“I’m right here,” I reply with a slam to my heart, my fist clutching my chest, my eyes beginning to blur.
She shakes her head while tears continue to fall down her face. “No, you’re not.” She pivots her body and reaches behind herself for her suitcase, raising the extendable handle, rolling it a couple of inches toward her, getting ready to leave. “And that’s why I have to leave. I needed my husband. I needed you, but right now, the only similarity between you and my husband is that you look alike.”
She walks toward the front door with the suitcase in tow.
“Mia.” I tremble, but she continues walking until she’s at the front door.
Harley is at her feet, looking up at Mia with puppy-dog eyes, almost like he can sense she is about to leave forever. She glances down at him, bends her knees, and ruffles his fur a bit. She takes one final look at me before reaching for her purse on a hook and opens the door.
“Good-bye, Tyler.”
She walks out, closing the door behind her, and I’m left on the spot, staring into the space she just left, while Harley whimpers, waiting for her to return.
When the seconds tick by and I realize she isn’t coming back, anger and pain like nothing I’ve ever experienced soar through my veins, and before I know it, my fist is rearing toward the wall. I grunt out in pain, wincing as several bones crack at the impact.
“Motherfucker,” I growl before taking my wrath out on the wall by punching it again. I feel my heart bleed out from my chest, and I struggle to take a steady breath.
After several more punches, I finally relent and drop my defeated body to the floor, looking down at my bloody hand with tears pooling in my eyes, while Harley comes racing up the stairs to stand by my side, whimpering with worry.
I must have read the back of this whiskey bottle a million times, yet not a single word makes sense, especially since the more I drink, the more the words look like fucking Klingon than English. In fact, I’m so drunk that I can barely feel my tongue. Or my legs. Or my arms.
Fuck, I can’t feel a thing.
But that doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.
Three hours ago, the woman who’d promised me a lifetime of love, promised me till death do us part, promised me forever walked out on me.
She left me.
And, like a motherfucking idiot, I let her go.
Now, I’m sprawled out at the bottom of the stairs that face the front door with a half-empty bottle of Jameson in my hand—or half-full, depending on your philosophy—rereading the label, as I wait for her to walk back through the door while our dog, Harley, lies beside me with his head on my lap, staring up at me with puppy-dog eyes.
With every sip I take, I come to the realization that she’s not coming back, and when the realization sinks in, I take another sip, creating a no-win effect, but hell, if it isn’t making me drunk as a fucking skunk. Being drunk equals not being able to feel the pain, which I’m thankful for since, hours earlier, I felt as if she’d stabbed me in the heart with one of her red stiletto heels, the pain intensity like a cardiac arrest.
My cock stirs within my pants at the thought of her petite feet in a pair of stiletto heels, defining her sexy legs in a way that would make me hard in an instant. I especially like the peep-toe heels that would give me a hint of the red nail polish on her toes. She loves red, and oh, how she liked to tease me with that color.
Red lingerie.
Red lipstick.
Red lipstick on my dick.
Now, the only red I’m seeing is the blood dripping down my hand after a fight with the wall—and, of course, the wall won.
Fuck.
I clumsily raise the bottle of whiskey to my lips and take several large gulps the instant the heartache begins to seep back in.
I look back down to Harley, who’s still giving me sad eyes.
“I don’t know why you look so glum. She left me, not you. I’d offer you some whiskey, but I’d be a pretty bad doggy parent if I did.” The word parent triggers a jolt of pain to my chest, and without a moment’s thought, I throw back some more whiskey, desperate for the ache to dissipate.
And three, two, one…
It’s gone.
Then, suddenly, I start laughing, causing Harley’s ears to perk up at the very sound. “I suppose she did leave you, too. I mean, I brought you home for Mia, yet she has left you behind, too. Now, all I have is you. I won’t leave you, bud,” I slur out before stroking his head.
He licks my arm, and as I go to move, he begins to lick at the bloody wound on my hand.
Music begins to play, and it takes me a few beats to realize it’s my ringtone—The Big Bang Theory theme song. I scramble for the phone, dropping my bottle of whiskey, ignoring the way the whiskey spills to the floor, when all my thoughts go to Mia.
