Page 32 of Brutal for It
She’s gone, but she’s everywhere.
And it’s killing me slow.
One night, I sit at the bar long after everyone’s left. The place smells like smoke and spilled beer, and I nurse my fifth glass of Jack.
Tripp slides onto the stool next to me. He doesn’t say anything at first, just sits there, the silence heavy.
Finally, he says, “You gonna let her ghost run you outta your life, outta this club, or you gonna get your shit together?”
I glare at him. “She’s not a ghost.”
“She might as well be,” he says evenly. “You let her walk out without a fight, and now you’re letting her keep walking away on repeat every day you don’t get up and act like yourself.”
That hits harder than any punch.
I slam my glass down and storm out before he can see my face crack.
At home, I open the ring box again.
The diamond catches the light, and for the first time, I don’t see her smile. No, I see her tears. I see her hand pushing it back into mine. I hear her voice: Let me walk out that door.
My chest caves in. I sink to the floor, clutching the box like it’s a lifeline, and I finally let the sobs rip out of me.
Raw, ugly, broken.
I cry until my throat’s raw, until my body aches, until I pass out right there on the kitchen tile with the ring pressed to my heart.
The spiral doesn’t stop.
But now it’s not just anger. It’s grief. Pure, relentless grief.
And no amount of whiskey can drown it. No fight can bleed it out. No ride can shake it loose.
I don’t know how to live without her.
And I don’t know if I want to learn.
Ten
Jami
The hotel smells like bleach trying to cover mold.
The carpet is scratchy, the bed squeaks if I even breathe, and the air conditioner rattles loud enough to drown out my thoughts. Not all of them, though.
Not the ones about Tommy.
Everywhere I turn, he’s there. His laugh. His hands. His voice telling me I’m his home.
And I walked away.
I keep telling myself I had to. That he deserves better. That I can’t drag him through the filth of what I’ve done, what I’ve been. I can’t make him carry me through another relapse.
But every night I curl up on this lumpy mattress, and the silence eats me alive.
Jenni showed up the day after I left.
I’d been sitting in the parking lot with my head on the steering wheel, trying to decide if I had the strength to check in, when her car pulled up. She got out, eyes wild, hair a mess, like she’d driven straight through from home. I climbed out of the car so she didn’t have to lean down to talk to me. She’s my sister and the Hell I’ve put her through, yet, she still shows up for me. She always shows up for me.
