Page 98 of Louder Than Words

He smacks his lips, leans back, and tilts his head toward me just slightly. “I wonder if we could see a game from here,” he says.

I blink, shaking my head. “A game? What do you mean?”

He lifts a hand, pointing out the window. “Fenway’s right there. You think we could catch a game from up here when it’s lit up in the fall?”

I stammer, not really sure what to say since I was never a baseball fan. Rugby or ice hockey? Absolutely. Watching grown men slam into each other over a ball or a puck makes a hell of a lot more sense to me. But swinging a bat and jogging in circles? Can’t say it lights a fire under my arse.

So I shrug. “Maybe. We’re high enough up. They’d probably look like ants, though.”

Don chuckles, nodding along. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

And then it’s actually quiet.

Quiet enough that if I really strain, I swear I can hear the tires spinning on the streets below. Probably not, but still, there’s something comforting about it. Like, finally, things have calmed down enough that even my thoughts have shut up for a bit. But that’s more than likely thanks to the five beers I’ve had in the last two hours.

I’m not sure how much time passes after that. Long enough for every light in the hotel to go out except the table lamp between Don and me.

My eyes land on the unopened beer cradled in my hands. One single drop of condensation slides down the bottle, curling around the glass until it disappears against my skin.

Out of sight. Out of mind.

And before I even register what’s happening—I’m laughing.

Full-on, belly laughing. At nothing.

Don glances over, one brow raised as he leans forward, elbows on his knees. He doesn’t say anything, just watches as the bottle trembles in my hands.

And he’s just another person who doesn’t get it. Whocan’tget it.

Why I bottle shit up. Why I don’t talk. Because what the hell good does it do, anyway?

Is it going to bring my mum back?

Will it erase the image of my ex-wife riding someone else like I never existed?

Will it stop the nights I wake up in a cold sweat, convinced Allie’s dead in the street somewhere and never coming back?

Will it change the fact my old man cared more about a bottle just like this one than he ever did about keeping me, my mum, or my sister safe?

Or what about the baby? The one who hasn’t even had a chance and is already hanging on by a fucking thread—

And then before I even know I’m moving—

CRASH.

The bottle’s gone from my hand, hurling in slow motion at the bay window until it shatters on impact.

My hands shake at my sides. Chest heaving. Ears ringing.

I just stand there, frozen, watching the shards of glass splinter through the air, beer streaking down the window in slow, sticky trails until it pools at my feet.

I spin around to face Don. “Why does this shit keep happening?” I shout, not really at him, more at the universe. “Why can’tonething just go right in my life? Just one!”

He doesn’t flinch. Hell, he doesn’t even look at me at first. Just stares at the window, watching the beer still trailing down the glass. His face doesn’t move.

Then, finally, he glances my way and nods toward the mess. “You done with that one?” he asks.

I blink. “W-what?”