(Twenty)

I hover in the entrance, watching him as he gazes out of the window. He must have seen me crossing the street, but he doesn't register. He has a glass in front of him. Looks untouched. Looks like whisky.

He still doesn't move when I pull out the stool and sit down next to him.

I don't even know where to start.

How're things?

You okay?

What the fuck?

I go for the latter.

He looks over at me, and I can see he's exhausted, but I can't tell if he's drunk.

"Hey, E. How've you been?"

I can't help but frown at him. "Really?"

"I don't want to talk about me."

"Well, tough shit." I raise my voice enough to draw the attention of a couple at the next table. They only have to get one look at my face before they look away. "What the fuck are you doing, Em? Where have you been? Do you have any clue what you're putting Rose through?"

He winces and shakes his head slowly, sinking into himself. I'd feel bad if I wasn't so pissed off.

I see the same nosy couple conspiratorially whispering to the bartender. Glances are shot our way.

"I think you should start at the beginning, but maybe we should get out of here first."

"No, I want to stay. There's still half an hour left."

"Of what?" I ask, hoping to hell he's not going to say Happy Hour.

"The meeting."

"It's a bit late to start worrying about your meeting attendance." I'm torn between the kid gloves approach and knocking his teeth out.

"No, but … I don't know. I don't want to leave yet."

I'm finding my way through the unknown here and can already feel myself sinking into the mud.

I'd be a terrible fucking sponsor.

I go for the easiest option, get rid of the booze. AA 101. Though whisky on the rocks would make this a whole lot easier. A cluster of cells in my brain tempt me with the idea of throwing myself off the wagon and joining Em, but for once it's an easy decision to order a club soda for us both. While I wait, it gives me a chance to text Rose. My phone's lit up with missed calls, but now's not the time to get into a debate with her. I text her that he's okay, and go and swap around his drinks.

He holds his glass, the condensation dripping over his fingers, but he doesn't drink it. We watch the traffic, sirens in the distance, and people walking by for a good few minutes before he speaks. "I don't deserve them."

It hurts me more than I'd like to admit to tell him the truth. "No, you don't deserve them." I let it sink him, tug him lower than I meant to. "But you don't deserve this, either. You're a good person, you're a brilliant dad, and, okay, you were a shitty husband, but that was five years ago. You can't let it do this to you, Em." My throat is scratchy and heavy from holding back the sadness at seeing him like this. Seeing him as the addict and not the sponsor. The weak instead of the strong. Me instead of him. "You can't let it destroy you and everything you have."

"It already has. Rose hates me, and the kids … I've lost them."

The rock in my throat becomes almost unbearable as he swipes away at a lone tear. I take a drink to shove it back into the pit of my stomach. "You haven't, Em. You'll never lose them. You need help, that's all. You can't fight this on your own."

He laughs quietly and looks at me dead on for the first time since I arrived. "I hope you're listening to your own advice."

"Maybe," I say, shrugging. "But this isn't me, for once. It's you, and I won't let you do this."

"It's too late, E. I'm sorry." He pushes his drink away and stands, scraping his chair across the floor.

I grab onto his arm, feel the sway in his body. He's stone-cold hammered. "Why? Just stay here. Talk to me."

"I can't," he says, nodding to the red lights glowing brighter against the windows, growing brighter and louder. "Did you tell someone I was here?"

"Only Rose."

"I've got to go now."

"What the fuck," I mutter under my breath.

He stands and starts to put on his coat as the siren gets louder; the flashing lights are all I can see.

"Tell them I'm sorry," he says.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" I grab him harder this time, yank him back to me. He lets me, but then puts his hand over mine and prizes it off.

"Tell her. Tell her I didn't mean for any of this."

Two cops push open the door, the first speaking into the radio on his shoulder as their eyes land on Em. They make a beeline for us, the second officer already has the cuffs out. I block their path and move again as they try to sidestep me. I get a warning. And another when I don't move. Then I feel Em's hand on my shoulder.

"It's okay. I'm going with them."

"I don't understand." I stand aside but keep my body angled in front of him, addressing the cops, "Why are you here?"

"Step aside, sir. I won't ask you again." The taller one steps forward and slaps the cuffs on Em's wrists. The whole bar is in freeze-frame, no one moves, everyone watches. Even the music jams.

"Can someone, please, tell me what in the hell is happening here?"

Em is mute, his shoulders slumped, eyes closed.

The officer fills us all in with a pleasure that makes my blood burn. "Emmett McCarty, you're under arrest on suspicion of driving under the influence and malicious wounding—"

"No, you're wrong." I shake my head at them, pushing my way forward, but the broken look Em gives me tells me it's no use. That they're not mistaken.

"I didn't see him," is all he says as he walks out with the cops and is shoved into the back of the squad car. I stand and watch them disappear into the fog, the siren no longer blaring, the criminal caught. Em's last words and the grief in his face are stamped into my mind until it bleeds.

I'm helpless to do anything. I was too late. If I'd spoken to him yesterday, last week, last month, any day in between. If I'd seen something other than my selfish fucking obsession with myself, I might have stopped whatever has happened. I've been too wrapped up in me and the liquor and now in Bella. There's nothing in my stomach, but I feel the rush of nausea cramping my guts until I vomit my guilt into the gutter.

I get the messages from Rose. She tells me what he did. Driving half a bottle deep on his way to 42nd and Blake. I see the headline the next morning.

VICTIM IN COMA DUE TO HIT AND RUN BY DRINK DRIVER.

Another life ruined by addiction.

The victim. His family. His friends.

The EMTs who had to fight to keep him alive, to piece his body back together.

Rose and the kids who will only be able to visit their daddy within reinforced walls, behind steel bars.

Em's family who will miss his love and sarcasm and jokes on birthdays and Christmases, weddings and funerals.

His friends.

My friends.

Alice.

Mom.

Dad.

It's a long, long list.

I won't be responsible for adding anyone else to it.

AN: Deep breaths.

Kim, Choc and Cat make my words pretty. x