Page 11 of Ruthless Lullaby

There’s a moment of silence before he responds. “That’s not what this is about.”

“So, you do have someone else.” I feel a surge of anger. Suddenly, I feel like I couldstranglehim. Okay, Maurice may not be the kind of guy who gives me butterflies in the stomach. But for the past two and a half years he was always there for me, he always listened to me and I was so sure we were going to have a great family. A happy life with a house, dogs, cats, and kids… all we have to do is go through with the IVF treatment, have the baby, twins perhaps and…

Nevermind that.

It’s gone.

All gone.

The family we were supposed to have, the kids I dreamed of, have all been swept away with a phone call. Just like that. My heart feels like it's being ripped apart, and an overwhelming sense of rage begins to consume me until I feel like I could explode.

“Who is she?” I ask, surprisingly composed. “Do I know her?”

I hear him sigh. “Honestly, Mindy, it doesn’t even matter. But for what it’s worth, you don’t know her. Goodbye, Mindy.” He cuts the call.

“Maurice!” I cry. “Don’t you dare put the phone down!”

But there’s silence at the other end of the line. He hung up on me. Just like that. I try to call him back a few times, but he doesn’t answer.

It’s over.

Maurice is gone.

He is not my boyfriend anymore.

No IVF.

No baby.

No family.

And no hope.

Nothing.

My mind is in a state of turmoil, my eyes soaked with tears, and my heart feels like it just shattered into a million pieces.

So, to numb the pain, I do the only thing any normal human being can think of: I order a pizza. Not just any pizza, but an extra-large monstrosity, drowning in a sea of gooeycheese and laden with enough toppings to feed a small army. And because my heart is broken and my dreams of a future with Maurice are in tatters, I ask for extra mayonnaise, as a final ‘fuck you’ to the healthy lifestyle I’ve been wanting to start for a pregnancy that will never happen.

But I don't stop there. I order dessert too, a giga-sized cake, all chocolate, sugar, and empty calories. If I’m going to wallow in my misery, I might as well do it in style, right? I want to eat until I can't feel anything anymore, until the ache in my chest is replaced by the dull throb of food coma.

When the doorbell rings half an hour later, I’m ready. I fling open the door, snatch the pizza box from the startled delivery boy, and retreat back into my sanctuary of heartbreak. I open the box and take a big whiff, inhaling the scent of melted cheese and greasy pepperoni. It's like wrapping myself in a warm, cozy blanket of deliciousness that will make me forget my misery.

Then I dive in. I shove slice after slice into my mouth, barely pausing to breathe. I add more mayo, slathering it on with reckless abandon, relishing the way it mingles with the cheese and the meat, creating a flavor explosion that almost makes me forget the pain.

Once the entire pizza is gone, I turn my attention to the cake. It’s a behemoth of chocolate chips and frosting that would make a lesser woman cringe. But I’m no lesser woman, not tonight. Tonight, I’m a woman on a mission, determined to eat my feelings away, until there’s nothing left but a dull, numb void where my heart used to be.

I’m halfway through the cake when I realize I forgot to order a drink. Fuck. I heave myself off the couch, my stomachprotesting the sudden movement, and stumble to the fridge. And there, like a beacon of hope in a sea of despair, is a bottle of champagne. Betty’s champagne.

She’s left for the weekend, so I don’t even hesitate. I grab the bottle, fumbling with the cork until it flies off with a satisfying pop, ricocheting off the walls and disappearing into the depths of my apartment. I don’t bother with a glass. I raise the bottle to my lips and drink deeply, feeling the bubbles burn my throat and the alcohol course through my veins.

As I drink, the champagne works its magic, and the numbness takes hold. I feel the pain starting to recede. It’s still there, lurking in the depths of my soul, but for now, it’s muted, dulled by the alcohol and the enormous amount of food I consumed.

I’ll regret this tomorrow, I know. I’ll wake up with a hangover from hell and a stomach that hates me, but right now, I can’t care less. Right now, all that matters is that I’m not feeling, not thinking, not hurting. And if that means drowning my sorrows in a sea of junk food and expensive champagne, so be it.

I envision the conversation on Monday morning with my boss.

"Excuse me, Mr. Korolev, but I won't be able to come into the office today. Can I work from home?"

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