“Everyone’s keeping you in their prayers. I go to the church down the road every day. Baron is talking to a fancy pulmonologist from England. He is going to fly him here if things don’t get better soon. But they will, my dear girl.” She stroked my forehead, tears running down her face. She was no longer trying to hide or wipe them. “Sweetheart, you will get out of here walking. I know you will.”

Her forehead met mine, and I closed my eyes, feeling warm tears leaking under my lashes. I didn’t want to cry, especially not in front of Mama, but I didn’t feel like being strong anymore. Being strong sucked. Wanting to be independent and strong was what got me here in the first place.

Being strong made me weak.

“Mama,” I sniffed, “I’m going to be okay, right? I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you about Todos Santos. I know you meant well. I just wanted to stop being babied.”

“I know, honey. I know, I know,” she repeated, kissing my forehead and my tears again and again. It didn’t escape me that she didn’t answer my question.

It did not escape me at all.

I was perched on the porch outside the Hamptons’s mansion I had rented, letting the rain crack at my fucking face, because I deserved it.

Just to make sure that I was a full-blown loser and not a half-assed, miserable idiot, I drank vodka straight from the bottle, trying to feel how she felt when she was locked outside for fuck-knows how much time.

I earned it. Each and every piece of shit life was handing me. Fair and fucking square.

I shouldn’t have drunk three bottles of vodka in twenty-four hours. But I did. Because that bullshit they feed you about hitting rock bottom and seeing the light? It’s just that. A load of crap. In reality, when you hit rock bottom, you lie there for a long, extended nap, because rock bottom is still solid ground. Especially when the rest of your world is hanging on by a feather for balance. Being an addict whose life crumbles in front of him is tiring. More so than being the darling son, the sharp businessman, the manwhore who would give you four orgasms before he even touched you.

I found that out the hard way.

Truth was, weakness invited more weakness. And knowing that Rosie was dying didn’t throw me into knight in shining armor mode and help my drinking problem disappear. It served as the heavy brick that drowned me into the depth of misery.

Sprawled on the steps of the mansion’s entrance with a bottle to my lips, I stared at leafy trees trying to fight the wind away and laughed at how pathetic I had become.

It was a Monday. Noontime. The rest of the world was buzzing with life. I was buzzing with anger. I needed to think of a way to get her back. Vicious’s word with her parents didn’t help one bit.

I didn’t bother to answer my parents when they called. The one thing I did do was show up at the hospital at random hours, demanding to see Rosie. At first they kicked me out because she was asleep. Later on, it was because I was too drunk to function.

At least I had somewhere to stay while I was waiting for Rosie to see me. Oh, yeah. Karma is not the only one who is a bitch. Irony has a twisted sense of humor, too.

Vicious tried to be there for me, but I shut him out. Trent was worried, but he couldn’t leave Luna, and Jaime was pissed off, because neither Vic nor I told him what made me go batshit crazy on the world and bail out on my girlfriend.

Nina stopped calling, now that she had the money—at least I had that going for me—although I couldn’t even appreciate her absence from my life, because after all, essentially, my biological mom stopped giving a fuck the minute I paid her to.

Holy shit, asshole. Your life is a hot mess.

A rental car pulled up in front of the mansion’s door, and I didn’t need to see the occupants’ faces to know who they were. Volvo. Always with the fucking Volvo. The fib of white picket fence and three perfect kids they were trying to feed the world. I actually bought into this shit. Until now.

Fucking Vicious gave him the address. He must’ve had, because I sure as fuck didn’t.

My mother was the first to get out of the car. She didn’t open the umbrella in her hand, just light-jogged the distance from the silver vehicle to the front porch, rubbing her arms, even though she was in a tailored, pink wool coat.

“Sweetheart.” Her face was made up, her hair perfect, and she didn’t look nearly as crushed as I was by what my father had done. Same father I could see behind her shoulder, throwing the vehicle into park and sitting in the driver’s seat.