Page 34 of Broken Halo
10
I Hated Myself More
Sometimes when life’s miserable, the only way to find the root is to look in the mirror.
Trig
I moved to California after getting accepted to Stanford where I majored in pre-law. There, I wasn’t Trig Barrett, descendent of a long line of thieving, drug-dealing, meth-cooking lowlifes.
I was dirt poor and worked every job I could when I wasn’t studying to claw my way out. The year after I moved was one of the hardest of my life because none of it was what I had planned. By the time spring rolled around, I should’ve been married, had a kid, and been fucking happy.
Instead, I studied all day, worked all night, and did my best to fuck Ellie Montgomery out of my system.
It didn’t work and it made me more miserable, so I stopped.
I don’t even know how it started, but a couple years ago I actually had a woman in my life for more than one night. It lasted three months and it wasn’t horrible. Not until she started talking about marriage and babies and life.
I was out.
That’s when I decided everyone wants more, and since more sounded like hell to me, I put a stop to anything that resembled a second date.
Ellie was married by then and living in Manhattan. I knew this not only because my mother persisted in tormenting me with updates of the ghost of the teenager that haunted every recess of my heart, but during a weak moment, after too much to drink on some random March ninth, I fell victim to the crushing beast called curiosity.
I googled her.
I read about her career on Broadway. Her marriage to a businessman who was the son of socialites from Connecticut. Their move back to Texas. I pulled up picture after picture of her while drinking my way to the bottom of a bottle of Pappy. I woke up the next morning, drooling on my MacBook with a headache that measured over eight-point-two on the Richter scale.
I hated her. But I hated myself more.
By that time, I’d fought my way to the top of my practice and was billing enough a year to make six figures times five. I was no wealthy oil man who got rich off his family’s land, but I was living large amongst the normal people. I didn’t look like someone who grew up on a compound from hell, littered with more junk than trees. I had the expensive bourbon collection to prove it.
I was still fucking miserable, but money makes things less miserable, especially when you’ve never had it before and you worked your ass off to get it.
My mom getting sick changed everything. I moved back for her but now she’s dead so it was all for nothing.
Now I’m back in Texas, working for Montgomery Industries, and the one woman I’ve done everything possible to eradicate from my life, my head, and my fucking soul is being thrown in my face daily. She broke me years ago. It pisses me off that I still feel like some pathetic middle schooler who got dumped in the cafeteria in front of the whole school.
Who the fuck am I?
To top off the drama, Jen basically rocked my world, informing me the past wasn’t what it seems but refused to say more, leaving me hanging.
Short of shaking it out of her, Ellie won’t tell me. Hell, she’ll hardly speak to me. I can’t blame her, but it still pisses me off.
This shit has been brewing inside me for three days and I’ve done everything short of barging through Ellie’s door and starting World War III.
I’ve tried to call her every morning—as her attorney, not some fucked-in-the-head past lover, because that would be lame—but she sends them all to voicemail. I’ve resorted to texting, and just like the woman she always used to be, she’s got a spine of steel and I can’t get her to bend.
Me: Your court date is set.
Ellie: I fucking know.
Me: We should go over everything before your hearing.
Ellie: No fucking chance.
Me: I have an idea. Maybe you could answer just one of my calls so I can do my job.
Ellie: I’m fucking busy.