Mia’s calling.
Those words become a chant of some sort as I drag my phone from out of my back pocket before holding it up. I squint through my drunken stupor as I take in the name.
My heart drops when I see the name Ho Jo appear. Then, laughter bubbles from my throat, as I’m amused by the word Ho.
Ho Jo.
“Yo, Ho Jo,” I answer on a drunken giggle before reaching over for my fallen whiskey bottle. I place the bottle on my lips, taking another sip, only to find it empty, apart from the final drop that falls on my tongue.
Damn it, I need another bottle.
Jo is my sister from another mister. I’ve known her since she was five years old. To cut a long story short, she was best friends with my brother, Christopher, and since I was also best friends with my brother, she automatically became my best friend, too. So, we were all best friends together even though he always used to leave me out, so that sucked. Then, years later, he fell in love with her, which was totally gross because, like I said, she was my sister from another mister. Then, he went off to war to save lives, but then he died, and she was all heartbroken…and…
What the fuck was I thinking about again?
“Tyler?”
“That’s my name; don’t wear it out.”
I go to stand but fall back on my ass when I find I’m unable to feel my legs.
Shit, where’ve they gone?
I look down at my denim-covered legs and snicker.
Oh, there they are.
“Tyler, are you okay?”
“I’m great, never been better.” I stare at the now-empty bottle of Jameson before throwing it at the door, enjoying the way it collides against the wood and how the glass turns into smithereens, raining down onto the hardwood floor.
Harley’s up on his feet in an instant, and he rushes off to his crate with his tail tucked between his legs. I suddenly feel bad for scaring him.
“Shit, what was that?” Jo asks with alarm in her voice.
“That, Ho Jo, was the sound of an empty Jameson bottle meeting its tragic end, the same tragic end my heart met earlier today when Mia walked out on me.”
The line goes silent for a split second before she says, “Yes, she called me. Wanted me to check in on you.”
“Well, that’s awfully fucking kind of her,” I say, the words spitefully leaving my lips.
When I feel the tug at my heart, I know I’m still too sober. I want to forget. I want to forget the past three weeks. I want to forget everything. I try to stand for a second time in pursuit of another bottle of whiskey, but my legs fall from under me, and I land with a thump.
“Umph. Fuck,” I mutter, leaning my head against the banister just as Harley peeks his head around the door of the living room before walking back toward me.
“Are you drunk?”
“Drunk as a motherfucker,” I say with a gangster snarl, my head lolling to the side.
Fuck, I’m so wasted.
Harley’s nose goes straight to the spilled whiskey on the floor, but immediately, he turns his back to it after a single sniff. I cackle, ignoring what Jo is telling me on the phone.
“Dude, how can you turn your nose up at my wh
iskey when your life mission is to sniff bitches’ piss and eat cat shit? You’re fucking weird.”
“Who in the hell are you talking to?” comes a voice through the phone, confusing the fuck out of me.
Huh?
Oh, yeah…Jo. Jo’s on the phone.
“Ho Jo, Jo Ho…Ho Ho Jo…” I singsong.
I can hear the annoyance in her voice from her simple sigh.
“Call me Ho Jo one more time, and my fist will be coming through the phone.”
“Oh, touché.”
“Tyler, how much have you had to drink?” she asks with an impatient sigh.
“I don’t know. A lot,” I say, slouching further to the floor.
“Getting drunk isn’t the answer.”
“Fuck you,” I defensively slur out before giggling drunkenly. “The answer is drink…and drink is the answer.”
“You’re not making any sense. I’m calling your mom before you choke on your vomit.”
“No!” I shout out, immediately sobering up at the mention of my mom.
Even though I’m a grown-ass man, she’d kick my ass if she saw me like this—a drunken mess. I remember having my butt whooped throughout many of my younger years because of drink-related instances, like sneaking out of the house and returning hours later, three sheets to the wind.
The line goes quiet, and the silence triggers my emotional switch. Instead of feeling wasted, the whiskey weighs heavy on my heart…and my stomach.
