Page 97 of My Brother's Best Men
Bad decision, apparently.
I barely make it into the room before the revenge of the airport burrito hits me. I groan as I empty the contents of my stomach into the polished, shiny toilet.
Maybe I should note that in my article, since I’m doing a piece on this hotel.
The penthouse suite is gorgeous and kind of reminds me of Paradise.
As I think it, I try to repress the thought. I don’t want to think about Paradise. About how perfect everything was and then how I lost it.
My phone chimes with a familiar sound as I lean my head against the toilet. I debate answering it, like I always do.
Because I know who it is.
He’s been texting me for a few weeks now. I never respond, though I know he can see that I’ve read his texts.
I pick up my phone and swipe.
No new texts inTheThree Musketeerschat.
But two new messages in the Matthew thread.
One is a selfie of him with a hot dog at an event with Benny in the background.
Talked the boss into throwing a picnic.
Boss. Apparently Benny hired Matthew to work in his tattoo shop recently, or so Matthew says.
I scroll through his text thread, even though I know I shouldn’t.
I re-read all thehow are you doing?andupdateposts he sends. I stare at all the pictures he sends me of him and the guys. Pictures I’m sure they don’t know he’s sending me.
Pictures of Benny perched over customers, focused on his work. His tattooed biceps flexing at me.
And then I rememberhisvoicemails. The ones I can’t bring myself to delete, even though I know I should.
The ones where he’s drunk, telling me he loves me.
The ones where he’s drunk, begging me to come back.
A part of me wants to believe those words are true. Wants to believe that he still wants me. And the other part refuses to delete them because even drunk…I miss his voice. I miss his bitterness. I miss the way he’d lean into my ear and whisper dirty things. The way he’d snap and bite at me only to break me and hold me after.
I think about them all the time.
Matty, Benny, and Elijah.
Elijah hasn’t called to leave drunk voicemails, and he certainly hasn’t texted me updates like my phone is a social media page.
But I guess I understand. It’s not our first breakup. It’s just the first one where I feel the cracks and the true omission of his presence.
Before, when I left the first time…I thought I knew what it was like to feel that void, but I didn’t. Becausethisvoid is so much more prominent.
I grasp my shell necklace, the one he bought me that I can’t seem to take off. I rub the shell as another wave of nausea hits me and I set the phone down in lieu of throwing up again.
Ugh.
No more airport burritos for sure.
I lie on the cold floor, hoping this will pass soon enough so I can get unpacked. As I wait for my stomach to settle, I scroll through Matthew’s photos.
