Page 107 of 1 Last Shot

I look over Isabella's sleeping form. Asleep, she looks relaxed. None of yesterday's stress shows on her face—none of the hurtIput her through. I almost don't want to wake her.

When I swipe a hand down my face in frustration, I realize that I reek. Between the booze, the jail cell, and my sprint home, I shouldn't even be within ten feet of Isabella, let alone standing over her, ready to beg for her forgiveness. I decide to hurriedly shower, brush my teeth, and throw on a pair of gym shorts.

They're both lying in the exact same spot ten minutes later when I step beside the couch again. Taking a deep breath, I crouch down and reach for Isabella's shoulder.

"Princess," I murmur, my voice breaking on the word.

She wakes immediately. With a start, her eyes snap open.

The first thing I see on her face is…relief. The second her eyes focus, and she realizes it's me, a relieved smile lifts her lips and adoration fills her expression.

A split second later, that same expression shutters into wariness.

"You're here," she says, pushing herself into a sitting position. "Are—are you… okay?"

It kills me to see Isabella unsure of herself. Unsure of me. I debate sitting beside her, but decide kneeling beside the couch is what I deserve.

"Hey," I say quietly, wanting so badly to brush her hair off her cheek, but forcing myself to settle my hands on the couch instead. "Thanks for taking care of Oscar."

She nods. "Of course."

I hesitate, overwhelmed for the first time in my life by everything I need to say. I don't even know where to start.

So, I just start by blurting, "I'm sorry."

Isabella only blinks at me, her expression unreadable.

"I'm so fucking sorry I ever put you in that situation, Isabella. You have to know I would never knowingly put you in danger. But I should never have taken you out last night after everything with my mom." I pause, shame coating every one of my words as I add, "I never should have drank that much."

She pulls her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around them before finally asking in a quiet voice, "Do you normally drink that much?"

I'm shaking my head before she's even finished the question. "Not exactly. I drink when the anger gets really bad because it dulls the edges of it. But it's been weeks since I last drank like that." After a moment I add, "I haven't really needed to lately."

The unspoken meaning is clear:she'sthe reason I haven't drank as much lately. It's definitely not a healthy coping mechanism, substituting one crutch for another, but it's the truth. Isabella makes me want to be better.

"I'm surprised you ever drink," she admits in a whisper. "I would've thought your mom's life would have scared you away from it."

I swallow roughly and nod. "I thought so, too, for a while. I swore that I would never pick up a single drug or drink, that I wouldneverbe anything like my mom. Because I saw what it did to her, saw how badly it fucked up her life. And my life was already fucked up enough, I didn't need anything else making it worse." Wincing, my gaze drops down to the blanket spread on the couch. "But then one night, when I was fourteen, I just… gave up. I figured, there's no way anything could make my life worse, so why shouldn't I indulge a little? After all, there had to be a reason my mom liked it so much."

I'll never forget my first swig of vodka. For the first five seconds, it felt like the worst idea I had ever had. It burned almost as much as the beating that drove me to it. But then… the pain dulled. Just the tiniest bit. And suddenly, life didn't feel completely hopeless.

"I went through different phases with alcohol," I continue, still not meeting Isabella's eyes. Just wanting to get this off my chest and help her understandhowI got to this point. "Sometimes I would drink a lot, sometimes I wouldn't touch a drop for weeks. It just depended on what was going on in my life and how bad things were. After I ran away from home, it didn't even occur to me to drink. But the second my mom showed up on my doorstep and sent my life down the gutter again, a bottle was the first thing I grabbed. It just became a natural reaction."

"So, alcohol was a crutch," she says quietly, trying to understand. I nod silently. "What about fighting? Was that a crutch?"

I start to pick at the thread on the blanket as I work through her question. "Fighting outside of the gym was a release, yeah. Getting in street fights helped me deal with everything that was going on at home. But I obviously couldn't justpickfights, so that's when I started doing MMA. I thought it would help to always have someone or something to hit." I take in a shaky breath. "It did, in a way. It took my mind off everything. It also kept me from drinking, since I couldn't train drunk or hungover. Fighting was the only thing that made me feel even a little bit in control." Because when I was fighting, I couldcontrolthe things that hurt me, or didn't. It became my favorite release.

"I've heard the guys at the gym say something about training being therapeutic," Isabella offers hopefully. "Like it helps them meditate or something? Could fighting become a healthy crutch?"

I wince at that. "I don't know how to do that," I admit. "I don't look at fighting the way these guys do. For me, it really was just a method of self-defense, and then an excuse to hurt other people. I'm sure there's something to what they said, but honestly for me, even yoga feels more meditative."

I feel Isabella's hand brush against mine, her reach tentative. When I finally look up and meet her eyes, I don't do anything to hide the anguish, theregret,from my gaze.

"If yoga helps you get away from all the bad stuff in your head, then that's what you should lean on," she says quietly. "Or if you can talk to the guys and figure out how training might help, then maybe you should do that."

I nod. I know I need better coping mechanisms. Iknowdrinking and getting in fist fights aren't healthy crutches. Especially when those coping mechanisms hurt Isabella.

"I'm so sorry I brought you into my problems," I tell her, my voice breaking on the admission. "You never deserved that. Inevershould have drank that much around you, or started a fight with you there, or… or…"

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