Kaleb

How does one heal from pain?

Whenever I think about moving on, a stabbing ache echoes through my heart, pulling me back down into the depths of hell. Whenever I wake up in the morning or afternoon, I reach for the other side of the bed, wanting to feel her warm skin. Instead, all I feel are cold sheets. Sometimes the cat will be there, and I can't do anything about it. All I do is cry.

Goddamn cat.

I hate how he cuddles me. How he's the closest thing I have to Mel.

After I hear the door close, I grab the bowl of half-eaten oatmeal and scrape the remnants into the garbage. Then I rinse the bowl and spoon and stick them in the empty dishwasher. After that, I head back to the living room and flop against the recliner, staring at the empty bottles before me. They should stir up a sense of disappointment. I know I shouldn't be drinking, but the numbing sensation alcohol brings to my mentality is too good to give up. Whenever the room spins, so does my mind, making me forget about what's just happened.

I can't believe it's been a month.

The world will never feel right, and I hate life for making it that way.

Life is notorious for breaking the rules.

That's what Mel used to say.

Six months passed before she moved in with me, and that was the first thing she said when she was unpacking her boxes. I had to ask her to explain what she meant.

Closing my eyes, I picture Mel sitting on a cardboard box. Her arms are crossed and her blonde hair is tied up in a messy bun. She's wearing overalls with daisies on them, a white shirt underneath and her scuffed Converse shoes. There's a small smile on her lips. Behind her, I can see the view of Montréal. The sun is setting behind the erect buildings, painting the sky a collage of pinks, oranges, and indigos.

"When I say 'life is notorious for breaking the rules,'" she says. "Well, it's hard to explain. Life just likes to break the rules. It's a play on that saying 'bad things happen to good people,' but it also highlights the good things. Take falling in love with you as an example. Had someone told me I'd end up living with you the night we met, I would've laughed in their face." She shrugs, her smile shining like the sun. "Now look at us. Life broke the rules."

Picturing the scene, hearing her voice ring in my ears... it's all too much for me.

After experiencing this all-consuming pain, I have to agree with her. Life doesn't give a fuck about what it gives or takes. It glamorizes the true, underlying notions; obscures the fact that happiness doesn't come without pain. That pain will be a byproduct of your happiness. That forever is a con destined to taint your perception. No matter what happens, you'll always end up burning yourself. You'll taste the sadness more than the happiness.

Leaning forward, I drop my face into my hands and let the tears fall freely.

I was never supposed to lose her.

My thoughts are so consuming I almost don't hear Ella's shoes squeaking against the hardwood. When I look up, she's already at the door, gathering her light rain jacket from the hook beside the door. It's a light blue that matches her eyes. Those eyes I've been familiar with my whole life. The pair I've always come back to, no matter how far apart life drives us. Somehow, we always find our way back to each other.

Without Ella, I'd be a total wreck.

Which makes me realize...

Fuck.

Ella can't leave. She's the last tether, aside from gravity, holding me in place. Without her here... fuck.

The world tilts as I push to my feet. I ignore the sudden onset of dizziness, but not without banging my knee against the coffee table first. Pushing through the pain, I hustle to the entryway, grabbing Ella's arm before she can open the door.

"Ella," I say. "You don't have to leave."

She doesn't hide the disgust in her eyes. "I get it, Kaleb. You're hurting. You have every right. But these coping methods aren't helping. You're becoming as toxic as my ex, which isn't the Kaleb I know. Until you clean your act up, I can't support you anymore. It's taking too great of a toll on my mental health." She adjusts the strap of her duffle bag. Takes a deep breath. "You need help, and it's not my job to fix you. Get some help, Kaleb. Then... Then we can talk about what's going on between us."

She shrugs my hand off of her shoulder.

"Ella," I plead. "Please don't."

Her blue eyes stare back at me, watery with tears. "Stop, Kaleb. Please. I can't do this anymore. You're an alcoholic. You need help."

Her look makes my heart break all over again. Crossing my arms, I step back and stare at the floor, listening to the zipper of her jacket. The wheels of her suitcase rolling down the hardwood. Then the sound of the door opening and closing.

Everything sounds hollow in my ears. Like my mind can't process what the hell is going on. Maybe it's the lingering effects of alcohol in my bloodstream or the depression that's sinking its claws into me. Either way, nothing sounds or feels right.

With tears trickling down my cheeks, I head back to the kitchen. I need something stronger to numb today's emotions. If they continue to weigh on my chest and shoulders, I'll crumble into dust.

From above the fridge, I grab a bottle of whisky and set it on the island. Then I grab a glass and some ice. The whisky is poured directly over the ice. When I pick up the glass, ice clinks against the edges, creating a ringing noise in my ears. I look down at the amber-coloured liquid, already cringing from the upcoming taste that will saturate my tastebuds.

I toss the entire thing back, almost choking.

After coughing a few times, I pour another drink.

Then I toss that one back.

