I swirl the amber liquid in the glass and watch it come to the edge and drop down again. Fuck. I take a big swig and wait.

Wasn’t the pain supposed to be dulled?

If it was, it isn’t working any more. The first few days, it was great at numbing the pain, but now...

How many days has it been now? I can’t recall. Actually, I don’t give a fuck; it has been too many days, way too many days.

My life has gone down the toilet. Nothing matters anymore.

I look at my phone. I dial Sophie’s number again. Nothing.

She’s blocked me from her phone. I glare at the little device in my hand and I want to throw it against the wall. I want to see it suffer the way I’m suffering. An eye for an eye.

I try dialing her number again. Who knows, maybe now I’m unblocked?

I’m not.

“Fucking little thing,” I growl at my phone. “Why the fuck aren’t you working? What’s the point of having a little fucker like you if I can’t even use you?”

I’m not sure, but my words might be a little slurred. Not being able to speak to Sophie is driving me insane.

I stumble to the kitchen. On the way I trip over empty bottles.

Why the fuck is there garbage all over the floor? I should speak to someone about that.

No matter how thorough my search, there seems to be no whiskey left. If I were of the right mind, I would go and buy some more. The effort seems too great though.

With a sigh I look around. Wherever I look, I see Sophie.

Her image haunts me. Her eyes haunt me. Fuck, she’d looked so hurt the other night.

I’m a bastard for hurting her like that. How could I have been such an idiot and fallen for Emma’s blackmail?

The little bitch just wanted to make me pay for rejecting her. She wanted me to be her plaything—she wanted to use me.

Even my alcohol-befuddled brain understands Emma had been toying with me. Perhaps her attention had been as evil as splitting Sophie and me up all along.

She probably never really wanted anything from me once I had rejected her. Bitch.

I don’t hear the front door and am surprised to see Jordan in my living room.

“Fuck, man,” he groans. “What’s going on?”

I stare at him. He betrayed me too. Why didn’t he come to my aid when I needed him?

I watch as he picks up clothing, discarded pizza boxes, and milkshake containers.

“Man, a garbage can smells better than this.”

Fuck you, I want to say, but for some reason I can’t form the words.

With my head nearly exploding, I flop onto the couch and cover it with a pillow.

Go away, leave me alone. Everyone just fuck off.

Jason keeps making noise as if he’s throwing grenades in my living room.

“Man,” I mutter, “can you keep it down?”

“I was going to ask how you are, but I can see I’m wasting my breath.”

I ignore Jason and keep my head covered.

“I don’t know what to do,” I say and lift the cushion off my face. “It’s such a fucking mess. Emma led me right into a fucking trap, and now Sophie won’t speak to me. I can’t call her, I can’t.”

I’m not crying, not really. Come on, a real man doesn’t cry…but my voice has gone a bit funny.

Coffee. I need some coffee.

As I throw the cushion off my face and try to get up, I fall flat on my face. Ouch. The grenades I thought Jason was throwing are now going off inside my head.

It takes me several minutes to get my bearings and even longer to get to my feet.

There’s something severely wrong with me. Have I got a terminal illness? Maybe.

Would Sophie feel sorry for me and come to nurse me in my dying days? I stay on the ground and lean against the back of the couch.

The images of Sophie applying a cool washer to my sweaty face are a nice thought. But then who would tell her I’m dying?

She’d read about it, fool.

Yes, the press would have a field day with the news of Todd Alexander dying of mysterious illness. Maybe it isn’t that mysterious, maybe it is cancer.

Or a fucking broken heart.

I shudder. I hear Jason on the phone. I’m not quite sure what he’s saying, but he seems to be talking to someone.

“House cleaning will be here in five,” Jason announces and throws me a dressing gown. “You might want to cover up.”

What the fuck does he mean now? Slowly my gaze travels down my body and onto my legs.

Fuck. I’m not wearing any pants.

Just as the doorbell rings, I put on some pants.

“Drink this,” he says, and it’s a command, not a question. Jason hands me a green-looking drink.

“Are you trying to poison me?”

Jason pulls a face. “Man, you’re doing that all by yourself. I’m trying to help you.”

I shake my head. He calls this help? Fake friend.

Gingerly, my lips curl around the glass, and I take a sip.

Argh. I grimace; it’s disgusting.

“Just drink and don’t think about it.”

I do as he commands. His face leaves me little choice.

As a reward, he hands me my espresso.

Ah. That’s better.

I look at him.

“So, man, how do I fix this stuff up? I can’t believe it’s such a mess.”

Jason shakes his head.

“What are you asking me for?” He is standing in front of me, arms folded in front of his chest. “Sophie’s film just got nominated for five Oscar categories, and here you are…wallowing.”

“What?” I ask him, cocking one eyebrow at him. Oscar nominations? How long have I been on this bender? Ten fucking years? “Jesus.”

“Yeah. And you got nominated for best actor.”

“Shit,” I mutter, and even though I should feel happy about this…I don’t. Not without Sophie by my side. “Still, that doesn’t do shit for me. It doesn’t fucking help. What am I supposed to do?”

“Man, I have no idea.” Jason sighs.

“I just thought,” I mutter and go back to drinking.

“Why don’t you just go viral? It’s what you do best, isn’t it?”

Viral? I mull the words over. Now here’s an idea. Go viral.

Not a bad idea, not at all. Jason might actually be onto something.

A glimmer of hope ignites deep within me.

Time to start devising a plan.