Page 73 of Wild for You
Every time I settle my brain down on one thought, a new wave of confusion starts to ruminate.
I miss Gwen so fucking much my heart actually aches, but I need to get to a better headspace before I let her see me like this. I asked Sam and Benjamin to make sure she didn’t find out just yet. I know it seems selfish, but I want to get my shit together, so I won’t be so broken when I see her. So she won’t feel sorry for me.
I drain the rest of my beer and slam it down on the coffee table, startling Sam.
“You okay, dude?”
“Yeah, I just—” I hang my head and sigh as I try to pull myself back up on the crutches. “I just need another beer.”
“I got you. I’ve got the perfect snack just for this occasion,” Sam says, getting up before I can protest. I really do hate the pity I see in his eyes. It’s probably why he’s been such a dick.
My head starts to spin as the warm buzz washes over my frazzled nerves. It gives me a new sense of determination, and when my bladder screams from all the beer, I attempt to make it the few short feet across the hall to the bathroom.
My arms and leg are wobblier than ideal, but I manage to make it down the hallway and relieve myself before Sam’s finished preparing our snacks in the kitchen.
I’m almost back to my spot on the couch when I check my phone for the hundredth time.
Still nothing.
I check the time, and even with the time difference, she’d surely have landed in Chicago by now.
“Dude, are you sure this is Gwen’s number, and you’re not just fucking with me? Because that’s fucked up, man. I know I threw the coffee in your face, but I’m going through a lot right now, and—” The phone buzzes in my hand, and I toss it in the air in surprise. It falls to the ground.
“Fuck!” I scream as I look at the phone lying face down on the tile floor. I balance myself on the crutches, wishing I had X-Men superpowers so I could pick the phone up with my mind … But, alas, I am a mere human and have no such luck. The crutches dig into my armpits as I try to maneuver myself down, a physical reminder of just how weak of a human I am. I can’t even pick up a phone off the floor by myself, for Christ’s sake, and the phone lays there taunting me.
I grit my teeth and steady myself as I attempt to lower myself in a pistol squat. There was a prior version of me who could do this with ease, but that was before I lost thirty pounds of muscle mass … and almost died of an infection.
Slowly but surely, I sink down until I’m in a one-footed squat and grab the phone. I click it on and see Gwen’s name with a new text message.
Gwen: Of course, this changes things. I need some time to figure out what I want.
My heart drops to my stomach as a wave of nausea rips through me. I read the text again, trying to understand what she means—if she’s saying what I think she’s saying.
“Hey, man, I hope you like your nachos spicy because—” Sam’s voice stops short when he sees me on the floor.
“Whoa, dude, what’s going on? Did you hurt yourself?” Sam rushes to help me, but I wave him away.
I stare at the screen, blinking, and sigh. I guess Maggie told her … I close my eyes and sink lower until I’m sitting on the ground as a fresh wave of tears falls down my cheeks.
“Gwen finally answered me,” I sigh. “I just need a minute to think.”
“Oh shit, I’m sorry, man. I guess you two weren’t on the same page about things after all?”
I look at him, confusion pulling at my eyebrows. “What are you talking about? You knew about this?”
He shrugs. “I told you I didn’t want to be in the middle of your business, but you need to respect her wishes, dude. This isn’t just about you.”
Why would I want to be with someone who left me when things got hard? As if I can fucking help what happened to me out there. I guess this is my penance for being so horrible at my job that I couldn’t even save us. I type out a response.
Jack: Take all the time you need because I’m out.
I squeeze the phone, then send it flying across the room.
“Why don’t I trade these beers for some tequila?” He spins on his heel before I can answer.
Is the solution to my shattered heart and bruised ego at the bottom of a tequila bottle? I guess we’re about to find out.
* * *
