by Jewel E. Ann
My Saturday would have been less destructive and less tragic had I spent it overdosing on pills or slitting my wrists. Seriously, Angie’s Instagram page was a dark hole of death for me.
Kissing.
Laughing.
Big smiles.
Photos in the mountains.
A ton of photos of Fisher with his shirt off. MY naked fisherman.
His family.
Some outing on a boat.
Kiss. Kiss. Smile. Smile.
She even posted photos of them in bed! Not porn, but definitely a little racy. Him sleeping with the sheets low, obviously naked beneath the sheets. A weird-angled photo of his arms around her waist and his legs scissored with hers. The sheets covered the right areas, and she captioned it: soul mates.
What was that acronym everyone used? Oh yeah, FML. Really … fuck my life.
Recent photos included the shot that Rose showed me of Fisher getting his fill of alcohol, but also of their room in Costa Rica confirming that they only had one bed. An hour earlier, she’d posted a shot of her reflection in the mirror of the hotel room. She was in the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her body and another one wrapped around her head, and Fisher was already dressed in his suit for the wedding, looking out the window with his hands casually slid into the front pockets of his pants.
My heart cracked again and again, barely hanging on.
Her caption was: My Future Husband. With a heart emoji.
My level of obsession hit the most destructive low when I heard Rory and Rose pull into the garage. I grabbed a bottle of wine and an opener and ran to my room and closed the door. When one of them knocked and opened the door a crack, I remained perfectly still on my bed, with my back to the door, so they thought I was taking a nap. When the door softly clicked shut again, I sat up, pulled the hidden bottle of wine out from under the blanket, and opened it.
Over the next hour, Angie documented the wedding in her Instagram story with a nice mix of still photos and short videos.
The venue on the beach.
Clips from the ceremony.
Her and Fisher holding hands, posing next to the bride and groom.
“We’re going to dinner. Pizza? You coming?” Rory knocked on my door. I quickly set the bottle of wine on the floor where she couldn’t see it, nearly falling out of bed onto my butt. Then I grabbed a book from my nightstand and buried my nose into it just as she opened my door.
“I’m uh … good.” I couldn’t tell if my words were slurred, so I yawned to hide anything that might make her suspicious. It was incredibly hard to pretend you weren’t drunk when you were.
“Sure you don’t need a break? Or you can bring your book.”
“Good.” Another yawn. “Totally good.”
“You sound exhausted. Might want to go to bed early and get more sleep, in case you get called for a delivery.”
Oh my gosh …
She was right. I was on call and drunk. Only Rory didn’t know I was drunk.
“Okay,” I managed.
Once I heard the back door to the garage close, I stumbled out of bed and drank a hundred gallons of water to flush out the alcohol … give or take ninety-nine gallons. Then I spent the next hour on the toilet peeing out all the water, eating chips from the bag, and monitoring Angie’s Instagram page.
Kill me now.
I’d always felt like saying “yes” to Brendon, and then losing my virginity with him when I knew I wasn’t going to marry him, was my lowest of lows.
Wrong.
My self-destructive drunk ass on the toilet, stalking Fisher and Angie in Costa Rica was my new low. I should have deleted the app and gone to dinner with Rory and Rose. When my bladder gave me a break, I took my pathetic self to my bedroom, and I deleted the Instagram app. Then I prayed, on-my-knees-hands-folded prayed, for God to make it stop. I left it up to Him to determine what that meant. I just wanted something … anything … everything to stop.
While I waited for his answer, I grabbed my Bible from my bookshelf and plopped onto the bed. Suddenly I was inspired to read some 1 Corinthians about love and marriage inspiration.
It doesn’t envy. Well … too late.
It doesn’t boast. It is not proud. Clearly Angie needed to spend a little more time in God’s Word.
So many things love was not supposed to be.
Rude.
Self-seeking.
Easily angered.
Keeping no record of wrongs.
