Page 172 of Mason

And the truth.

The silenceafter Brando leaves is worse than the yelling.

It settles in my gut like decay, like the last drink that doesn’t hit the way you hoped it would.

I stare at the door long after it slams, like it might open again and he’ll come back in, say he didn’t mean it. That it’s not too late.

But he doesn’t.

Because hedidmean it.

Every fucking word.

I turn back to the kitchen. The bottle’s still sitting there on the counter like it’s watching me. Like it knows it’s all I have left.

Half a fifth of bourbon and a full load of shame.

I reach for the glass I abandoned earlier, but I don’t pour it. Not yet. I just hold it. Feel the cool weight of it in my hand.

I think about Mia.

Her eyes when she saidI want you alive.

Her voice when she saidI’m pregnant.

Her goddamn grace when I didn’t deserve a shred of it.

I think about the life inside her—the one she’s going to bring into this world, whether I show up or not. And the fact that shestillwants me there. Still believes I might be worth something.

My throat tightens.

I set the glass down, not gently.

Then I grab the bottle.

And this time, I don’t hesitate.

I twist off the cap and walk to the sink. The smell hits me first—sweet and sharp and familiar as sin. I stare at it for a long moment, letting it taunt me one last time.

Then I tip it over.

The liquid spills out in a smooth, golden arc, glugging like it’s protesting, like it’s mourning me too. It splashes into the sink with a wet hiss, and I swear I can smell the finality in the air.

I pour every last drop.

Even when it’s empty, I keep holding the bottle. My fingers tighten around the neck like I want to shatter it against the wall, like I want to punish it for everything it ever did to me.

But the bottle didn’t do this.

I did.

I drop it in the trash instead.

It lands with a hollow clunk, and for the first time in weeks, the silence in the kitchen doesn’t feel like a noose. It feels like space. Like breath.

I lean against the counter and drag a hand over my face. My whole body aches—sore in places I didn’t know could hurt. Not from drinking.

Fromtrying.

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