by Alisa Mullen
“Research,” I answered flatly.
“Wow, she is so beautiful. I didn’t get a chance to her in concert before she left the band. But Ethan is definitely a good fit for Love Sick Ponies now,” she went on.
I was going to lose it on her. Ethan was a terrible replacement for Jules. He couldn’t sing the songs like her. He certainly didn’t wear the low cut, plaid schoolgirl skirt I grew to love. I.Grew.To.Love.
“Yeah, he is alright. Listen, I got to go. It was nice to um... get to know you?” I asked. Normally, they were gone by morning but I must have been too fucked up to tell her to get out when I realized she wasn’t Jules.
“Sure.” She looked pissed as she flew by me and opened the door. “My name is Christine by the way. You might want to learn a girl’s name instead of screaming out Jules when you come.”
Hell, I knew I did that. She wasn’t the first to get pissed and she certainly wouldn’t be the last. I called out Jules. That was my form of dealing. Dr. Scratch-a-Dick said we would get to that after we tackled the photo wall.
Luckily, I had remembered to charge my phone the night before. I plugged the ear buds in and started my Jules playlist. She sang to me everywhere I walked in downtown Manhattan. It didn’t matter if it was snowing or raining. Her voice got me through each walk. It was a necessity that I had not told Dr. Pickle Cock about yet and I still wasn’t sure if I was going to.
I made my way down Madison Avenue and noticed that a few people pulled out their phones to take pictures of me. I pulled my Red Sox hat down lower and steeled my expression for the public. No, I was not depressed, like the magazines kept writing. No, I was not still in love with Jules Delaney. Lie. No, I was a happy bassist for the popular band, Love Sick Ponies. Yes, I was happy. I made attempts at a grin while I listened to Jules belt out One Leg Up and I tried not to show the normal tear that fell down my face when I heard her last beautiful illustrious note. She was an angel. An angel that I had turned into a saint the very night that she left my apartment forever.
Lionel Ritchie played about the sun and the rain as I stepped into the low lit office. I took a seat and grabbed the first magazine I saw. I was five minutes late but sometimes the good doctor had real whack jobs that required a few extra minutes. I could tell the level of crazy when they came out of his office either looking like they had just been probed by aliens or their cat had just died. I never walked out looking like either.
I only had a few months left with this state mandated therapy crack nut until I was done. My mother, the loving therapeutic figure that she is, said that Dr. Goldman was one of the best. Golden she had described him. Then she laughed and I didn’t. He hadn’t done much for golden material since Jules had not come back to me and Jules had not realized that she still belonged to Love Sick Ponies. So, when I ran my car into a ditch after seeing her with Brennan kissing in their elaborate estate in Vineyard Haven, the cops said that my alcohol level was too high to give me just a warning pass. Instead they fucked me. I was tested for drugs weekly. I was not allowed to drive a car for like forever and I had to see Dr. Fucktard every week for almost a year.
I flipped through Fan Date magazine and my heart stopped when I saw her beautiful smile. She was so happy and looking down at her white wedding gown while holding a bunch of wild flowers. I tore the page out but not before I saw her grinning down to her tattooed finger. She never wanted a tattoo. Obviously, Brennan made her get it. Asshole. The guy totally manipulated his way into her life. He didn’t deserve her at all. He was a total douche that hurt her way more than I did. Well, at least as much. Okay, maybe cheating on her twice did trump a lot of bad relationship etiquette but fuck it. She was mine.
My heart warmth dropped at least twenty degrees as I read “Mrs. Jules Curtis” as the headline. Was that supposed to be funny? That was nowhere near a fucking joke. She wasn’t a Curtis. She was a Lennox. My Lennox. My name. My leg started the nerve shake when Doc came out to see me with ripped up pieces of the magazine and a scowl on my face.
“Good Morning, Johnny,” he said as he took in my disheveled look.
“Morning, Doc,” I answered numbly as I pulled myself up from the chair and threw the magazine down on the table. I put the ripped photo of Jules in her wedding dress in my pocket and breezed past him to go find the chaise lounge that I had fallen asleep on countless times. Today, I was too fucking pissed to even imagine sleeping. I probably wouldn’t sleep for days after knowing that my girl was officially married. Happily married. I was so fucked.
To be continued…