Page 32 of Over You
It was living in a house with more rooms than I could count and having him say it wasn’t good enough. It was watching him sleep away half the day because he was depressed or hungover or had downed one-too-many sleeping pills. It was Spencer being looked up to and admired for overcoming adversity when his success had him in a death grip. No, actually, it was this: wanting to be with him when I knew it wasn’t good for either of us.
“I just wanted to talk to you,” he breathed. “That’s all.” His eyelids drooped before his head lolled to the side.
The clap from my hands bounced around the tiny bathroom. “Hey. Come on.” I bent over, grabbed his hand, and pulled, but he was too messed up to go anywhere. “You can stay here. Okay?”
He stumbled to his feet and swayed from side to side. One of his shoulders bumped into the wall with a thud. “I don’t think I can get it up now.”
“I didn’t mean stay hereto screw.” With a roll of my eyes, I snagged the trashcan from the floor and guided him down the hallway to my bedroom. “Just go to sleep. And if you get sick, please, for the love of all things, vomit in this.” The garbage can hit the floor with a thud.
“’Kay, Georgia Anne.” He fell to the bed and rolled onto his back.
A vision of him choked on vomit cycled through my mind. My chest seized. “Roll over, Spencer.”
He attempted to swat me away. “I’m fine.”
“No. Roll over in case you puke again.”
I took his shoulders and pushed until he was on his side. Then I grabbed the extra pillow and crammed it behind his back, hoping that would keep him in place.
His chest rose and fell. “I love.” Another deep pant. “You.”
Those words stole my next breath, holding it captive. Spencer’s addiction was drugs, and mine, I was afraid, was him.
13
Spencer
There are certain things a man should never do if he wants his estranged wife to talk to him. He shouldn’t use derogatory terms. He shouldn’t ask her if she’s down to fuck. And he shouldn’t chug a bottle of whiskey, chase it with half a bottle of wine, and then toss his dinner in her bathroom.
Pretty sure I’d done all three the previous night.
Pain shot through my skull like a hollow-tip bullet when I sat up in Georgia’s—yes, I was really in Georgia’s—bed. Clutching my head, I threw my legs over the edge of the mattress, accidentally kicking over the trash can. A white pill bottle sat on the nightstand beside a stack of papers and a handwritten note from Georgia.It’s the British form of Tylenol. You’re welcome. Also, please sign the papers.
I snatched the medicine from the table with a grumble, dumped a few into my palm, then tossed them down the hatch while eyeing the document.
Petition for dissolution of marriage.
Now comes the petitioner, Georgia Hailstorm, by and through her attorneys, Laughtin and Brookes. . .
I grabbed the pen and flipped to the page marked with a fluorescent yellow flag. The tip of the ballpoint pressed against the signature line. It was pathetic of me to hold on to someone who didn’t want me anyway. I started to draw the curve of theS, then stopped.
Because I still loved her.
Because I knew how good wecouldbe together.
Because one day I’d be better. . .
I threw down the pen, stood, and got dressed, swearing under my breath for hopping out of the limo with nothing but the clothes on my back.Ah! And my drugs.But when I shoved my fingers into my pocket, they came back empty. I dropped to my hands and knees and looked under Georgia’s bed, under the bedside table. Nothing aside from my half-dead phone.It must have fallen out when I was stumbling around outside.I punched the mattress, then glanced down at my cell and noticed the eighty-seven missed texts messages and calls.
Ricky: #fuckthelabel???
Ricky: #suckmyass!?!?!?!?!?
Ricky: Where are you!
Ricky: You better be in Glastonbury by tomorrow. If you miss that show, it’s your ass.
Nash: Dude!
