I keep some of my clothes whenever I sleep over, and go to the adjoining ensuite to grab a quick shower, hoping to cleanse the stench of alcohol from my pores.

My guilt doesn’t wash off as easily, though.

I don’t even dare to look at myself in the mirror as I brush my teeth and fix my hair. My reflection will only make me feel worse for being the shitty uncle that I am.

As I leave the room, the enticing smell of blueberry pancakes leads me towards the kitchen, where Erin is likely preparing breakfast for the girls.

But just as I’m a few feet away, I freeze in place when I hear Cara ask, “Is Daddy still sleeping, Mommy?”

“He is,” Erin replies sweetly.

“He’s been sleeping a long time, Mommy. Can’t you wake him up?”

“I wish I could, baby. But Daddy needs to rest. We just need to be patient.”

“Okay, but when will he come home?” Cara asks on a whine.

“Soon, baby, soon. Daddy will be home soon.”

“He’s taking so long. I miss him.”

“I do, too, sweetheart. But before you know it, he’ll be walking through that door.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” Erin replies ever so sweetly.

The fuck?

What the fuck is she telling her?

When I strut into the kitchen, Erin doesn’t even look one bit guilty for filling little Cara’s with nonsense.

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