His chuckle is as dark as a black hole. “Pretty sure I was going to drink myself to death. Came close at least once. This poor fisherman dragged me out of the surf where I’d passed out on dry land hours before. High tide would have gotten my ass in a few more minutes.”
“Jesus, Josh…”
“Yeah…” His laugh is empty. “First thing I thought of was Greta. Second one was you. Third thing was that I didn’t actually wanna die.”
And, shit, what do you say to that?
“That’s good, Josh,” I offer lamely.
He laughs again, sadness in every beat. “Yeah, just wish I’d realized it sooner. Before I totally fucked up.” He sighs again. “So I came back. To see. To at least try.” I hear the sound of his thick swallow. “And if I fail? At least I’d go out trying. Trying to make things up to you and Greta.”
This is fucking depressing.
“Well, you haven’t tried treatment.” Again, I sound completely useless.
“Yeah… That’s the hope I’m holding onto.”
I don’t want to admit it out loud because I’m still so mad at him, but I’m holding onto that hope for him too.
* * *
The long blastof a big rig horn jerks me awake. The blackout curtains are still drawn but a seam of sunlight outlines the window. I rub my eyes before picking up my phone to check the time.
10:48
“Shit,” I mutter, blinking hard.
I turn to check on Josh, but he’s lying on his side facing away from me. I throw off the covers, pad to the bathroom, and piss for what might be a solid five minutes. After splashing water on my face, I load up my toothbrush and text Greta.
Me: Slept like the dead. Just emerged from the crypt. You okay?
Her response is short but immediate.
Greta: CB South guests + brunch = kill me now
I huff through my nose. Glancing over at Josh’s form under the covers, I wonder just how much babysitting he really needs? Can I just leave him here for a while to go help Greta out? He can’t sleep much longer, can he?
But I start to frown as I stare at him.
He’s not lying still.
He’s shaking.
Stepping between our beds, I hover over him. His eyes are open, his face ashen, and his brow is beaded with sweat.
“Josh?”
“I-I’m trying… b-but I c-can’t—” He sounds like a man who’s freezing to death.
Shit. Greta told me he couldn’t go long without a drink, but I didn’t think he’d get this bad so fast.
“Beer?” I ask, feeling suddenly guilty. Some babysitter I am.
His nod is more like a convulsion.
I grab a room temperature beer from the cardboard case, wishing I’d thought about chilling some of them, and open it for him.
“Here, sit up.”