Page 122 of The Secret

None of which was a recipe for a happy ever after.

22

Murray

My head throbbed. Banged. Pounded. Hammered. Like my brain was trying to escape from my skull.

If fatherhood had robbed me of anything, it was my ability to hold my alcohol. My hands flew to my temples as I attempted to sit up and reach for the water at the side of my bed, the pain almost unbearable.

Almost.

Because yesterday came flooding back to me in a tidal wave, wiping out any hope of even temporary alcohol amnesia, and nothing was worse than the crushing silence I’d come home to last night.

Thathadbeen unbearable.

Not even the wagging tail of Barclay had been there to greet me.

I’d taken three steps into the hallway, stopped, then promptly turned back around, called the boys, and proceeded to get very,verydrunk.

I twisted the cap and downed the bottle in one, gagging slightly before making a sprint to the bathroom - avoiding the pillows I’d launched across my bedroom in rage because they smelled like her - getting there just in time to hurl a combination of whiskey and bile until my throat was scorched. Sliding to the floor, the ceramic toilet bowl cooled my burning skin as I hugged it for everything my life was worth.

Jesus. It wasn’t even the weekend; it was a goddamn Tuesday morning, although fuck knows what the time was. My only prayer was the markets hadn’t crashed overnight because I was fit for nothing today.

Nothing except wallowing in my own self-pity.

The only thing which could possibly pull me out was seeing my daughter, who thankfully wasn’t coming back until after lunch. I sent out a second prayer that it wasn’t already after lunch, then a third that it had all been a bad dream I was still in.

The room spun as I eased off the floor, only managing to move from there to the long, padded bench underneath the eight-foot-high picture windows overlooking Central Park, then lay down again. It can’t have been that late because the sun hadn’t fully risen above the trees; already the day was far sunnier and chirpier than I knew I’d be feeling for a while.

Without opening my eyes, I patted around the side table to my right, then the shelf behind me before finding the remote control to lower the blinds, shrouding myself in much needed darkness.

A darkness which perfectly suited my current mood.

By the time I felt more human and opened the blinds back up, the sun was fully risen, high in the sky. Moving off the bench to brush my teeth, I saw that I was in desperate need of a shave and a shower, but didn’t have the energy to accomplish both. I compromised and spent the next forty minutes standing under the hot, powerful jets, trying to sweat out my hangover and contemplate my life choices.

Yesterday morning I’d been blissfully happy, happier than I’d possibly ever been. Now… I was propping myself up on the coarse slate tiles, nursing a most certainly bruised and cracked, if not broken, heart, along with my hangover, while ignoring the bare space on my bathroom countertops, which her products had filled this time yesterday. To say I’d felt better would be an understatement of momentous proportions.

Throwing on shorts and a t-shirt and slipping my phone in my pocket without looking at it, I made my way down to the kitchen; the disturbingly empty kitchen, in my disturbingly empty apartment. It even smelled different. Is this what I used to come home to every night? Kit was gone. Bell and Barclay were with my mom, and I was here alone.

Alone like I used to relish, but now it felt like punishment.

Last night I should have come home to Kit, to have a night alone together. We were going to order in, crack open a bottle of champagne, enjoy each other several times and celebrate the start of our new relationship. Instead, I could only hear the echoing of my own thoughts.

There was a pull in my chest so tight it felt like my circulation was being cut off.

She’d asked for space, but from what I’d heard, that meant the beginning of the end. We hadn’t even had a beginning of a beginning.

She wanted to miss me, but I didn’t know what that meant. Did it mean I couldn’t call her? Couldn’t text her? Couldn’t see how she was? Did it mean I had to leave her alone until she’d decided she wanted to see me?

What the fuck was this situation? And what the fuck was I supposed to do?

Not to mention, it wasn’t just me she’d left. She’d left Bell. And Barclay.

What the fuck was that about?

The mood which had eased slightly in the shower was now blackening quicker than the coffee dripping into my mug.

Another twist in my chest tightened it further and I tried not to pay attention, instead focusing on the incessant buzzing of my phone as another message came through. I needed to sit down for this and pulled out a stool at the island, settling in before I dared to glance.

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