Page 123 of Restless Hawke
None of it mattered until I actually met the man with the Caribbean-blue eyes, warm smile, and wicked mouth. Now he’s gone—for good.
And it feels as if a part of me has been ripped away, like those seams Coen tore apart and then expertly mended with his touch, his kiss, his affection, are all unraveling again.
Even venturing out for my favorite bagel and coffee hasn’t done much to improve my mood. Yesterday, I couldn’t even take a bite. But at least I made it out of the condo.
Today, I haven’t even gotten out of bed, and it’s almost noon.
Bone-deep exhaustion has kept me under the covers, head buried beneath a pillow, blocking out the sounds of the vibrant city just outside the windows that let in the offending light.
It’s the only place I can feel anything even remotely resembling peace because I certainly can’t find it when I try to sleep.
All that comes when I close my eyes are memories that only bring pain.
After spending the night in his arms, in his care, being worshiped and consumed by that man, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to sleep again.
That realization, the anger of knowing this agony willneverget better, finally forces me to shove off the covers and slip out of the sheets that I wish smelled like him, like us.
It would be torture, but it would besomethingto cling to.
Anything.
I don’t have anywhere to go. Nowhere to be. Nothing to do except let my anger and despair build as I wander around the condo, aimlessly moving from one room to the other, staring at all the luxurious things that decorate it…
And hating all of it.
I walk over to the stunning handmade Murano glass sculpture shaped like jasmine—my favorite flower. It likely cost a small fortune, and when I first received it, the gift took my breath away and made me feel special and loved. It made me feelseen.
Now, all I see is the ugliness it represents.
It’s evidence of the spiraling of my life that I’ve been trying to stop.
I knock it off the pedestal it sits on.
It falls to the polished tile floor and shatters, but I don’t even flinch at the sound or the shards of green and white glass that scatter across the room.
I relish it because it matches the way I feel.
Shattered.
Splintered.
Torn apart.
Destroyed.
That look on Coen’s face when he realized I continued to lie to him, even though I promised no more games, was enough to break me.
He had every reason to believe nothing had changed over time. Every reason to question my motives and feelings and not to believe a single thing I said to him. But it was too hard to tell him, knowing what it would do to him and to us.
It was selfish to keep the truth hidden so I could have more of him.
But I knew it wouldn’t last forever, it couldn’t, and now I have to deal with the fallout, no matter how painful it might be.
I aimlessly walk over to my television, the only companion I’ve had for days, and yank it off the wall. The massive 100-inch screen crashes onto the floor, cracking with a noise that echoes through the loft space and helps cement the reality that he’s gone in my heart.
You don’t have anyone to blame but yourself…
I move over to the bar, ready to either drown myself in alcohol so I won’t feel the agony anymore or toss the crystal decanters of expensive booze so I can get that moment of satisfaction from watching them shatter.
