“Something about Sonny sleeping in his car.”

He knows damn well there’s two seperate beds he could be in right now - two sets of blankets, two sets of arms he could be tucked up between, warm and safe and not watching rain batter down against the windows of his shitty car as he tries to block out the streetlights with the back of his arm.

He could go home to Angie, where he’s supposed to be, with his kids in the other room. Could try to ignore the sound of roaches in the walls and the suffocating feeling of being trapped in poverty with a woman he isn’t sure he still feels the right things for.

He could go back to Leon’s apartment, could apologize in just the right way, could make her laugh, could weasel his way right back in under those sad eyes and those soft hands. He could drown himself in the life he wants to have, in the heavy, unsettling knowledge that this is a mess he made. That he’s the reason she flinches when he raises his voice, that he’s the reason she’s having nightmares.

Truth is, he doesn’t think he deserves to be in either place. Not tonight, not right now, with his plans running through his head and the anxiety beating itself against the inside of his ribcage like a rabid animal trying to break out. He knows how that goes. He’ll pace around and start getting manic, get annoyed when one of his wives tells him to settle down, to relax – as if a man can relax under this kind of pressure! With this much weighing on him!

Sonny let out a low groan, running his hands down his face, pressing his palms into his eyes. The rain is so fucking loud, it almost drowns out his thoughts. He lifts his head, elbowing himself up from where he’s lounging in the back seat, his back twinging. He glances out into the dark - slick asphalt and empty streets, not even a stray dog running around to remind him he isn’t all alone. To remind him he isn’t the last person alive in this godforsaken place.