Page 46 of Being Lost

One minute, I thought I was persuading Patsy to stay. She’d been unable to hide her arousal at the dirty talk I threw at her when I hadn’t held back exactly what I’d do to her if I had her in my bed. Her expressive eyes had showed almost every thought. When at first I’d heard I’d only be the second man to ever have her, I was going to make sure I’d be her last. It was on my lips to beg her to give us a chance, to stay in San Diego.

Then she had to tell me about that asshole of an ex. He was evil, twisted.Iknow that. Yet the way she was describing her marriage, particularly the end of it, pushed every button I had.

Patsy’s not Kim.

But she’d sounded like her. She’d even admitted she’d kicked a man who was down.

She’d made it sound as though Phil Foster had been like me, oblivious to how his marriage actually was. When he’d needed support, he’d been offered none either.

A woman doesn’t make a man good, her absence doesn’t make a man bad.

But it can destroy him.

I gave my all to Kim and our marriage. We didn’t have kids, thank fuck for that, but we had a nice house, we weren’t hard up. I was the man who brought flowers home for no reason other than to see a smile on her face. I was the man who never left the toilet seat up, always looking to her comfort and happiness. Looking back, I was the one trying.

It hadn’t mattered. Kim’s lips curving up was the only thanks I needed.

Expected to be late home for dinner? I’d arrange to bring takeout back or surprise her by booking a table at her favourite restaurant even if I was exhausted from a long working day, tired from building up my business and looking after the livelihoods of those depending on me for their wages.

A party out with her friends? I’d never missed those, even though they were tedious, and I found it hard to talk to some of her acquaintances, finding them pretentious. It made her happy and that was all I wanted.

I supported her when she got bored with her job, quit it, and took time to find what she really wanted to do with her life. Charity work? Well, I worked harder to make up for us losing her wages.

New bed? New couch? New curtains for the house? Again, I just put more hours in. I fucking loved that woman. Why else did I exist other than to ensure her contentment?

Until I fucked up. Until I needed her support. Until I needed her to be my rock. When I looked for understanding, I got blame. When I asked her for help, she refused me.

It was then I found out what she truly thought of me. I’d been her mistake; she should never have married me. I could never give her what she would want, even if she gave me time to get back on my feet. Asking her to get a paying job to help out? I had to have been kidding.

I fought, God, how I’d fought for the marriage I thought we’d had, only to find it had all been smoke and mirrors.

I’d fought for my business, fought to keep our home. The last straw came when we lost the house, that’s when I lost her as well. And, of course, I lost my last available money. Her comfort had to be assured, didn’t it, her lawyers had asked me. I think the colloquial saying is that she took me to the cleaners, but I didn’t resent her. Not then. She blamed me and she was right. I’d fucked up her life.

I gave her everything I had left.

I had nothing.

I was standing, one hand on the seat of my motorcycle, the last thing I owned apart from the clothes on my back. The car had gone with my wife, but not the bike she tried to make me sell. Something in me made me hang on to it.

Automatically I turned out my pockets.

A wallet, empty of bills, a few odd coins, and bits of plastic which would no longer be accepted, a few receipts and a pen.

I could write a will.

I glanced at my bike. On autopilot, I’d removed the key, on impulse, I’d put it back in the ignition, mentally wishing whoever found it good luck, and that they’d get some enjoyment out of it.

I patted the seat. I’d had some good times on this bike, times when I just needed to ride and clear my head. Now though, symbolically, and just like me, the tank was virtually empty.

“Goodbye, old friend,” I whispered quietly.

Double tapping the seat once again, I turned and started to make my way down the beach.

It was a good day for surfing, high breakers were rolling in. Further up where a lifeguard patrolled, the beach looked busy. But not right here. I’d chosen this spot carefully.

My boots left an imprint in the sand, idly my brain wondered how long this last vestige of me would remain.

The sound from the breaking waves was loud, crashing and roaring as they landed on the seashore and then receded as though trying to drag the beach into the water. It was a beautiful day, the sun glinting off the blue ocean, sparkling like stars at night. The wind though, that whipped up sand.

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