When I set the glass down on the counter, it shatters. With the lingering effects of a hangover and the buzz that's already making my brain feel fuzzy, I didn't realize how aggressive my movements were. Remnants of the liquid and ice spread across the glittery disaster on the counter.

The longer I stare at the glass, the more I realize how accurate it is. Broken glass is a representation of my heart: shattered and never to be repaired.

That moment is when the tears burn worse than the whisky. I don't understand how my friends can continue on. This pain I feel is cleaving my chest in two. Breaking my heart repeatedly. Emptiness has become my constant companion. Without Mel, the world is bleak and my body feels soulless. I'm an endless void in the skin of a human.

Tears continue to spill and I continue to stare, wondering if this ruthless cycle will ever end. It feels like my heart will never heal. That the emptiness I feel is permanent damage. Damage that will echo inside me until the day I die. Until the day I can see her again.

It's a devastating thought to ponder.

I'm so engrossed in my emotions, I don't hear Shea enter the kitchen.

"KJ, man, we need to talk."

I jump, my hand sliding across the glass-covered counter. A shard of glass slices through the meaty part of my thumb. The cut isn't deep, but blood wells along the incision, sliding down the edge of my hand. I curse and use my other hand as a well, suspending it beneath to capture the dripping blood as I head to the sink.

"What the fuck, Shea?" I ask, running my hand under the lukewarm water. Once the blood disappears, I turn off the tap and grab a paper towel to staunch the cut. "You could've warned me."

He gives me a quizzical look. "I knocked several times. When you didn't answer... I thought..." He trails off, refusing to look at me.

A crease forms between my eyebrows. "Really? You think that low of me?"

His glare is stone cold. "Being worried about your mental health isn't low. It's not out of line, either. You just lost someone and now the rest of us are watching you drink your pain away. This isn't a suitable method, KJ. You're hurting your body."

A jolt of anger surges through me. His words sound far too much like Ella's. "You let Ella get into your head."

If his glare was cold before, it's deadly now. "She's not 'getting into my head.' We've been discussing this since Melody passed away. Every step you've taken toward healing is self-destructive." He pauses, craning his neck to the side. I don't like how judgemental his expression is. "You made Ella cry. You know how I feel about ruining a woman's mascara."

We're only supposed to ruin their lipstick. That's what Shea always says. Even if the lipstick is overpriced, we're supposed to wreck it. Make a mess of their lips with heady kisses and intoxicating passion.

Which I no longer have because Mel's dead.

I cross my arms, appearing indifferent. One fist is closed around the balled paper towel, soaking up the blood. "Why do you care?"

"Because Ella is my friend."

"Even though she broke your nose?"

Shea holds up one finger. "For the record, I deserved that because I was saying nasty shit about my wife. That was in high school. It's water under the bridge." He looks down at the counter, noting the broken glass and remnants of whisky. "Don't spin this conversation, KJ. What the fuck did you do?"

Yelled at her. Said mean things. Started drinking. Kissed her without consent. Fell in love with her again even though I'm married. Was married.

"I did nothing," I lie.

"Bullshit," he spits.

Frustrated, I throw my hands up. "Why the fuck are you asking? Ella told you everything."

"Because I want to hear it from you," he replies.

I hate how calm his voice is. Why can't he yell? It'll give me a reason to yell and release some of these emotions that are stuck in my empty chest cavity. "Well, sorry to disappoint you, man."

Shea pinches the bridge of his nose and mutters several curse words. He paces the length of the island a few times before removing his keys from his pocket and turning to me. "Get your shoes on. We're going for a drive."

"Why?" I sneer.

He curses again. Then he crosses the room and grips the collar of my sweater. When he yanks me forward, I feel a wave of nausea from the sudden movement. We're inches away from each other, and Shea's not happy. Besides the nausea, I feel a prick of fear. Anyone who pisses Shea Smith off is asking for a death wish.

"Get in the fucking car, Kaleb," he snarls. The shove he gives me makes me stumble, my lower back hitting the edge of the counter. "We're going for a drive. If you're not out in five minutes, I'll fucking drag you. This bullshit stops here and now. We're not putting up with this any longer."

Shea leaves the kitchen before I can say anything. And because I know better than to take his threat lightly, I jog upstairs and change into clean clothes: jeans, a T-shirt, and a lighter sweater. Then I'm back downstairs, pulling my shoes on. Going on a drive to talk is the last thing I want to do, but Shea will drag me to his vehicle if I don't cooperate.

I'd like to keep my face intact.

The vehicle idles on the driveway. Through the windshield, I can see Shea talking on the phone. Judging by his soft expression, he's talking to Brenna. Ever since high school, he's had the same look reserved for her. It makes my jealousy rise like bile.

Ignoring the notion of privacy, I wrench the passenger door open and climb in. Then I slam the door, making enough noise. If he thinks he can intimidate me and get away with it, he's got another thing coming. I'll never pit myself against him, obviously, so these small jabs will have to do.

