Page 67 of Big & Bossy

Weeks of pushed-back dates, weeks of barely hearing from him, weeks of feeling like I’d been placed on the goddamn back burner and forgotten about, left to sizzle and evaporate on my own. I just didn’t have the patience anymore.

I didn’t think about it. I just acted.

Flagging down a waiter, I apologized for the inconvenience and asked for the bill. “You’ll have to pay for the bread,” he said, and I agreed because what else was I supposed to do?

I downed my glass of wine and set the company card down on the receipt, marking down a hefty tip and making a mental note to add it to J.B Tech’s bill. I waited anxiously as they took it, charged me, and thanked me.

And then I left.

I didn’t hold back the angry tears on the drive home. I needed to let them out, needed to feel the way I felt, and needed to rethink everything.

I didn’t bother with taking off my makeup in the bathroom of my empty apartment. I didn’t bother trying to preserve the expensive red dress he’d bought me, didn’t care if I stained it with dripping mascara. No. I wanted a bath, and I wanted a glass of wine, and I wanted to rid him from my thoughts for the evening so I could decide if being with him, going through this again with him, was worth the pain it was causing me.

Too long had passed since he’d said he loved me.

Too long had passed since I’d been able to enjoy his presence.

The faucet spewed hot water into the tub as I stared at myself in the mirror, and took in the train wreck on the outside instead of soothing the one on the inside. I smeared the black from my waterline, leaving streaks in my wake. I wiped the snot from my nose, smearing my foundation and lipstick. I let the burn and the ache fill the back of my throat, quelled it with sip after sip of wine. Poured another glass, and then another.

At nine o’clock, my phone lit up on the counter, just as I’d removed my dress and stared at my naked form in the mirror.

I could see in the reflection who it was. Could see his image and Jackson Pig in reverse.

I ignored it.

With my third glass of wine sitting on the edge of the tub and my phone in my hand, I sunk into the steaming water. My mind rapidly switched over and over between endless, racing thoughts of what am I doing to myself? and utter silence. I stared at the ceiling, letting whatever happened happen, letting myself fall into some of the same thoughts I’d had ten years ago. There wasn’t a part of me that had the energy to fight it.

My phone buzzed once.

I almost didn’t look. I almost let it lie there, ignored, unwanted. But I couldn’t do that, either.

With wet hands, I scrambled for it on the side of the tub, nearly dropping it and my wine into the water below. Jackson’s name wasn’t the one that lit my screen — no, it was Harry.

Harry: Three photos Received.

I flicked it open.

Oh my god.

There, in the blue light of my phone screen, was Harry’s blood-covered face. The first image, one taken straight on, showed a crooked nose and blood smeared across his jawline, his mouth, his teeth. The second image, one taken from below his face and pointing up, showed a massive red patch of skin just to the right of his chin, one that would likely turn into a bruise — and also showed just how badly his nose was broken. And the third image, one of his chest, showed red patches along his slightly misshapen ribcage. Each one had a background that I knew fairly well — the local ER.

I felt sick.

My phone buzzed again, and below the images, a text came through from Harry.

Harry: In case you were wondering why your “fiancé” was late tonight.

Screw feeling sick. I was going to be sick.

I felt the bile rise in my throat as I scrambled from the tub, chucked myself over the side of it, and lifted the lid of the toilet before spewing the few scraps of bread I’d eaten and the glasses of wine I’d guzzled. I wretched, shivering from the water on my skin and the temperature difference.

As if my night couldn’t have gotten worse.

I clicked his name at the top of my messages as I desperately tried to control the acid trying to leave my esophagus and tapped the call button.

He picked up on the first ring. “Hey, Mands.”

“Please tell me you’re okay.” The words came out in a rush, in a choked sob as another wretch hit me.

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