Page 10 of Love Beyond Repair
Something inside snaps, my eyes burn with anger at the truth being laid out, but Max soldiers on. He’s not being cruel, he’s being honest. And I can’t stand it.
“He’s been with Kelsey since he was a boy; they’re married with children, for fuck’s sake. When will you have more respect for yourself? You need to get fucking real.” He holds his hands up to ward off any argument. Today, my friend isn’t interested in my excuses. “I’m not here to fight, but I am here to tell you, you need to wake up.” He goes to leave, then turns back.
“And Bex,” he says quietly. “It’s actually Saturday today.” With that, he walks away.
Saturday?
Just one word, but it knocks the wind from me. Fucking hell. What happened to Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday? The last thing I remember is getting back from work on Tuesday, cracking open the wine, and drinking myself into oblivion. I’ve never lost days before. Hours, but never days. This is a whole new level of zoning out.
Discarded bottles and takeout containers are all I see when I scan my apartment. I don’t need to look far to know what I’ve been doing. Shaking my head and inwardly hating myself, I do the only thing I know that numbs the pain. I head for the fridge.
***
My head is going to explode.
It’s official.
I’m going to die from an explosion of the brain. Lying in bed, I curse the concoction of alcohol that flowed down my throat last night. After Max left, I sank further. I didn’t care what came next. Right now, stars—no, meteorites—are flying around my skull, crashing into whatever brain cells are left. I keep my eyes screwed shut, terrified of the light. It hurt too much before.
The sun beats through the window onto my face. Obviously, I was too drunk to even close the blinds. Mustering enough courage to open one eye, I snap it shut. Perhaps the other one will be less agonizing. No, it feels like someone stabbing at my eye sockets with a toothpick. Eventually, both eyes open, and the ceiling swirls out of control. My stomach retches.
Another Sunday morning lost to the demon drink. Another weekend ruined. But without a job, what does it matter?
I reach for my bedside water glass, then grimace at the taste of stale vodka instead. Typical. Most people drink to loosen up, to have fun. I drink to quiet the thoughts I don’t want to face. Like how long it’s been since I felt wanted. Or how the man I’ve loved for half my life belongs to someone else.
The hangover is mild, but the shame is worse. It always is. Shame doesn’t come with a headache. It settles in and stays. Sometimes I wonder if this is just who I am now. Not a mess. Just… stuck. Living the life I didn’t plan, and losing battles I never dreamed I would fight.
A familiar dread creeps through the alcohol fog.
What happened last night? What did I say? More importantly, what did I do? Did I cry? Did I beg? Did I say things I meant or things I’ll regret?
I grab my phone and immediately open the call history. Three calls to Amy – my poor sister. One of them was ten minutes long. Two calls to Terry, Amy clearly stopped answering, so I switched tack and tried her partner. Then there are ten calls to Ben. Ten individual calls, every one ignored. I pray I didn’t leave a voicemail, or worse, more than one voicemail.
I lie back on my pillow, staring at the ceiling. When I stop, when everything goes quiet, I hear his voice. Ben’s voice. Low. Gentle. Filled with hope, care, and desire. Last weekend felt like traveling back in time to a place where everything was possible, life was fun, and our future was bright.
I recall him leaning in too close, his fingers brushing mine. I remember the silence between us stretching a little too long as we stood in the bar, chatting, laughing, ignoring everyone else around us. Amy shook her head. Kelsey watched me too closely, playing her part as the trophy wife, ensuring anything we did in public view didn’t upset her narrative.
Ben told me Kelsey and him were ending. That the night was for show. They finally called quits on their sham marriage. She told him she was done. That they were finallyadmitting they stayed together for the wrong reasons. Their life was crafted under the pressure of other people’s expectations, and they both regretted it. And I remember leaving.
Not for home, just… outside. Out into the night. Away from what I wanted too badly. The temptation so great that all I wanted to do was grab him and run. I don’t remember him following, but I can feel the echo of it, even now. Which is worse, because it means I said yes without hearing the question. He suggested we make up for lost time. I went along with it without considering the fallout. Understanding that neither of us were in the right place to act on our desires.
The weight of him. The warmth. The ache of all the time we’d missed. It took over. Ben became the most important thing in the room, and nothing else mattered. I remember kissing him like it would fix everything. How he looked at me like it already had. Then nothing. Because he left my home, saying he would call.
He didn’t.
And now, he won’t even answer mine.
My head continues to pound. I need painkillers. Lots and lots of painkillers. Bracing myself, I swing my legs out of bed and sit on the edge. The room spins. Even my regrets make me feel nauseous. There’s no one in my bed but me.
No shouting.
No frantic search for clothes. But my body remembers him like he was here. Because he was here; on Saturday night. In my bed when he shouldn’t have been. We both let it happen, and it wasn’t a mistake. Not then. It was the climax of years of yearning for what we lost. And at the first chance we had, we took it.
But just because we could, doesn’t mean we should have. We only ripped open old wounds that had barely healed in the first place.
I crawl back under the covers and let the alcohol-induced tiredness engulf me as I drift into a restless sleep. Tomorrow, I’ll pretend I don’t remember. But I will. And I always will. Because, even if he forgets what we have, my body won’t. It hasn’t for over a decade.
Chapter six
