Page 113 of Your Biggest Downfall
She hesitated, then gave a small nod. Without another word, we turned toward the door, still holding on to each other.
And then, together, we stepped inside to give Mami our final goodbyes.
49
austin
It was four in the morning, and I was completely fucking wasted. The entire bottle of whiskey I’d stashed in the kitchen? Gone. Every last drop.
I was so drunk that when I held out my hands, I swore I had an extra one. Maybe that’s why I lost the game tonight—too many goddamn hands.
“Fuck, I feel good,” I slurred to no one in particular.
I thought about trying to sober up since Nova was coming home soon...
Wait.
I squinted at the clock. Pretty sure it said four a.m. Where the fuck was my wife? She should have been home by now.
“I should call her,” I muttered, realizing that would involve finding my phone.
Where the hell was my?—
I lifted the bottle to my lips, about to finish off the last drop, when the front door slammed open.
Holy shit. I was getting robbed. At four a.m. There was a robber in my house.
My heart pounded. How the fuck was I supposed to protect myself? I glanced around wildly, my eyes landing on the bottle in my hand. Perfect.
With a scream—more like a banshee howl—I hurled the bottle toward the intruder, figuring if I looked crazy enough, they’d back off.
“What the fuck, Austin?” a familiar voice shouted from the doorway.
The lights flicked on, blinding me for a moment as I tried to make sense of what was happening. My head spun, and I blinked, trying to focus.
“Is this a bottle of fucking whiskey?” the voice continued, sharp and accusing.
I squinted, my eyes adjusting to the blurred figure in the doorway. And then I saw her—Nova. She stood there, a jagged piece of glass clenched tightly in her trembling hand, blood dripping slowly down her arm from where the bottle had shattered. The label was still visible, mocking me with its familiarity.
Her face was a wreck—streaks of mascara smeared down her cheeks, the remnants of tears that had clearly fallen long and hard. Her eyes were swollen, red, and hollow, as though all the fight had drained from her.
It was the look in her eyes that hit me like a punch to the gut. She wasn’t just exhausted; she was completely broken. Her shoulders slumped, her body shaking with barely controlled sobs. The heartbreak on her face was so raw, so palpable, that it twisted something deep inside me. Every tear-streaked line of her face told a story of betrayal, of hurt, of a soul too worn down to keep fighting.
The glass in her hand seemed less like a threat and more like the physical manifestation of her shattered heart.
She wasn’t angry—she was devastated. I didn’t know how to fix it.
“Austin,” she said. “What are you doing?”
I opened my mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. My throat felt tight, my mind scrambled for something—anything—to say. “I... I can explain,” I stammered, the words tumbling out clumsily. But even as I said them, I knew they were useless.
She let out a bitter laugh, the sound cracking in the air like glass shattering all over again. “Explain? You’re going toexplainthis?” Her voice trembled, and she lifted the piece of glass, as if to remind me of the damage already done. “You didn’t call. And now I’m standing here, bleeding, holding the pieces of whatever the hell this is supposed to be.”
I took a step toward her, but she flinched, her eyes narrowing. “Don’t,” she said in warning, her voice breaking. “Don’t come closer. I don’t even know who you are right now.”
“Nova, please,” I begged, my hands shaking as I reached out, desperate to bridge the growing chasm between us. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”
She shook her head, her lips trembling. “That’s just it, Austin. You can’t seem to take accountability for your health. You don’t even know that you’re an addict who is not getting help. Hell, when was the last time you even went to therapy or called your sponsor?” She lowered the shard of glass, her eyes searching mine, looking for something—maybe the person I used to be or the person she thought she married. “I can’t keep picking up the pieces for you. Not anymore.”
