Page 112 of Retribution

“Yeah, it’s pretty complicated if I’m honest.” I rub my hands over my face, my eyes feeling heavy and my chest tight from the cigarettes I’d been smoking.

“So, why is it you were drinking at Billy’s tonight, and not at home with her?” He asks.

I ponder, not actually knowing the answer.

I don’t quite know why I ran, why I didn’t confide in her. She’s been the biggest support system for me, my biggest supporter if anything. And I kicked her to the curb like she was nothing more than a quarter.

“I’m asking myself the same thing.” My voice is low and I’m deep in thought.

She lost her too. I didn’t stop for a single second and think about the fact that she’s at home, alone, probably distraught and worried about my whereabouts, all whilst processing that fact that Willow isn’t in our custody anymore.

* * *

The rest of the journey is quiet.

I pop my window down to get some air to my sweaty skin, the sudden need to get home to her overpowering my senses.

We both carry Everett into his house, Devon tucks him into his bed on his side and sets up a bucket, a bottle of water and two aspirin on his bedside table.

I am still trying to figure him out, he plays this cool, dark, and mysterious guy that doesn’t give much away, but then he looks after his friends like they’re his own children. I mean it’s great and all, but it makes him so much harder to read. Apparently, I’m an open book.

We lock his door and leave the key under the plant pot, the night still young.

We’re almost at my place and I feel the need to ask him.

“What made you get sober?” I’m blunt and concise.

He stares at the road and his jaw tics; I can tell I’ve asked him a sensitive question.

He sighs, “A girl.”

Wow, real elaborate.

I nod and stare out of the window, sensing he doesn’t want to talk about it.

“She killed herself,” his voice is cold as I turn to look at him with wide eyes.

“We weren’t anything serious. But, we had known each other since we were kids, so I took it pretty hard.”

I listen intently, the thoughts of my own mother coming to surface.

“Like I knew she was depressed, but I didn’t think it was that bad, you know?” His voice cracks at the end and he tenses his jaw, clearly pushing down his feelings.

The car goes silent for a short while.

“She called me, on the night of. I didn’t pick up; I was out of my face drunk at some party and declined the call because I was already getting lucky with another girl at the party.” He winces at the recollection.

“Turns out, she wasn’t calling for a booty call. She was calling because she was struggling and needed help.”

I gulp, the weight of his words resting on my shoulders.

I can’t imagine how that must feel.

“She hung herself that night in her garage, I found out the morning after. Still hungover.”

I shake my head in disbelief.

“From that point, I vowed to never that alcohol rule my life again. I went cold turkey and here I am, ten months sober.”

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