Page 59 of Returning Your Love
“I ignored the red flags. Worked harder to prove my worth rather than paying attention to what Shelly needed from me. Hell.” I huffed an unamused snort. “If that isn’t the definition of failure, I don’t know what is.”
“Youaren’ta failure,” Jamie argued, but I was beyond hearing thoughts other than my own toxic ones loaded with self-hatred.
“You’ll never convince me otherwise, so don’t bother,” I muttered and drank another shot.
We sat quiet for a few minutes while I wallowed in the shit of my existence. The worthlessness of being here. Everything I had managed to fuck up.
“When I tore my ACL, I thought my life was over,” Jamie said, reminding me of the other shitty thing I had in my brain—secret thankfulness for that injury that had brought him home to me.
Jamie could share his pain if he wanted, but no amount of whiskey would make me uncover my feelings over his early return. He’d hate me if he knew I hadn’t been all that upset by the news his career had ended.
“It took months of therapy to get my head set straight. Coming back here made me face parts of my past I’d feared. Regretted.” Jamie released a heavy exhale. “I’m slowly learning we can go on after our hopes get completely crushed.”
Did he think that was what Shelly’s death had done to me?
It had never been my dream to raise a brood of children with her, but I would never admit to that either. It’d simply been what had been expected of supposed high school sweethearts from a small town. I’d chosen second best and had gone along for the ride rather than speaking up about what I yearned for or where I saw my life in fifty years.
Sacrificing my love in believing it would never be returned had been my ruination.
I swigged straight from the bottle, my eyelids closing.
“Have you considered talking to someone, Chaz?”
I shook my head. Hadn’t he heard me when I said I didn’t want to? Guilt upon guilt caused my body to feel heavy, but there was no escaping its weight, and no therapist could ease or erase that shit.
Leaning back, I rested my head against the couch, whiskey bottle in hand between us. Thoughts sloshed around, attempting to wade through the mud in my mind, but the blessed alcohol made them just as intoxicated as I was.
My friend numbness had returned, thank fuck.
“What’s the smile for?” Jamie asked, his voice fuzzy in my ears.
“I’m drunk,” I slurred, not having realized my lips had tipped upward.
“You’d better be for how much you drank.” He pried the bottle from my fingers, but I couldn’t be bothered to care.
I’d gotten where I’d hoped to be, which was well on my way to oblivion, where self-critical and negative reflections couldn’t reach me.
“Remember the first time we tasted whiskey?” he asked.
I did—but didn’t want to reminisce over memories that would do nothing but send me spiraling even deeper into the depression I’d been battling.
“I almost admitted my feelings for you that night,” Jamie said, seemingly determined to discuss us.
Fuck.
My stomach turned over with sudden violence, and I rolled off the couch, intent on crawling back the hallway to the bathroom.
“Shit—Chaz. Hold on.” Jamie grabbed my arms and eased me upright on noodle legs.
“Gonna puke,” I mumbled, hating that he had to hold me when I needed distance.
We stumbled forward, and I lurched toward the bathroom, wishing I could purge myself of emotion as I did the contents of my stomach all over the toilet, wall, and floor.
Minutes or maybe an hour of hacking later, my cheek rested on the toilet seat as I lamented the alcohol gone from my system that meant thoughts and emotions would return sooner than I wanted. But not yet. My vision still swam, the spins keeping me company.
“You ready for me to tuck you in now?” Jamie asked from behind me somewhere.
“She was going to divorce me,” I said without intending to, but Jamie would never know why. I couldn’t stand the idea of him realizing exactly how badly I’d failed her. “That’s why she went to Berlin. Meeting with a lawyer then celebrating her future freedom with Tara in Boston.”
