Page 75 of Shattered Dreams
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I always thoughtlove was something you had to earn. Like touchdowns or endorsements or getting people to cheer your name. Work your ass off, do the right shit, and you get rewarded. A loyal woman. A warm bed. Someone who looks at you like you're worth something.
But that's not love. That's just performing.
And the second you stop being perfect—when you fuck up or bleed or act like a regular person instead of some superhero—it all goes away. At least, that's what I thought. That's what I learned growing up.
My dad was gone before I knew what love wasn't supposed to be. Not dead—just gone. He walked out on a Thursday morning when I was five, left a note on the counter next to his coffee mug. Jake was eight. Mom cried for three days straight and then just stopped. We never talked about it after that.
I figured out real quick that feelings were a pain in the ass. Something you shoved down deep where nobody could see them. So I did. Anger, sadness, even the good stuff. All of it got turned into one thing—drive.
I was going to be the best. Get out of this place. Be a star. Make so much money that nobody could leave me.
And I did all that shit.
But nobody teaches you how to stick around when things get hard. How to love someone when it's boring or difficult.
I didn't knowhowto stay. I didn't know how to choose her when I was drowning in attention and my own ego.
Now I'm sitting in this tiny room with some therapist scribbling notes while I try not to lose my shit. Not because she's pissing me off—but because every time I talk, it feels like someone's ripping my skin off.
It's been two weeks since I went home to Mom's. Two weeks of therapy.
"I didn't have any example of how to do this," I say, staring at the ugly carpet. "Love. Marriage. Family shit. My old man bailed, and I thought if I built something perfect enough, I'd never end up like him."
She doesn't say anything; she just lets me keep talking.
"I didn't cheat because I wanted someone else. I cheated because I was bored. So I fucked it up. Like an idiot."
"Why were you bored?"
Shame makes my cheeks flame. This is fucking hard, man. “I don't know,” I answer honestly, feeling like a dickhead.
"And now? Are you entertained?"
I knew this doctor wouldn’t hold back.
I raise an eyebrow at her, and she continues to gaze at me coolly. I bet she’s listened to Ava on that podcast.
“I hate my life; does that answer your question?”
“So what are you doing about it?”
"I don't know if I can fix any of this shit."
She leans forward. "That's not the same as saying you don't want to try."
I laugh, but it sounds like broken glass. "I lost everything. My career's probably over. My reputation's trashed. My daughter can’t even look at me, and Ava won't be in the same room as me."
"So what's left?"
I shift uncomfortably. Then I look at her. "Me, I guess."
It's the first time I've said that and actually meant it.
When I leave, I sit in my truck with the engine off, staring at nothing. The therapy building behind me feels like my old life. But ahead? I don't know what's ahead.
I just know I can't go back to beingthatguy. The one who thinks his fists solve problems and his dick makes him important. The guy who needs everyone to worship him to feel worth a damn. The guy who destroys everything good in his life.
