Page 46 of We Drank the Dawn

Her eyes widened and I was thankful I didn’t have to explain right then and there. Bea knew me. She knew Peter. She understood. “Does Tag need to go get him?”

“No.”

She gave a soft nod. “Then let’s get you home.”

FOURTEEN

Cooper

Laying on my bunk and staring at the ceiling wasn’t my first choice on how to spend a Saturday night. But I was running out of options. I’d already overstayed my welcome in the Holmes’ cabin. After the girls went to bed, I had some ice cream on the porch with Hollie and we talked for a little while. Then she cracked open a book and I did the same, but the words blurred in my head.

My mind wasn’t on my book or the porch. It wasn’t even at Meadowbrook.

It was back at the bar with the guys.

Hollie must’ve known I was struggling. She didn’t typically invite me to hang out when Jesse was out of pocket, but she lured me with my favorite dessert. She knew me pretty well by now, I guessed. Tag checked in on me, too. As did Bea.

I understood why they hovered. The temptation to toss my hard work out the window persisted like a night time cough. In January, I arrived back at Meadowbrook with delusions of grandeur. I puffed my chest, thinking I had sobriety in the bag. But I didn’t have a thing. Staying sober was a lot easier said than done, and I’d had more slip ups than I cared to admit.

My feet bounced with restlessness and I checked the clock a hundred times.

Like a ghost from the past, the scent of liquor haunted the room. Funnily enough, I didn’t even like the smell. The scent cargoed memories straight to my unwilling brain. Memories of my dad, mostly. His sour breath in my face, his fingers digging into my flesh.

And words that still burned like fire.

Hearing his voice in my head, I shot upright on the bed, rushing to distract myself. I hated being alone. I clamoured for my book, taking a quick sniff of the old pages. But the phantom pain in my arm intensified until I winced, my hand finding the soft flesh on the back of my bicep and rubbing it.

“Shut up. Just shut the fuck up—you worthless son of a bitch.”

And just like that, my back hit cold drywall as if I wasn’t sitting up in a bunkhouse with plasterboard walls. I choked on cigarette smoke, his forearm against my neck. I fought a breath into my lungs, squirming to look away as he breathed in my face.

“I don’t want you here. You’re too stupid—too stupid to see it though, aren’t ya?”

Sitting crisscross on my bunk, I dropped my head in my hands, rubbing the top of my head. Every time I struggled to do the right thing, I went through this cycle. Trapped in my memories like a carousel from hell that I couldn’t escape.

Half a dozen shots of whiskey usually helped.

Desperate to change the scenery in my head, I hopped off the bed, the entire bunkhouse quaking as I landed on the floor with a low thud. With shaky breaths, I rifled through my top drawer and found my camera and adapter, plugging it into my phone so I could edit some pictures. But, that only held my attention for a few minutes. I wondered what my father would say if he learned I was good at taking pictures. My stomach twisted as my imagination gave me a generous sample of his voice. As I pieced together his imaginary response. As I saw the mockery in his eyes.

He’d be ashamed. Just like he always was.

He’d prefer Tag, who wasn’t even his kid. Just like he always had.

“I told your mom to deal with you. You know that, right?”

Without even realizing I’d made a decision, I discarded my camera on the bed, and strode back to my dresser, pulling out a pair of jeans and a clean t-shirt this time. Like someone on the outside had pushed the override button on my nervous system, I numbly stripped off my gym shorts and yanked my clothes and boots on. By the time I got around to asking myself why, I stood at the door of the bunkhouse, fisting the Ranger keys with my wallet and phone settled in my back pocket.

I hesitated.

I can’t do this.

My hand hesitated over the door knob.

You’ll have fun, my brain promised. The line was a lie I got good at identifying. I knew the truth. Intoxication was relief masquerading as fun. But the lie still looked appetizing. When you’re miserable constantly, forgetting for a few hours is the closest thing you can get to a good time. And my soul was greedy to forget. Always greedy.

“I told your mom to deal with you.”

Half the time, I wished she would’ve.