Page 49 of Last Love

I get it.

She’s…busy.

But…too busy to even shoot me back a “hi you”?

Kara continues to ramble despite the fact someone new is in the front of the room explaining their tragedies. “How was I supposed to know there wouldn’t be anything non-alcoholic at the shindig?”

I turn my head to give her a sarcastic look.

“Oh, shut up, Collins,” she hisses at the same time she folds her arms firmly against her chest. “They should’ve at least had fucking mixers.”

The grunted chuckle out of me is followed by moving the toothpick in my mouth to the other side.

Turns out even with my favorite drug back in my life, the craving for the ones I used to replace her haven’t gone away. Days when shit between us is good? Thoughts of any substance that isn’t her or food is non-existence. Days when shit isn’t so fucking smooth? When I feel like I hear her voicemail more than I hear her or when our schedules don’t match because I’ve gotta go piss in a cup or be here? It’s those days that my mouth just constantly waters for a hit of something…fucking…anything…to help chill out my nerves.

Law knows.

I’ve told him.

He encourages me to talk through the shit bothering me.

Then he encourages me to talk to her about the shit.

Which I might if our time wasn’t so fucking limited, which leaves me wanting to use every second of it for us to feel good because I feel shitty all by myself.

The easy solution would be to just fucking move in together, but I know we aren’t ready for that shit.

I’m honestly just thankful she lets me crash at her place at all.

And thankful for the fact I don’t have to spend a fortune in rubbers.

Learning that she’s clean and on the pill, combined with me being able to prove I’m clean – an unexpected bonus to Noah’s health tests – has allowed us to fuck raw dog like rabbits. The fact neither of us have ever fucked without them before simply just adds to that feeling of belonging to one another and only another.

“I was dipping into my son’s college fund,” the man says in a melancholy tone, “behind my wife’s back…”

He continues to speak, but my attention drifts elsewhere.

Thoughts of Pres in a puffy white dress transform into images of her with a round stomach happily carrying our first child. That vision naturally morphs into one of me holding him. Then for some unknown reason, us fighting. And that fighting causes a craving that I evidentially can’t beat. One minute I’m shoving a cigarette in my mouth to help the stress, and the next it’s a blunt. Puffs of smoke from the rolled dose of pacification cloud my mind so thickly that I can’t breathe or see much of anything other than her walking out the door with our son on her hip and a suitcase being dragged with the other hand.

Clapping abruptly begins indicating the end of his tragic tale.

I slowly bang my hands together while struggling to come back to reality.

There’s no fucking way I’m going backwards or that I’d sacrifice her or our family for a few minutes of chemically induced comfort.

That was the old me.

I’m better now.

For me.

For her.

For the unborn children I want us to have together.

Fuck, we’re really not to the point in our relationship where I should bring that topic up.

“Right?” Kara’s voice unexpectedly infiltrates my thoughts right as Jan dismisses everyone for the evening.

Rather than admit I haven’t heard a word she said, I simply stare on.

“Come on, Collins,” she whines, clearly undeterred by the indifference in my expression. “We can totally go listen to live music and not drink or smoke. It’s possible!”

“Possible. Yes? Probable?” Another sarcastic stare slides onto my face. “No.”

“You’re like those Sour Patch candies. You’re so fucking sour, but I know if I suck on you long enough something sweet will come out.”

There’s no stopping my jaw from dropping open.

Kara victoriously laughs, gives her recently neon green tipped hair a ruffle, and rises to her feet. “Totally worth it just for that face.”

The glare she’s given doesn’t seem to register to her.

“We still on for waffles this weekend?”

“Tuesday.”

Aside from being her fucking taxi driver when she makes stupid mistakes, we’ve really only hung out once. She was near the shop area around closing – wouldn’t say why – so we met at the burger truck to eat and bullshit. Normally, it would’ve been my weekly meal with the fam, but Noah went to visit Dad instead, hoping I would agree to go along.

I didn’t.

I also don’t fucking plan to.

Her pout is poorly hidden. “What happened to this weekend?”

“Gotta pick up extra hours on Saturday.”

Because paying rent, bills, and groceries wasn’t draining enough without adding a girlfriend into the mix.

“Ugh, fine,” Kara sighs while slowly backing away. “But don’t fucking flake on me, Collins. We have so much shit to discuss.”

“How many times are we gonna play Kill, Bang, Divorce?”

“Until enough of our answers match.” She playfully sticks her tongue out at me, spins on her heels, and struts away.

She’s not worth watching walk.

Pres is.

And fuck me, when she enters or exits a room, my eyes can’t go anywhere else.

Law’s appearance right on the heels of her disappearance isn’t shocking.

She fucking hates sponsors. Says it’s like having a babysitter or an extra parent, claiming that since she hates the ones she already has, why would she want to add to them? While she doesn’t directly tell me to ditch the one I have, she throws enough fucking shade that I get the message. She blames him for my refusal to get caught up in her fucking bullshit like rich prick parties and techno Tuesday at her favorite underground club when in reality he’s the one encouraging us to be friends.

He’s pushing for me to do more than flip through car mags, workout, and pretend that I’m not slowly becoming obsessed with cooking after binging Kitchen Nightmares and starting Masterchef.

McCoy and Jovi don’t complain.

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