Caleb’s POV months ago
I had always thought that when my life blew up, I’d see it coming. Maybe I’d feel the warning signs, the ground cracking beneath me, the weight of bad decisions pressing down on my chest before the explosion.
But there was no warning. No slow unraveling.
Just a fist colliding with my jaw, the taste of blood in my mouth, and Logan standing over me, eyes wild with fury.
And then—black.
Expelled. Gone. Just like that.
I didn’t even go home after I left the principal’s office. What was the point? My father had made it clear I was a disgrace. The only thing waiting for me at home was more disappointment, more lectures about how I was ruining my future.
So, I walked.
Through streets that blurred together, past places that used to mean something—Emma’s house, the field where we used to skip school, the alley behind the bar where I’d first kissed her.
I didn’t know where I was going.
I didn’t care.
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By the time I stopped walking, my throat was dry, my knuckles were still raw from punching a locker on my way out of school, and my thoughts were screaming.
The neon glow of The Rusty Nail flickered against the pavement as I stepped inside. Maria was behind the bar, wiping down a glass, her sharp eyes flicking up to me immediately.
"Kid, what the hell are you doing here?"
I slid onto a stool and let my head fall against the sticky bar top. "Celebrating."
She sighed, setting the glass down. "You’re not twenty-one, and you look like hell."
I grinned, but it felt hollow. "Good thing I feel like hell too."
Maria hesitated, but then she poured a drink. Whiskey, neat. It burned down my throat, but the fire in my chest was nothing compared to the wreckage in my head.
One drink turned into two. Two turned into four.
By the time Maria cut me off, my body was warm, my thoughts were slow, and I felt light for the first time since Emma told me she was pregnant.
"Go home, Caleb," Maria said, voice softer now. "You’re gonna regret this tomorrow."
Tomorrow?
I didn’t even know if I wanted a tomorrow.
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I stumbled outside, hands in my pockets, the world swaying around me.
The air was cold, biting at my skin, but I barely noticed. My mind was somewhere else.
Emma.
Logan.
The twins that would never be born.
Everything I’d lost in one goddamn moment.
I didn’t even see the guy coming until he shoulder-checked me hard.
"Watch it," he grunted.
I should’ve let it go.
I didn’t.
Because right now, I wanted to fight. I wanted to bleed. I wanted to feel something real.
"You got a problem?" I asked, stepping forward, fists already clenching.
The guy—some college dude, taller than me, built like a tank—looked me up and down and laughed.
"Jesus, kid, go home."
That should’ve been my cue to walk away.
Instead, I swung.
I don’t even remember how long the fight lasted. I just remember the pain. The way my ribs screamed, the way my vision blurred when a fist connected with my face. The taste of blood in my mouth.
And then, sirens.
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The next morning, I woke up in a holding cell.
Cold metal bench. The smell of sweat and regret.
And across from me, leaning against the bars with his arms crossed, was my father.
For a moment, we just stared at each other.
Then he exhaled sharply and shook his head. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, wincing at the split lip. "A lot, apparently."
"You got expelled, and the first thing you do is go get wasted and start a fight?" His voice was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that came before a storm.
I didn’t answer.
"You’re lucky they didn’t press charges," he continued. "If you had a record, you’d be really screwed."
I swallowed hard. I knew what he was waiting for—an apology. Some sign that I regretted it.
But I didn’t.
Not really.
Because if I was sober, if I was clear-headed, then I’d have to face everything. And I wasn’t ready for that.
"Come on," he said after a long moment. "Let’s go."
I followed him out, blinking at the bright morning sun. The city felt different. Colder.
We got into his car, silence stretching between us.
Then he said something that hit me harder than any punch ever could.
"You’re not living, Caleb. You’re self-destructing. And I won’t watch it happen."
I stared out the window, my chest tight.
But the truth was, I didn’t care.
Because without Emma, without my future, without the twins I never even got to hold—what was left of me?