Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106798 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106798 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
“Um …” I close my eyes, feeling oddly at peace with the day’s events. I must say, whisky tastes like horse piss (not speaking from experience), but it makes life seem a little less shitty. Tonight, I give it five stars and a glowing recommendation. “In a hotel room with a leaky faucet but a well-stocked minibar. Where are you?”
“What brings you to Atlanta?”
Why does he get to ask all the questions?
“Oh, you know … the ush … vacation … and my dead mother …”
“Emersyn …” he says with so much pity in his voice.
Doesn’t he know by now that I despise pity? For Christ’s sake, I lived out of my car because I refused to let anyone take pity on me. I would rather choke to death on my pride than feel weak.
“Anyway … I’ll be heading to LA in a day or two. I gather that you’re calling me because your girlfriend…” that word tastes worse than the whisky in my mouth “…must have mentioned I stopped by. I was just in the area. No big deal.”
“Where are you?”
I laugh. “I told you, in a hotel room with a—”
“Emersyn, that’s not what I mean. What hotel? What is your room number?”
“Can’t say. You know … stranger danger and all that. And I haven’t seen or heard from you in a while, so you’re pretty much a stranger to me by this point.”
“Jesus, Emersyn … just tell me where you are.”
Emotion strangles me. Just the sound of his voice manages to rip open the parts of my heart that I’ve been trying to heal for months. I’m not sure there are enough bottles of alcohol in the minibar to numb this kind of pain.
“You know …” I wipe my tears. “You need to send me those papers. Did you get my text? I’m … I’m good. I don’t need your insurance anymore. I’ll manage on my own. If you have them, I could sign them before I go home. And then you would be free.”
“Emersyn …”
“Just … think about it. Okay?” I end the call before he can respond.
I stare at the TV for another hour, not really registering what I’m watching. Baseball, I think. The whisky starts to wear off, and I contemplate moving on to vodka. Instead, I text Zach the hotel address and my room number.
Zach
Since the wedding incident, I've let Emersyn have time to herself and space for clarity. I needed it too.
I did it because I love her.
Does that make me gallant, selfless, stubborn, or just plain stupid? The jury is still out on that.
I’ve thought about calling her a million times.
A text.
A message on her phone at two in the morning.
Even snail mail—anything to appease my need to feel close to her again.
The naked photos were a wake-up call. Her replying with a not-so-subtle reminder that my wife died only solidified what I already knew—I’m the asshole who let things get out of hand. She evokes a storm of emotions inside of me.
Love.
Lust.
Fear.
Hope.
I’ve tried to let her go, but I haven’t. I’ve held on with a piece of paper that says she’s my wife and I am her husband. But it’s just that … a piece of paper.
I am not her husband. She is not my wife.
Every ounce of hope that I have given her, every ounce of hope that I have allowed myself to feel, is nothing more than a subconscious attempt at derailing her future.
She’s too young to lose focus of her dreams, and I’m too old to be selfish by asking her to choose me.
But dear god … oh, how I’ve wanted to be selfish.
Emersyn opens the hotel room door. Her wrinkled shirt, old jeans, and makeup-less face complement the defeated slump of her shoulders.
“Hey,” I say.
It takes me a minute to move, speak, or even breathe, for that matter. “Em …” I step inside and the door clicks shut behind me. Taking two more steps toward her, my arms reach for her waist. “I’m so sorry to hear about your mom.”
Emersyn jumps back, bumping into the TV console like my touch might burn her. Holding up her hands, she shakes her head. “Nope. I’m good. I don’t need a shoulder to cry on or a hug or whatever you think I need. Just the papers. Did you bring the papers?” She escapes to the other side of the room, putting as much distance between us as possible.
“I haven’t had time. Are you in a rush?” I slip my hands into my back pockets. It’s a lie. I’ve had plenty of time.
“It just …” She shakes her head. “It needs to end. Whatever good deed you promised to Suzie or God or whomever … you’ve more than fulfilled it. And it has to be a little awkward to date other people when you’re technically married.”