BECKETT
Maybe I should just f*****g leave her again. Or distance myself because I’m the one who’s always hurting her.
Fuck.
I grip the glass in my hand, almost crushing it, and toss back the rest of the whiskey. It burns, but not enough to drown out the shitstorm in my head.
How can I hurt her? How can I be the man who can hurt her?
My hand shakes as I pour another round. Maybe that’s the problem—it’s always *maybe*. Maybe I’ll do better. Maybe I’ll stop. But *maybe* doesn’t fix a damn thing.
“s**t,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair. Maybe I’m just bad for her. Always have been.
The bartender gives me a nod, but I wave him off. I don’t need another drink. I need to stop being this guy.
But how?
Every time I think I’ve got a handle on it, I lose it again. Like
