Page 83 of Accidental Theirs
When I finally pass out on the couch, I dream of my house being filled with love and laughter, of a family I’ve always dreamed of but never had.
Chapter Eighteen
SEBASTIAN
Today is a bad day.
Every year, the twenty-eighth of March is a bad day.
I take a gulp of my fourth—maybe fifth—drink and press the rewind button on the remote.
The video is old, a VHS, a dinosaur of technology, and the machine screeches as it rewinds.
I don’t know what I’ll do if it ever breaks. I suppose I should put the recording on the cloud, or whatever the kids are doing these days, but it’s a hard watch.
I only allow myself to wallow on this day.
I met Sophie Davis on her birthday, when she came into a bar in my hometown with all her friends. She was bright-eyed, already a bit tipsy, but God, she burned so bright.
I fell in love on the spot.
I swallow hard, and I tell myself it's the burn of the bourbon that makes my eyes water.
Sophie’s looking at me from the television, smiling in that way of hers that shows her canines. They were sharp, too, pierced my shoulder more than a thousand times.
I instinctively rub my fingers against my shoulder, right where she used to leave her mark.
It hurts that my skin is unbroken now.
Everything hurts, if I’m honest, every little thing about her, every second of this video.
On the screen, Sophie throws her veil at me playfully, and I catch it, fumbling, before chasing her to the back of the building.
The wedding cameraman catches the sound of her delighted giggle perfectly.
I take a ragged breath and wipe at the tears already rolling down my face.
They say it’s better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all, but I disagree. Some days, I almost wish I’d never met her.
Almost.
A knock on my door makes me nearly jump out of my skin, and I instantly turn off the television, feeling almost ashamed.
I’m wallowing, and that’s my right, damnit, especially today.
It’s nearly midnight, and I’m not expecting visitors. I would never schedule anything on this day. I always take it off work because I know I’ll get nothing done.
When I stand up, the world spins on its axis, and I brace myself on the couch, taking a few deep breaths to ground myself.
When I look through the peephole, shock rushes through me.
Olivia stands there, her arms crossed over her chest, looking down.
I tug the door open. “Olivia? It’s late, what are you?—”
She pushes past me, and I brace myself against the door so I don’t fall over.
I shut the door behind me, bewildered, and Olivia whirls around to face me after taking in the scene—a half empty bottle of bourbon on the table with one glass.