“She left me,” I say, barely above a whisper, before repeating the words again, much louder this time, “She. Left. Me.” I slam my eyes closed when I feel them begin to leak.
Fucking tears.
“My baby left me. My wife left me…and now, all I have left in my life is my dog.”
Harley resumes his position between my thighs, laying his face against my lap, obviously sensing my heartbreak, and I feed my fingers through his shaggy hair.
“My dog and this big-ass house. I was going to fill it with kids, you know? Hundreds of them. But that’s not going to happen now. She walked away ’cause I’m a pussy. God, how am I supposed to live without her? She’s everything, my everything. I can’t breathe, Jo. I can’t fucking breathe. It hurts. My heart…it really fucking hurts.”
The water I felt beginning to leak from eyes suddenly bursts from me like a friggin’ tsunami, and it takes everything to stop me from choking to death on my whiskey tears—because, let’s face it, every ounce of my bodily fluid is drowning in whiskey. My heart breaks all over again, and I wonder if this feeling is irreversible. The feeling of everything crashing down on me, of my life ending before it barely began.
I cry like a motherfucking baby with snot running down my face and my chest heaving with racking sobs, feeling as if my soul is trying to purge itself from my body, but then the tears eventually subside. My heavy breathing returns to normal, but the pain in my chest stays centered in the core of my heart—a constant reminder of the nightmare that is my life.
“What do I do?” I ask Jo.
If there’s anyone who can bounce back from a tragedy, it’s her. She’s known heartbreak like no other—an inhuman, down-to-the-last-thread kind of pain. To make things worse, she almost lost the second love of her life. Drew was in a motorcycle accident last month. If he hadn’t made it, I don’t think she would have survived a loss like that, not again. Thankfully, he survived. He’s banged up with broken ribs and a badly broken leg, but he’s recovering.
Jo breathes heavily down the phone, and I brace for what I know I need to hear because wallowing in whiskey doesn’t seem to be cutting it.
“You need to sober up, get some sleep…and give her some space.”
Okay…well, that’s not what I was expecting her to say. I was expecting some rub-some-dirt-in-it kind of metaphors. She’s a bitch like that.
“Give her space? Is that all the advice you’ve got for me? Jeez, since when did you get all soft?”
“Shut up. I wasn’t finished, dickweed,” she snaps.
I slam my lips shut, doing a lips-sealed motion with my fingers.
“You give her the space she needs, the space she deserves, and then you go in for the kill. You fight for your wife; you fight like you’re a badass Prince Charming.”
I groan out loud. “Do I have to be Prince Charming? Can’t I be a badass superhero instead? Prince Charming is a pussy.”
“Jesus.” She chuckles.
I scrunch my face up with confusion.
Why is she laughing?
“You can be whoever you want—Superman, Batman, friggin’ Catwoman for all I care. Just make sure you don’t let her slip through your fingers. She’s the best thing to ever happen to you.”
“She really is. She’s perfect. I don’t even know what she saw in me, the lame loser who’s watched every episode of Star Trek.”
She laughs again. “Right now, I’ve no idea why she married your stupid ass, especially since you have watched every episode of Star Trek, but miraculously, she saw something no one else could see.”
I hear the mocking tone in her voice, but my mind is swimming with so much whiskey, I find it hard to concentrate, especially since my eyes feel so sleepy, so it goes straight over my head.
“You’re boring me now. I’m gonna pass out. Laters,” I say before abruptly hanging up and deliberately dropping the phone to the floor like I’m Kanye West or some shit.
I rest my head against the banister, but as I close my eyes, all I can see is Mia’s beautiful face. Without a cautious thought, I grab my phone and ask the male Siri to call her, which I have to do three times since he isn’t smart enough to understand my drunken slurs.
What a prick.
The phone rings until her voice mail picks up.
