Indisputably Yours

51.

Tristan

I jolted awake, gasping for air as if I had been drowning. My chest tightened, my pulse wild and erratic, pounding against my ribs like a desperate plea to escape. For a long, agonizing moment, I couldn't tell if I was still trapped in that nightmare or if I had returned to reality. But the terror clung to me, a shadow creeping beneath my skin, wrapping its cold, suffocating fingers around my throat.

I blinked rapidly, trying to ground myself in the present. It took a few moments for the real world to settle in around me and for the fog of the torment to lift enough for me to realize where I was. My study.

Papers and files were strewn across the desk, some of them crushed beneath me where I'd passed out. I hadn't meant to fall asleep here again, but the whiskey had a way of making the hours disappear. The nearly empty decanter sat within arm's reach, its golden liquid contents mocking me with the illusion of escape. It was nearly empty now, just a few swigs left, and I hated that I even considered finishing it. But I did. Because drinking was easier than thinking.

Gritting my teeth, I forced myself upright. The movement sent a fresh wave of pain crashing through my skull, a sharp reminder of how far I'd fallen.

I ran a hand through my hair, wincing at the mess I'd become. This was my life now—passing out in my study, avoiding the bed I once shared with her, drowning in work, whiskey, and the ghosts of everything we used to be.

I leaned back against the desk, closing my eyes for a moment, hoping, praying, that the images in my mind would stop. But they didn't. They never did. My mind kept racing, the thoughts relentless.

My doctor had said it was possible, that despite the vasectomy I had gotten all those years ago, there was still a slim chance I could have kids. He said that vasectomies weren't always foolproof. With time, it was possible for things to heal and for the procedure to reverse itself, and in that slim, almost impossible chance, Sienna's pregnancy could still be legitimate. But I didn't want to believe it. I didn't want to hope for something that could crush me.

I couldn't think about it too long. I wouldn't. Because thinking only led me to darker places—places where Sienna had cheated, where these babies weren't mine, where everything I thought was solid in my life had crumbled into ash. And then, there were those other places—where she hadn't cheated, where they were mine, and I still couldn't feel anything for them. Could I even accept them? Could I be the father they needed if I couldn't even stand the idea of them existing?

I buried my face in my hand, the one that still worked. The other—a twisted reminder of that day—throbbed with phantom pain, aching in time with my heart. I needed to stop this. Stop thinking. Stop feeling. The uncertainty. The fear. The anger. It was eating me alive from the inside out, and I had no idea how to fight it.

With effort, I pushed myself to my feet, swaying slightly as the alcohol-induced dizziness kicked in. I reached for the door of the study and pulled it open. I needed to get out. Away from the suffocating walls, away from the mess of papers and empty promises. I started down the hallway, my feet dragging with every step. The couch. I'd sleep there again, like I had for the past few nights. It was easier there, away from the memories, away from her.

The faint glow of light spilling from our bedroom suddenly caught my attention, making my steps falter. The door was cracked open, just a sliver, but enough for me to see inside.

I stood there briefly, staring at that small opening, my heart thudding painfully against my chest. I shouldn't go in. I shouldn't look. But my feet moved anyway, carrying me forward, betraying the logic screaming in my mind.

The door creaked as I pushed it open just a little more. And there she was. Sienna. The room was dim, but I could see her clearly. She was curled up on my side of the bed, her small frame clutching the pillows I used to sleep on like they were the only thing keeping her grounded. Her hair, once so perfect, now lay in tangled waves, as if sleep had been as elusive for her as it had been for me.

She was wearing one of my shirts, the one she always stole when she needed comfort. The sight of it caused something to twist in my chest; a sharp, aching pull of longing I had refused myself to feel these past days. God, I missed her. I missed her in ways that words couldn't touch, missed her so deeply that it hurt just to look at her. I missed how things used to be before all of this, before the doubt and anger and pain. I missed holding her, feeling her warmth next to me. I missed the way she'd smile at me, the way she used to pull me into her arms when the world felt too heavy. I missed her laugh, her touch, the way she made everything feel...safe.

I hadn't realized I was gripping the doorframe until my knuckles turned white. The pull to her was overwhelming, a gravity I couldn't fight, and for a split second, I wanted nothing more than to crawl into that bed beside her, to feel her next to me again, I wanted to bury my face in her hair and let her be my anchor again. I wanted to feel something other than this crushing emptiness.

But the moment passed.

And reality slammed back into me, harsh and unrelenting.

I took a step back, then another. I couldn't go in there. I couldn't crawl into that bed and pretend like everything was fine, like our world hadn't shattered into a million pieces.

I clenched my fists at my sides as I forced myself to turn away.  And then I did what I always did—I ran. From her, from my own feelings, from the future I wasn't sure I could handle. And as much as I hated myself for it, I couldn't stop running.