hurt?” I mutter quickly, spitting the words like I’m a rapper in a battle of life and death.
“She chose to leave, sir. Forced me to give her an hour of time or she’d fire me.”
I laugh sardonically. There’s no way she did that. Joey isn’t rash or cruel. She says what she means and means every word she says.
Shit.
“How did she seem?”
“Erratic. She had mascara stains and red eyes. She had to have been crying. She was a mess.” His voice seems far away now. What the fuck happened?
“I have to go. Take over for her.”
“But, sir—”
“No buts, Sanje. Get it done.”
“Of course,” he says before I hang up. Not even taking the time to shut down my computer, I rush out of my office and run to the elevators. People glance at me as if I’ve lost my mind, but I’m beyond caring. The only thing that runs through my mind is fear. What if her dad did something? What if Marsha did? What if her mom... my mind trails to the woman fighting for her life in our home. She has a full staff watching her, keeping her alive as she purges her plague.
The elevator is too slow, but I wait as it rises, hoping it goes faster. It doesn’t. When it finally hits our floor and beeps, I run out, heading straight for the door.
Why ask for an hour? Who was she running from?
I make it to our room and see nothing is missing. I head to the guest room, our shared bathroom, then our closet. I can’t really tell what’s different—
My mind stops as I peer at my side of the closet. She ensures it’s not my side. That there are no sides, but there is. It’s where I put all of our favorite clothes. Hers and mine. And that’s where I notice all the missing items.
But what really catches my attention is my Green Bay Packer shirt. It’s long-sleeved, charcoal gray, and something Joey stole when we first started living together. She wore it all the time.
It’s so big on her tiny body that it’s practically a dress. But it’s definitely something I couldn’t miss. That’s when I realize her leaving wasn’t a fear tactic. It was a choice. Her choice.
My heart sinks and hammers in tandem, like it simultaneously keeps me alive and promises me death. I choose the latter.
She left.
Abandoned me.
Something finally made her leave.
That alone hurts like a motherfucker.
I stare at my shaking hands and go to my liquor cabinet. Three weeks is nothing, right? Three weeks doesn’t matter. Three weeks means I’m not even that far into sobriety. I can cheat. I can indulge. I can rip out what’s left of my soul.
An unopened bottle of Jameson rests in my palm. The glass cools my heated skin. You’d think with realization would come doom and heartache and a bitter coolness like my wife’s heart, but that’s not true. It’s heated. Anger beats faster, rushing through your system with emotions on repeat. Almost like it’s heating you from the inside out, just like alcohol.
I take off the plastic wrapping and open the lid.
Bringing it to my lips, I scrunch my nose, inhaling way too deep. It smells like bad decisions and wrongness. Like my next fix, next overdose, next end.
Maybe I’ll die with my companion in my hands.
Maybe I’ll not live to see this outcome.
Maybe I’ll exhaust every organ inside me and won’t have to feel this kind of agony again.
It’s my fault.
All my fault.
I stare down at the bottle, bringing it to my lips once more, but then it hits me. What if she left so I’d change? Isn’t that why she said no to trying when I asked? Isn’t that why she played hard to get?
A newfound energy surges through me, and I cap the bottle and place it back inside my cabinet. And as I head toward the door to leave, I notice two things.
One, my wife took our favorite picture. She says it’s her favorite, but what she doesn’t know is that it’s my favorite too. I took that image while she rode my cock. That was the first night of our sexting. The first night I fucked her so hard that we were both exhausted the next day.
Two, her ring.
Ten feet to my right on our black marble counters sits her ring. Well, my mom’s ring. It’s rose gold, antique, and entwined with vines. It felt so fitting for us. It was the first time I asked