I refused. But that’s the problem with marriages. You can’t just walk the fuck away. I mean, you can. My brother did it to Lo, so why couldn’t I?
The metal box stops, the light on the front of it letting me know I’ve arrived. Seeing it illuminated has me regretting this before it starts. The doors open, sliding to my doom. That’s what Bry, Serena, and Tamara are. My end.
They bring me momentary peace. It’s not even pleasurable. Not love. Not lust. It just... is. They distract me. Now, as I’m walking toward our room with my head down, I can’t stomach the thought of touching her like I miss touching my wife. I’m not drunk enough for this shit. I’m fully sober, riding on the high of hatred, but it doesn’t feel the same. Alcohol soothes the pain, bringing a buzz and promises momentary bereavement.
It’s a lie.
My life is a lie.
Joey is a goddamn lie.
Pulling out my wallet, I smack it against the door’s scanner. You’d think I’d have a secret badge for this entire hotel. It’s not like my brother doesn’t own it. But no, I have a regular generated fucking key that only solidifies how fucking twisted I’ve become.
I chose this.
To defy her.
To ruin me.
To hate myself.
Think she hates me more than I hate myself? Fat chance. Pretty sure the bottom of the cesspool of disgust has nothing on the absolute abhorrence I have for myself. But that’s life, right? You reap what you sow, and goddamn, I sowed an entire fucking village of clothing. Fucking my brother’s wife, loving her, wanting her comfort even now... I’ve really screwed up everything and all I have to blame is myslef.
The light blinks after I tap it again, the lock sliding out of place. Opening the heavy door, I shuffle inside. Before even caring for waiting on Bry, I stop at the mini fridge. They know to stock it with the good stuff. The good stuff being whiskey. There’s nothing quite like the burn of despoliation by booze. As I raise the bottle of Jameson, a little ease slips into me. The glass is cold and heavy in my palm. Its promises are false, but I open it anyway. Its warmth is faulty, but I swallow it back. Its aphrodisiac qualities are temporary, but I keep going.
It no longer burns.
If it did, I numbed it out. How could I not? It’s supposed to suppress pain, not conjure it.
She said thirty minutes, which means I have at least twenty to drink and get my dick prepared. Taking the entire bottle with me to the bedroom, I lie back and open my phone, hoping for some type of memory.
When Joey and I were together, there was no faking. Getting hard was expected and impossible to ignore. But with these women I use? It’s nearly unbearable. It makes me drink more, makes me hate myself with each breath, and the loathsome reality that I’ve become my father settles in me each time.
I open my Google drive, seeing all the images of Joey and me from our short happiness together. When she smiles, it’s radiant, glowing as brightly as her fiery hair. I start with the selfie she took of us when we flew to Paris, deciding to pave our own path together. We’re standing in front of the coffee shop that meant the world to her. Even with the tainted memories, she wanted me to fix them, change them, and make them better. So I did. Wherever she felt trapped, I remade memories with her. And in turn, she did the same for me.
Seeing myself in this picture causes my heart to pang. Happiness lines my eyes, my smile is full and bright, and the way I’m looking at her as if she hung the goddamn moon only makes the disgust for myself rise.
“What have we done, Sous?”
She can’t answer me. She’s twenty floors up, probably drinking, or maybe... just maybe, she’s fucking the man I thought was my best friend. Why would he do that to me? He hated Jase for what happened with Ellie, so why would he do the same to me?
Our friendship ended that godforsaken day. He tried reaching out, maybe to apologize, possibly to gloat, but either way, I didn’t give him the chance to explain.
“Where do you want to go?” I ask her, seeing love swirl in her warm eyes. Unlike I thought when quitting for her at Mi Casa, she took it well.