Never delighting in evil.
Demanding its own way.
Had I believed all that, then the only conclusion I would have come to was … I couldn’t love Fisher.
But for the record … neither could Angie with her mega boasting and larger-than-life pride.
Thou shalt not judge.
It wasn’t all restrictive. There were a few things love was supposed to be.
Patient.
Kind.
Rejoicing in truth.
Hopeful.
Enduring in every circumstance.
Wow! Was I incapable of loving Fisher the way God intended for humans to love one another?
Feeling a little nauseous and mentally broken, I slid my Bible onto my nightstand, pulled my blankets over me, and fell asleep.
Chapter Thirty-One
Sunday morning was rough. My head felt like it had been shaken with a 6.0 magnitude earthquake.
“Muffin?” Rory asked.
She and Rose eyed me from the kitchen table. They wore matching white robes and big smirks.
Squinting against the light from all the window shades drawn open, I shook my aching head.
“I knew something was up when I asked you about dinner last night. But the un-flushed toilet, empty bag of chips on the bathroom floor, and empty wine bottle next to your bed this morning confirmed it. Not to mention your Bible next to your bed. Wanna talk about it?” Rory slowly sipped her coffee.
I poured myself a cup of coffee and filled a tall glass with water before taking two pills for my head. “So you knew I wasn’t right, but you went to dinner anyway?” I shuffled my feet to the table and plunked my butt onto the chair.
Rory shrugged. “What’s that saying … something about the only way to get past something is to go through it? I noticed you were going through it. And I didn’t want to stop your progress.”
With a grunt, I sipped my coffee. “Yup. I’m making amazing progress. Here’s what I now know. Angie posts everything on Instagram. Fisher loved her. Maybe does again. And I have no clue how to love. I’m an expert in anti-love. I should move back to Michigan. Finish my master’s. And forget I ever met Fisher Mann.”
“Ouch.” Rose wrinkled her nose. “So much for clarity after a rough night.”
Resting my elbows on the table, I rubbed my tired eyes. “Isn’t life just a rocky road of mistakes? A journey to enlightenment or Heaven or wherever? I mean … what do we really know when we die? What did we really learn?”
“What’s the point?” Rory said.
“Exactly.” I gave her a tight-lipped smile. “And what is wrong with the world? Why do we have to spend so much time recording our lives and sharing them with the world? Granted, I didn’t get a cell phone until I was nearly a legal adult, and I do have social media accounts, but why does something that’s so time-consuming make us feel so terrible most of the time? And why do we do it? Why do we voluntarily subject ourselves to it? What a waste of life.”
Rory chuckled. “I spent five years in prison, so I agree with you. But let’s talk about the real issue. How much time did you spend on Angie’s Instagram account yesterday?”
I sighed, hanging my head. “All of it. Every single picture she’s ever posted and every single caption she posted with them is burned into my brain. It was the most suicidal thing I have ever done.” I took another sip of my coffee. “I’m not proud of it. And I deleted the app.” I retrieved my phone from my hoodie pocket and brought up the screen. “But then I downloaded the app again this mornin
g. And I officially hate Fisher Mann and his fiancée Angie.” I showed them the post from late last night, after I’d already gone to bed. It was a photo of him sleeping on his stomach, arms next to his head, sheets so low on his back that it seemed unlikely if not impossible that he was wearing anything at all. Angie captioned it: My Whole World.
Rose and Rory blinked slowly at the phone screen, but Rose’s gaze drifted away from it first. She had already seen it. They had nothing to say. And I had no tears left to cry. I told Fisher I was in it for as long as I felt like I was actually in it.
Well, I was no longer in it.
“Reese …” Rory said softly as I pushed back in my chair and stood.
I shook my head. “It’s fine. I actually feel sorry for her. The only way she can feel like he loves her is if he hates me. And I think this weekend … he’s hated me.”
