Page 74 of Shattered Dreams
"No, seriously. What the fuck were you thinking? Ava stood by you through injuries, through the media bullshit, through all your moods and drama. She gave you a daughter who worships the ground you walk on. And you traded that for what? A quick fuck with some girl who's probably already moved on to the next athlete?"
Each word hits hard. Because he's right. He's absolutely fucking right.
"I wasn't thinking," I respond quietly. "That's the problem."
"Damn right you weren't thinking. You were thinking with your dick instead of your brain. And now look where you are."
He shows me to the guest room, and I’m grateful. There are clean sheets and a picture of all of us from some barbecue years ago when everything was good. We're all smiling. I can't remember the last time I felt like that.
The door opens, and my mom appears, her arms outstretched.
“Come here, baby.”
I try to force a smile, but I can’t. I fall into my mom’s arms and tell her I’m okay, even though we both know I’m not.
Look at me. Thirty-two years old and I destroyed the best thing that ever happened to me because I'm a fucking idiot.
"You look tired, baby," she comments.
"I am."
"Are you gonna try to fix it?"
I nod because I can't talk around the tightness in my throat. How do I explain that Ava doesn’t want me?
"Good," she replies and pats my hand like I'm still ten years old. “Because Ava is the best thing to ever happen to you, you foolish idiot.”
Gee, thanks. But she’s right.
“Get some sleep, you hear? Everything is better after a good night's sleep.”
Surprisingly, I sleep like a log, and as always, my mom is right. I feel a hundred times better.
I stay for breakfast, but I can't eat much. Food just sits in my stomach like a rock.
When I leave, I drive straight to the city and book a therapy appointment. I purposefully pick some doctor who doesn't look like she'll put up with my bullshit. I need someone who'll call me on my shit and maybe help me figure out how to not be such a mess.
Back at the hotel, I pull out my phone and stare at it for a long time before I hit record.
Day One.
"I'm Roman Muller," I say to the camera. "I used to have everything. Now I'm sitting in a shitty hotel room trying to figure out how not to be a complete fuck-up anymore."
I pause, looking at my busted hands.
"I don't know what I'm doing. But I'm here. I fucked up by cheating on my beautiful, wonderful wife who I never deserved in the first place."
Click.
That night, I record another video on my phone.
Day Two.
"Still here. Still fucked up. But I'm not running away anymore. I want my wife back, and I’m willing to do anything to get her. So I’m sorry, baby. I’ve said it a thousand times, but it will never be enough. I don’t deserve you, but I’m a selfish fucker who won’t let you go. I want you, fuck—I need you. Please don’t leave me."
I stare at the camera for a second, thinking about how messed up it is that I had to lose everything to come back here. To remember what it feels like when people love you without expecting you to be perfect.
"I don't know what happens next," I say to the phone. "But I'm done letting her walk away. I fucked this up, so I’m going to work to save it."
