Page 104 of Beyond Oblivion

“Fine?” He raised an eyebrow, his voice dripping with disbelief. “You’ve been here every other night, drowning yourself in whiskey, while Camille sits at home grieving. It’s been six weeks, and she’s been a fucking saint, but even women like Cami have their breaking point. Do you realize what’s going to happen? You think you’ll be fine then?”

His words hit harder than I wanted to admit, but I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of seeing it. “What do you want from me? You want me to go home and pretend like I’m not a complete failure? That I didn’t lose everything that mattered?”

“Not everything. Not yet. Not for lack of trying, you dumb fuck. What I want is for you to get your drunk ass in the truck so I can take you home,” he snapped, his patience clearly wearing thin.

I glared at him, but he didn’t even flinch. Typical. The guy’s been face-to-face with murderers, professional MMA fighters, and Abby when she’s pissed. I didn’t argue. No point. I had all the fight in me of a wet paper bag. So, I let him half-drag me out of The Red, past the smell of stale beer, the faint tang of sticky floors, and into the cool night air.

The sky had that strange, in-between shade of not-quite-dark, the fading daylight mixing with the glow of streetlamps and neon signs, buzzing to life like the town couldn’t decide if it was settling down or waking up. The sidewalks were still damp from an afternoon shower, puddles reflecting the string lights left up from the last festival—because in Illinois, no one ever seemed to bother taking them down. The air carried that early spring chill, the kind that teased warmth but still made you regret leaving your jacket in the car.

Normally, this was my favorite time of year. By now, I’d be stretched out on the couch with Camille, her legs draped over mine, the scent of rain still lingering in her hair. There’d be a cracked window letting in the fresh, damp air, some low-budget rom-com playing on the TV while she half-watched, half-scrolled through her phone, only looking up to roll her eyes at the predictable love story—right before tearing up at the big romantic moment like she didn’t see it coming. I’d have her tucked against me, pretending I didn’t secretly love every second of it, because as long as she was happy, I was, too.

Now, every time I looked at her, all I felt was debilitating guilt. The kind that burned in my chest like hellfire, searing deeper than any whiskey ever could. It was eating me alive that I’d failed to protect her—from Madison, from the men tangled in her twisted schemes, and from the crushing devastation of losing the one thing she’d longed for more than anything: our baby.

My wife deserved a hero, someone who could shield her from the worst life threw at her. Instead, she got me—the guy who couldn’t even save the people he loved from himself.

The drive home was silent, save for the occasional sigh from Travis. I kept my head pressed against the window, watching the streetlights blur into streaks of yellow. My stomach churned with every bump in the road, a mix of booze and self-loathing threatening to rise and spew all over Travis’s freshly detailed truck.

When we pulled into the driveway, I noticed the extra cars and groaned. “What is this, an intervention? Because if it is, I’m not in the mood.”

“Stop whining,” Travis said, cutting the engine. “Not everything is about you, dickface. They’re here for Camille. Someone needs to be here to help her get through this.”

I stumbled to the front door, my legs barely cooperating, and pushed it open. Inside, the living room was full—Camille’s brothers, Chase and Coby, were sitting around her, while Shannon was in the kitchen with Clark, waiting to rinse the dish he was scrubbing.

“Well, if it isn’t the cavalry,” I slurred, collapsing onto the couch. “Here to tell me what a screw-up I am? Take a number.”

Shannon dried her hands with a towel. “You don’t need us to tell you that, Trenton.”

Her words stung more than I wanted to admit, but I plastered on a smirk. “Ouch, Shannon. You’ve been taking lessons from Abby, haven’t you?”

“I’m trying so hard not to kill you,” Travis said, “but you keep running that mouth.”

“Don’t kill him,” Camille said, handing me a cup of coffee. “He’s not himself.”

Coby rolled his eyes. “Don’t enable him, Cam. He’s acting like—”

“Don’t,” Camille said, interrupting him. “The last thing I need is to break up a brawl in my house.”

“He’s not gonna fight me,” Coby said with a scoff. “He can barely stand.”

“Oh, I can stand, motherfu—” My words slurred as I tried to push myself off the couch.

Camille held her hand against my chest. “Don’t you dare,” she seethed.

I looked down at the black liquid steaming from the mug Camille had handed me. “What is this?”

“It’s coffee,” she said, sitting next to me. “There are other beverages besides whiskey. Drink it.”

I groaned but took a sip, wincing at the bitterness. “Happy?”

“Not even close,” she grumbled, shifting down into the cushions in a huff. She crossed her arms, glaring at me. “Drink,” she insisted.

The stillness in the room was suffocating, wrapping around me like a weighted blanket soaked in regret. I could feel the unspoken words of their judgment hanging in the air, the disappointment from everyone in the room tightening around my throat like a noose.

Finally, Chase leaned forward, his voice cutting through the uncomfortable silence. “You still have a wife, Trent. Act like it.”

I barked out a laugh, though it sounded more like a sob. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t wake up every day wondering why the hell she hasn’t left me yet?”

“She hasn’t left because she loves you,” Clark said firmly. “But if you keep this up, you’re gonna lose her. And then you’ll really have something to drink about.”

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