I think Elliott Trenton Davies decided to announce his impending arrival Sunday afternoon just so I could avoid dealing with my so-called life. Around four in the afternoon, I received the call from Holly with permission to “not rush” because she knew Elliott’s mom’s contractions were years apart. But she was a first-time mom who required some guidance in being patient. And Holly excelled at patience. Even though she knew the new mom would not be holding her baby anytime soon, Holly shared in her excitement and vowed to be with her every step of the way. That was code for Holly would sit in the corner of the room, reading a romance novel, while the mom and scared but eager dad worked through tiny contractions together. As long as the mom was still smiling, Holly knew no baby would be arriving soon.
So I took my time, taking a shower, eating dinner, and packing my bag with my own books, snacks, and lots of water.
“Hope it all goes well.” Rory smiled as she unloaded groceries.
I hiked my bag onto my shoulder and tucked my feet into my shoes. “Me too. I don’t know when I’ll see you. This could be a long labor.”
“Wouldn’t that be a blessing.”
I knew what she meant. And I felt it too. Fisher and Angie would be home later, and I needed to not be home. Not be available to him and his anger or pathetic excuses. Not put myself in the position to explode and say things that would make everything exponentially worse.
“Yes.” I scrounged a smile for her. “It really would be.” I shut the door behind me.
Elliott’s mom did, in fact, labor for almost twenty-four hours, during which time, I received one text from Fisher.
I’m home if you want to talk.
If I wanted to talk. Not “I’m home, we need to talk.”
I replied as soon as I had a quick chance.
I’m at a birth.
He didn’t reply.
It was almost seven o’clock Monday night before I made it home.
Rose and Rory were decorating the house for Christmas.
“Hey, sweetie. How’d it go?”
On a sigh, I smiled—a tiny one. “Good. A boy. Seven pounds, nine ounces. Mom cried. Dad cried.”
“Did you?” Rose asked.
I shrugged. “I might have got a little teary eyed because I just …” On another sigh, I frowned.
“You’re tired. Emotionally drained.” Rory said.
I nodded. “So drained. I’m going to crash. I’ll see you in a hundred years.”
“Love you.”
“You too,” I mumbled, dragging my feet and slumped body to bed.
The next morning, I woke a little before five and couldn’t get back to sleep. It also didn’t help that it sounded like someone was mowing our lawn. I peeked out the window. It had snowed overnight. A lot. And Fisher was snow blowing our drive and sidewalk.
Of course he was …
Rory and Rose’s room was tucked in the back corner of the house, so they likely didn’t hear him. Lucky them.
Ten hours of sleep was enough for me, so I showered and dried my hair. By then it was five-thirty, and I no longer heard the snowblower. When I peeked out the front window, Fisher was loading the snowblower and his shovel into the back of his truck.
Without a real goal in mind, I slipped on my jacket, hat, and boots and went out the back door, opening the garage door which turned on a light. Fisher glanced in my direction for a second before closing his tailgate. He made his way up the driveway as I stood in the garage between the two cars with my hands in the pockets of my jacket.
“Thanks for doing that,” I said with reserved emotion. My heart hurt too much. There was so much to say. And I didn’t know where to begin or if it was even the right time to have the conversation. Did he have other driveways to clear? Work to do?
“It’s no big deal.” He dusted snow off his jacket and coveralls. His scruffy face was wet from the snow.
“Do you have time to grab coffee?” He pulled up his coat sleeve to look at his watch. “Starbucks opens in fifteen minutes.”
Starbucks. He could have invited me to his house for coffee so we’d have total privacy, but he invited me to Starbucks. I didn’t know how to interpret it. But I also knew I needed something from him. And maybe that was his goal too. Maybe he needed something from me. Were we going to Starbucks to break up? Were we even still together? Were we ever really together?
I nodded once. “Okay. Let me grab my purse.”
“Okay.”
