Page 5 of Bona Fide

? Piece of Your Heart — Mayday Parade ?

“I haven’t heard backfrom Reagan,” Emmy frets to my back as I head to the kitchen for my third cup of coffee. “Was Demi that mean to her? Did she mention anything about what happened?”

I clench my jaw, wanting to round on my loyal assistant and tell her to shut the fuck up. That I've thought about the woman who has been plaguing my thoughts for the last four days enough—constantly. The only way I know she’s still alive is through Chase, another fucking guy—one that indeed was real, just not me.

“No,” I deadpan, rounding the corner and into the break room where it’s fully furnished with two fridges, a stove, marble countertops, and a microwave.

“She won’t respond to any of my text messages.”

For the love of hell...

“Then go over there, Em,” I retort with a roll of my tense shoulders. “Go to your HR buddy and ask for her address. I don’t know what you want me to do.”

“You need to have a talk with Demi. She’s your wife.” My hand freezes from grabbing the coffeepot before I slowly—very slowly—turn to face my assistant.

Emmy stands frozen in place with both of her hands covering her mouth. She knows she slipped up, the widened brown eyes portray that emotion quite clearly. It’s a little shocking to me because she’s fully aware of my relationship with Demi—it doesn’t exist.

We don’t talk about it.

Not anymore, anyway.

What’s the point? Other than the fact that I can’t divorce Demi because of the shady shit I’ve done. I dug my own hole, I’ve lived with it for years. But this particular year changed me. For the worse, the better—fuck if I know. All I’m aware of is that there’s a hole in my heart the size of a cannonball, and I can’t fill it up.

Only she can do that.

And Reagan won’t even look at me, let alone allow me to explain why I am where I am. Why I’m still married to the woman who has made my life unbearable to the point where a bullet to the head used to sound better and better each and every day.

“I’m so sorry,” Emmy concedes finally. “Wade...I am. I didn’t mean to...I’m so sorry.” I don’t respond, going back to pouring myself a cup of black coffee and neglecting the sugar packets.

No amount of anything is going to get me through this week. I’m so mentally wrecked about the night of my birthday party that I can barely make it through a conference call or an interview without zoning out and reliving the look on Reagan’s face.

Disgust, hatred, a mild glimmer of sadness. They are burrowed in my skull, and I can’t erase them. I can’t take back what happened between us.

Not that I want to—not all of it anyway.

With Reagan, I’m selfish and misguided. I know it's wrong. I led her down this path of bullshit because I wanted—no, needed an escape.

She was it.

Everything, really. And now we both have to reap the consequences of my actions and lack of smart decision-making. I don’t know which one of us will suffer more—her or I, but I pray to God it’s neither.

Then there was that comment she made to Chase (AKA me) the other night about quitting. I almost shattered the phone in my hand, I squeezed it so hard.

She has every right to want to stay away from me. But even if it's animosity that flicks in her eyes towards me now—I’ll take it over nothing at all. I’m possessed with having her in my life. I’ve admitted it to myself already, and there’s no point in hiding it from my pride. I rely on her too heavily, and I can’t function without something from her in my life.

It’s unhealthy, fucked up. I shouldn’t need another human being so I’m able to do my fucking job—my dream since I was a kid. A fantasy up until now, knowing firsthand that people are liars, manipulators, and worthless.

Oh, wait, that’s me now.

When did I become this? When did I fall off the deep end and submit to becoming like everyone else in this world? I used to pride myself on being somewhat different. Yes, my tactics are fucked, I’ve messed up and did things I shouldn’t have, but I’ve tried to move past it.

As long as my family and wife stayed the hell out of my life, I’m good.

Well, I used to be. Until Reagan Shelton walked into, not my world, but my best friend’s through some dumbass app. But it was me on the other end. I was the one who had the conversations. I’m the man who became enthralled and reliant.

I’m so in over my head that I have no clue where to even start to fix anything.

My office door suddenly bursts open, hitting the coat rack. Emmy stands behind it, eyes wide with excitement.

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