This scene takes place when Garret is 15.

PEARCE
I leave my office and see Garret stumbling in the front door.

“Garret.” I close the door behind him, then help him to the stairs. He can barely walk. I’ve never seen him this drunk.

“Dad,” he mumbles.

“How much did you drink?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“Let’s go to your room.” I get a firm grip on him and drag him up the stairs.

How did this happen? Why is he so drunk? He said Blake’s parents would be home, but they obviously weren’t. I should’ve called them before he left to make sure they were there.

“Garret, we need to talk about your drinking.” I help him onto his bed.

He lies facedown, his arms spread out on both sides. I remove his shoes and get a blanket from his closet. He’s too drunk to change clothes or get under the covers. I lay the blanket over him. His eyes are closed. I’ll have to talk to him about this tomorrow, although I don’t know when I’ll have time. I have meetings from early in the morning until late at night.

My life is such a mess. Work is out of control. Katherine is out of control. My son is out of control. And I can’t seem to make any of it better.

If Rachel were here, she would be ashamed of me. She would never let Garret drink like this, or even drink at all. And she’d never let him stay out this late on a school night. He probably wouldn’t even want to go out if she were here. He used to like being home with us, but now he hates being home.

“Dad?” I hear Garret mumble.

I sit next to him on the bed. “Yes, Garret.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“About what?” I start to panic, thinking maybe he did something illegal or got into some other kind of trouble. “Did something happen?”

“I’m sorry…about Mom.” His eyes are closed and he’s slurring his words.

I’m not sure why he said that, but people say strange things when they’re drunk.

“I’m going to let you sleep this off.” I get up from his bed. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

He starts mumbling again. “I’m sorry I didn’t stop her.”

I sit down again. “What are you talking about?”

“I should’ve stopped her. I tried, Dad. I really tried. But she still left.”

Stopped her? What does he mean?

“Garret, I don’t understand what you’re saying. Stopped her from what?”

He turns on his side, his eyes still closed. “From going to DC. I told her not to go, but I didn’t try hard enough. And now she’s dead.”

He blames himself for her death? How the hell could he even think that? It’s not his fault.

The day Rachel and I flew to DC, Garret was only 10 and he begged her not to go. I couldn’t figure out why he was acting like that. He didn’t usually get that upset when we went somewhere. But that day, it’s almost like he knew. Like he sensed something bad was going to happen, so he begged her not to go.

“Garret, look at me.” I hold onto his shoulder and wait for his eyes to open. “It was not your fault. Don’t even think that.”

“It WAS my fault. I should’ve stopped her and I didn’t. I killed her, Dad.” Tears stream down his face. “It was all my fault.”

I pull him up from the bed and force him into a hug. “Don’t say that, Garret. Don’t you ever say that again. It was not your fault. It was nobody’s fault. It was an accident. It was just an accident.”

“She wouldn’t have been on the plane if I’d stopped her. I screwed up. And now she’s dead.”

Is that really what he thinks? That he could’ve prevented it from happening? Does he live with this guilt every day? God, I hope not. Because I already live with it, and it nearly kills me. I keep blaming myself for her death. Telling myself it’s my fault she got on that plane. I’m the one who suggested she take that earlier flight. I encouraged her to do so. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me.