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“You’re right.” The words taste like burned meat. “I’m a mess. But I want to do better. Please.”

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” She studies my face, her expression softening. “You enable each other.”

“Better than letting her deal with this shit alone.”

“I’m here.”

“You?” I scoff. “Yeah, you’re a real pillar of stability.”

“Are you? Or are you just using her problems to avoid dealing with yours?”

Since when did she get so perceptive.

She holds up her fingers, counting down. “You haven’t cooked since your father died. You’re selling your restaurant.The one thing you actually gave a shit about beside my best friend. You’re always drunk and won’t commit to your job.”

“How did you?—”

“I put in an offer. And I know the people you work with. Besides the point that she tells me everything.” She gestures around. “Including how you two started this whole fucked-up arrangement.”

“Move.” My voice comes out low, dangerous. “Now.”

She shifts her weight, blocking more of the doorway. “Or what? You’ll force your way in? Real classy.”

“If that’s what it takes.”

“You’re pathetic.” She jabs a finger at my chest. “And drunk.”

The hallway spins slightly. Fuck, maybe I did drink too much. “Just let me see her.”

“She’s sleeping. Finally.”

“Then I’ll wait.”

“God, you’re dense.” Blake pinches the bridge of her nose. “Look at yourself. Really look. You think this is what she needs right now? Another mess to clean up?”

Her words burn worse than any whiskey. Shit.

I straighten up, fighting the urge to punch the wall. “Tell her I came by.”

“Brandon.” Her voice stops me as I turn. “Get your shit together first. Then maybe…”

I don’t wait to hear the rest, the hallway stretching endlessly as I walk away.

Get my shit together.

I let out a humorless chuckle. Like it’s that simple. Like I can just flip a switch and be the perfect boyfriend, the perfect son, the perfect fucking everything.

My fingers shake as I pull up Jeff’s contact. Fuck it. The call connects after two rings.

“Brandon, did the building burn down?” Jeff’s voice crackles through the speaker.

“What? No.”

“Then why—” A pause. “Did you look at the time?”

I glance at my phone screen. 11:47 PM. “Sorry, I didn’t… Been a long day.”

“You’re drunk.”

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