"Yeah," Shea says, side-eying me. "Asshole's in the car now. I'll talk to you later, Bren." He hangs up, plugs his phone in, and then sets it down on the console. Taylor Swift music fills the background at a low volume. When he looks at me, there's a minuscule smile on his face. "Brenna says hello, but she also told me to tell you to fuck off. Ella's a mess."

Pain pierces my heart. I shove it down. Crossing my arms, I look forward and slouch in the seat. "Whatever."

Shea sighs. "Put your seatbelt on."

Although I don't want to follow his request, I buckle in. Soon, he's backing out of the driveway and we're heading north, away from the city and into a denser area of forest. Shea and I are silent for a good fifteen minutes before the silence becomes too much for me. It's like an annoying itch I can't reach.

"Where the fuck are we going?"

"Squamish," he replies.

Squamish is a fifty-minute drive from North Van. Aside from good hiking, there's not much there. Squamish is beautiful and I have nothing against it, but I'm a city boy. The area is too rural for me. "Why?"

"There's a treatment centre there," Shea grinds out.

Realization dawns on me. "This is an intervention. What the fuck, Shea? Brenna's having the baby soon! I can't miss that!"

Shea's grip tightens on the wheel. "You're not meeting my daughter until you're better, KJ."

I gape at him. "What the fuck, man? That's low! You're using Brenna's pregnancy against me. She'd hate that you're objectifying her. Forcing me to go to treatment is also unethical."

He scoffs. "I'm repeating what Brenna said, and I agreed with. You're in no shape to hold, let alone meet a baby. Also, quit gaslighting me. Don't throw this back on me. You decided to drink, KJ. Now you need to fix that problem." He rubs the back of his neck as he eases us to a stop at a stop sign. "Forcing you to go is unethical. Which is why I'm taking you there to read through the brochures and make your decision." Shea takes a right turn. "But not until we've taken the long route, so I can tell you about everything that's on the line. I could've opted for an appointment in Vancouver, but you need to get the fuck out of here. Clear your head and fix this mess you've created."

"I didn't create it!" I explode. "Cancer did! Mel's death did! This is not my fault! It's a byproduct of all the shit that's happened."

Shea slams his fist against the steering wheel. When he hits the brakes, we skid to a stop, the car smelling of burning rubber. "You can't control what happens to other people! But you can control your reactions! What you're doing..." He shakes his head. "You're fucking everything up for yourself, KJ."

Behind us, a vehicle honks. A sheepish expression crosses his face and he waves at the person behind us in the rearview mirror. His foot presses against the gas, and we're back on the road, surrounded by pine trees and glimpses of the ocean inlet.

I sink lower in the seat, wishing I was alone with my glass of whisky. A couple of glasses didn't do the trick—and now Shea's trying to get me to talk. This is a recipe for a disaster. "I've lost everything. There's nothing on the line."

Shea's jaw tightens. "So your friends mean nothing? Your family? Your career? Your mental health? There's a lot more than you think on the line, KJ. What happens when training camp starts up again? You haven't been able to hide the alcohol on your breath for a month. I can't imagine what you'll look like or smell like by August."

"I can function while drinking."

"You're not functioning, KJ. You're barely living."

The truth in his words hits me hard. I'm aware of the lies I've been telling myself. Drinking to numb the pain is the route I took because it's the easiest. I can't talk about Mel without breaking down. Don't know how to handle these emotions that continue to pummel me. Bring me to my knees. How to deal with addiction or admit I am addicted to alcohol. It's shameful to admit. I was aware of my family history, yet it didn't stop me.

Hence the reason I continue to deny the truth in everyone's words. I can't bear to see their disappointment. Bear to hurt them.

Because after hurting like this, I want no one else to feel it.

"Go, KJ. You have to," Shea chokes. He stares ahead, his eyes glassy. He tries to fight away the tears, but he can't. Which is why he pulls over to the side of the road. "You have to. Melody never wanted this to happen. None of us did. But it happened. Now we have to fight through it. You're suffering worse than anyone—and you're allowed to. But this isn't healthy. You need to heal or else the wounds will continue to fester. Man, I can't handle seeing you like this. It kills me you won't be there to meet the baby, but your health is important. Please, KJ. You have to go."

Seeing the tears on his face kills me.

"I never wanted to hurt anyone," I whisper, my own tears falling.

"Well, then you're a fucking hypocrite," Shea says. He tries to make it sound like a joke, but it comes up short. "Self-medicating is hurting the rest of us. Especially Ella."

Ella.

"I need to apologize to her."

Shea wipes his eyes. "Yeah, you do. But not until you have a rational mind again. Seeing you like this is bad for her." He pauses, staring ahead at the empty road. "She's skinnier than Brenna was in high school."

Once again, the weight of his words crushes me. I didn't notice how skinny Ella was. I was too busy numbing my mind to care.

"You have to go," he repeats. His voice is a mere whisper. "Please go, KJ. We can't lose another friend."

Dropping my face into my hands, I sob. "Okay, okay."