The words are spitting out of my mouth, even before the beep. “Yes, before you ask, I’m drunk, so drunk that I can’t even stand. So, I’m here, at the bottom of our stairs, wasted on that bottle of Jameson you bought me for my birthday, trying to get rid of the pain I feel in my chest every time I think of you—which, FYI, is every second. I love you. I love you like a fat kid loves cake, like Jay Z loves Beyoncé, like Beckham loves Baby Spice—oh, wait, Sporty Spice. Oh, fuck, I can’t remember which Spice Girl he’s married to. But, my point is, I love you. I know you’re hurting, I know how much your heart is breaking, as mine is breaking right along with yours, and if it’s space you want, you’ve got it. But don’t think for one minute that I’m not gonna fight for you because I am. I’m gonna fight for you until you’re back in my arms, where you belong. You’re mine, Mia. Mine. And don’t you fucking forget it.”
I hang up, feeling smug with myself, but within seconds, I lose all focus and close my eyes, allowing sleep to envelop me.
Two Months Later
Tyler
My phone vibrates from beside me as I type the final word on my article titled “A New Season Start for the Cowboys.” I’m a senior sports journalist for the Dallas News, SportsDay.
Sports has been in my blood since the moment I held my first football at the age of four, and once upon a time, I dreamed of being an NFL star for the Cowboys. But, of course, I injured my knee the first year in college, so instead, I write about them. I don’t hear a crowd of 92,000 people screaming my name, but my articles receive over a million views a day, so I can’t really complain.
I press Save on my Word document before picking up my phone and seeing a text from my buddy Matt.
Matt is an old friend from high school, and thanks to him and his wife, Alex, I met Mia four years ago. Alex and Mia had known each other from their college days where they worked together at Hooters. I was pretty stoked to find out Mia was a Hooters girl. And, no, I didn’t go there because of the chicks, just the hot wings. Okay, maybe a little for the chicks.
Matt: Dude, just checking that you’re still coming tonight?
He’s talking about the surprise birthday party he’s throwing for Alex’s thirtieth. And, hell yes, I’m going. I’ve been planni
ng for tonight for two months.
Me: Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Does Mia still think I can’t make it?
While I wait for a response, I go over my article before sending it off to be proofed by one of our team editors.
His next text comes through.
Matt: Yes, she thinks you’re going on a date with some smoking-hot chick.
My eyes bug out of my sockets. Please tell me he’s fucking kidding me. Today is the first day I will be seeing my wife in two months, and I’ll have zero chance of winning her over if she thinks I’m with someone else. Fuck my life.
Me: You’d better be fucking joking, man.
Matt: Yes, I’m joking. Be here at 7:15.
Me: Yes, sir.
I took Jo’s advice, and I’ve been giving Mia the space I know she needs. My life during the past two months has been pure hell without her, and I miss her like fuck. I feel like I’ve lost a limb, a vital part of me, but tonight, this will all change. I don’t give a shit if she still needs distance. My patience is shot, and she’s run out of time.
As of tonight, I will fight.
I’ll fight for what’s rightfully mine.
Jo’s been the perfect wingman—or shall I say, wingwoman. She’s been helping me keep tabs on Mia. Not in a creepy-stalker kind of way, but just feeding me bits of information here and there, mostly just to keep me from losing my goddamn mind.
Until just a few weeks ago, Mia was staying with her parents, but much to my dismay, she moved into an apartment. I hate how final that sounds. Living with her parents was only temporary, but living in her own place, that is a whole different ball game. I won’t let that roadblock get in the way of winning my wife back.
Jo mentioned that Mia had been seeing a therapist to help her through the depression. Part of me is happy that she is seeking help, but the other part of me is hurt that I can’t be there to support her. She is suffering alone, but I brought it all on myself.
When she needed me the most, I wasn’t there for her, and somewhere during those three weeks following the miscarriage, I checked out of the marriage. I was there in body but not in mind. I don’t even know how we got to that place in our lives. One minute, we were still in the honeymoon stage of our marriage, happy and content, and then the next, a dark cloud hovered over us like a soul-sucking Dementor, taking us away from our blissful little bubble. It wasn’t until she walked away from me that I realized I’d fucked up. I wasn’t the husband she’d married, all because I didn’t know how to handle my emotions.
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