Page 105 of Beyond Oblivion

“I’m not leaving,” Camille insisted. “This is temporary. He’s hurting.”

“So are you,” Shannon said from the kitchen. “And you can’t heal if you’re ignoring your own pain to coddle Trent while he’s spiraling.”

“I thought this wasn’t an intervention?” I spat at Travis.

“It doesn’t seem to be yours,” he shot back.

I looked around, seeing my in-laws looking at my wife with expectation in their eyes. “You’re all trying to talk her into leaving me? Is that it? In my fucking house? In front of my goddamn face?”

“Baby, don’t,” Camille said, reaching for me.

I pushed her away, standing. “Get out. All of you. Get the fuck outta my house.”

“I’m sorry,” Camille said to our guests. “Come on,” she said, her voice soft. “Come to bed with me.” She guided me into the bedroom, and I could hear our brothers and Shannon filtering out the front door, murmuring about me.

“I’ll lock up,” Travis called back.

Camille closed the bedroom door, waited a beat, and then pointed to the bathroom. “Shower. Now.”

“Okay, okay,” I conceded, stumbling in the direction she pointed.

I fumbled with the buttons on my shirt, cursing under my breath when they refused to cooperate. After an awkward battle, I finally managed to shrug it off, tossed vaguely in the direction of the laundry basket—points for trying. The jeans were next, peeled off with all the grace of a guy wading through quicksand. The shower knobs felt like they required an engineering degree, but after a few failed attempts, I got the water running somewhere between skin-scalding and glacier-cold. The spray hit me, and I braced myself against the glass, letting the water work overtime to scrub away more than just the grime.

Once out, I grabbed my toothbrush, smeared on too much toothpaste, and went at it like I was fighting plaque with vengeance. Aiming for the sink was clearly asking too much because the first spit hit the counter.Close enough.

When I finally crawled into bed, Camille was already in her PJs, sitting up against the headboard, waiting for me to say something.

I lay there staring at the ceiling, the alcohol’s warmth fading, leaving behind the cold emptiness I’d tried so hard to drown.

“I’ve given you time,” Camille said. I braced myself for what she’d say next. “It’s time to feel it sober. I know it’s scary. It hasn’t exactly been a picnic for me, but I’m doing it.”

“You think I’m not feeling it?” I choked out.

She sighed, the kind that carried exhaustion, love, and a warning all at once. She slid down beside me, resting her head on my shoulder, her arm draped across my chest in a gesture so simple it nearly broke me. “I love you,” she whispered. “But you’re not here. I’ve been alone in this.”

“I’m sorry. I really am. I just… I don’t know how to…” The rest died in my throat, leaving the sentence hanging in the air like a frayed ignition wire under the hood of Dad’s truck.

“How much longer do you need?”

I swallowed hard, wondering if saying the truth out loud would be the final blow to KO our marriage.

“Say it,” she demanded.

“Every time I look at you… it hurts. I keep waiting for it to go away, but it just… doesn’t.”

She sucked in a breath, and I knew that she was fighting for her life to hold it all in—anger, tears, maybe both. Her shoulders rose and stayed tense for a moment, and I thought she might say something, might let loose the words I definitely deserved. Instead, she exhaled slowly, shaky and quiet, and then without a word, she turned her back to me, pulling the blanket over her shoulder, a protective barrier between us. The space she left behind felt colder than a hospital waiting room, and the silence that followed was louder than anything she could’ve said.

***

The next morning, the pounding in my head was only rivaled by the ache in my chest. I slogged into the kitchen to find Camille already dressed for work, her hair pulled back into a tiny, low ponytail, leaving her bangs to still graze her lashes, her eyes still puffy from what I could only assume was another night of crying.

“Morning,” I offered, my voice rough.

She glanced at me, her expression unreadable. “Morning.”

“I, uh, I’m sorry about last night,” I mumbled, not sure what else to say.

She shrugged, not meeting my eyes.

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