Me: What the fuck, man?

Ben: What the fuck, nothing. You want to know how she is so badly? Get your ass here and find out.

I scroll through the rest of the texts, all different versions of me begging, and Ben giving me bullshit responses.

Ben: She’s great.

Ben: She’s moving to France to study Art History.

Ben: She got a life-sized cutout made of you and ran it over with her car.

That one I actually believed.

Reed finally removed his fingers out of some chick’s pussy to text me back, four days after I sent him a message. His response almost had me driving back to Ruxton to choke him out.

Reed: Did you move or something?

Eighteen fucking days of this shit. I feel like I’m losing my mind, which seems appropriate, considering I’ve lost everything else. All I want—besides Tessa, because she’s still everything I want—is for her to be okay, and happy. That’s it. I know the happy part might take a while, but I need someone to tell me she’s okay, and I needed to hear it seventeen days ago.

“Hey, Evans. There’s some guy here to see you.”

I look up from my phone at Harding, my new partner, as he stands behind my desk. He’s only about ten years older than me, but the stress of the job has left him with a full head of gray hair, and deep lines etched into his skin.

He takes a sip of his coffee and motions in the direction of the double doors.

“Who?” I ask, closing the folder in front of me than getting to my feet, tucking my phone into the inside pocket of my jacket. I try to peer out the small window in the door, but I can’t make out anybody at this distance.

“I don’t know. Big guy. Tattoos.”

Ben?

“Is he a cop?”

Harding smiles through a swallow. “Not with that haircut, man. You finished with that paperwork yet?”

Fuck. What the hell is he doing here?

“Yeah, it’s in the folder.” I point in the general direction of my desk as I begin walking toward the double doors.

He’s sitting alone in the last chair lined up along the wall, head down, elbows resting on his knees with his flannel shirt rolled up to mid forearm, exposing his ink. His hair is pulled back out of his face, which turns up at the sound of my entrance.

The first thing I notice is how rested he looks. I’d even go so far as to use the word healthy. His eyes aren’t bloodshot, there’s color to his face, and he appears steady on his feet as he stands, greeting me with a drop of his head.

“Son.”

“What are you doing here?” I ask, ignoring the bullshit title he’s just given me. I do a quick take of the waiting room to make sure we’re alone. If I have to lay into this asshole, I don’t want anyone else to hear it.

His eyes trail down the front of me, and he smiles. “You’re in a suit. It’s been a long time since I saw you dressed up.”

“Yeah. Twelve years at Mom’s funeral. I’m surprised you even looked at me that day.”

“I looked at you, Son,” he replies, lifting his chin and squaring off with me. “I just couldn’t deal with your pain and mine at the same time.”

“What do you want?” I’m losing my patience, and it’s evident in my tone as I try and hurry this conversation along.

He sticks his hand into the front pocket of his shirt and retrieves something, which he flips at me. I catch it out of instinct, letting my fingers fall open to reveal the blue chip.

“Ten days sober,” he says proudly. “I know it ain’t much, but it’s more than I’ve had in a long time.”

I study the chip, letting my thumb glide over the engravings, rolling it between my fingers like I did with the one I took from his cigar box. I don’t realize he’s moved closer to me until I feel a hand on my shoulder.

“I’m not gonna lie. That doctor scared the shit outta me. After you left when he told us both I needed to stop drinking or I’d kill myself, I kept thinking about your mom and how she would’ve looked at me. How she would’ve hated me for what I was doing.”

“I’ve told you that for years,” I grunt out, shrugging his hand off my shoulder and looking up at him with nothing but resentment. All the shit he put me through, and all it took was hearing from a fucking doctor that he was going to end up drinking himself to death for him to listen? “You never even flinched when I brought it up.”

“Drunks can’t be reasoned with, Son. We care about one thing, and one thing only. Anything you tried to say to me when I was drinking?” He shakes his head with a grimace. “Waste of your time.”

I toss the chip at his chest. “You know what else is a waste of time? You, driving six hours to show me you’ve finally decided to man up to your shit. You’re too late. I don’t care what you do anymore.”

“I didn’t just come here to show you that. I came to give you this too.” His hand not clutching the chip produces a set of keys out of his pocket. He forces them into my hand, and I look down, recognizing them immediately.

“Your house keys?”

“It’s hard for me to be there,” he explains, his voice shifting into a tone I haven’t heard him use since I was a kid. “I want to drink, every day. Right now, I want to drink, and it’ll always be like that. That shit doesn’t go away, and being in that house doesn’t help me. My sobriety has to be number one. I found a small apartment in town. I’m gonna stay there. The house is yours if you want to sell it, or do whatever you want with it.”