After I grabbed my purse, we headed down the driveway, Fisher’s gloved hand held mine, but it wasn’t an intimate gesture. It was a friendly gesture, just making sure I didn’t slip and fall.
After we got in the truck, it only took a few minutes to get to Starbucks. Not a word was murmured on the way, and it only intensified the pain in my chest.
Again, Fisher held my hand as we made it through the parking lot that hadn’t been plowed and into the empty Starbucks, save for two employees behind the counter.
“My treat. You plowed the driveway,” I said like I would have said to a kind stranger. “Coffee. Black?”
He nodded and headed in the direction of a table while I ordered our drinks. And instead of taking a seat and waiting for my name to be called, I milled around the registers reading all the advertisements for their holiday drinks. Anything to put off the inevitable.
“Here you go.” The guy at the register set the two drinks on the counter.
I took a deep breath and made my way to the table. Fisher had his gloves on the table and jacket off, but his beanie still on, and a sad look on his face. Once I got seated and unzipped my jacket, it took a few awkward seconds for our gazes to lock. But once they did, I knew there wasn’t any more small talk to be said.
“We were more than friends,” he said like it physically pained him to say it.
I thought it was a statement, but maybe it was a question. Maybe he needed confirmation that what he remembered was real.
“We were more than friends,” I echoed, giving him confirmation.
“And you didn’t tell me this why?”
With a tiny head shake, I rubbed my lips together. “For several reasons. At first, I didn’t think it was beneficial information to share given the fact that you were engaged and we hadn’t seen each other in five years anyway. And I didn’t want to give you something you couldn’t remember and make you feel like you owed me something in return. Some sort of emotional acknowledgment. And honestly, I didn’t need it. I liked where we were going. I liked our present. And the closer we got, the less I cared if we shared the past.”
I stopped. I had a truckload of other things to say, but I had to pace myself and get a feel for where his head was after recent revelations.
“So we … what? We were just fucking around?”
“There was a physical attraction. And we messed around, yes.”
“Messed around. But we weren’t sleeping together because you already told me you gave that other guy your virginity. Correct?”
I nodded.
“Did I try to have sex with you?”
I took a sip of my coffee and then another sip, buying all the time before clea
ring my throat. “No.”
He blinked several times, an unreadable expression pinned to his face. “Why not?”
“Because I was upfront with you that I wasn’t going to have sex with you.”
“But oral didn’t count?”
My cheeks filled with embarrassment as I glanced toward the counter to see if anyone seemed to be listening to us. “Do we have to go into such detail? Does it matter?”
“I’m just trying to understand.”
“Well…” I kept my gaze pointed to the counter “…you have amnesia, so you might not ever really understand.”
“Maybe if you give me all the facts, all the details, then I can understand.”
“Like Angie? She gave you everything. Do you understand your love for her? Or should I say, before you left for Costa Rica, did you understand your love for her?”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Before I left for Costa Rica …” He narrowed his eyes.
“Did you have a nice time? Was the couples’ massage in the same room? And how does that work? If they do, in fact, think you’re a couple, does that mean you undress for the massage in the same room? Did you take off all your clothes for her? Did she take hers off for you? What about the room where you stayed? Were there two beds? Because in the photo on Instagram, it looked like there was only one bed. And before you answer that, fair warning … Angie told me, Rose, and Rory all about her plans for you two on the trip. She requested a room with one bed instead of two. The couples’ massage. Oh, and we must not forget the sexy lingerie she bought to wear for you. How did you like that? Did you try to have sex with her? Or did you settle for oral like you did with me? Was it all-night oral? Because the photo of you on Instagram sleeping in bed made you look thoroughly exhausted. Oh … and it definitely looked like you were naked under the sheet resting so low on your torso.”
I was so angry my hand shook as I gripped my coffee. My heart raced. And my jaw worked overtime grinding my teeth.
“Are you done?” he asked, looking completely unaffected by my long spiel.
I stood. “I think we’re done.”