Page 62 of Screwed (Dad Bod Contracting 4)
I shrug. “No clue.”
He rummages his pants pockets until he finds his phone, peers at it. “Four? Does that say four?” He shoves the phone toward me. “I’m too drunk to read it.”
I glance at it. “Four twenty-three a.m.”
He nods, drops the phone on the floor between us. “Six years, eight hours, and five minutes.” He pauses. “Renée died six years ago at eight eighteen p.m.”
I flinch. “I see.”
His eyes go to me, lucid and sharp, despite his inebriation. “You see.”
I nod. “I see.”
He shakes his head. “No, you don’t see. You don’t see a goddamm fucking thing.” He sounds…angry.
“What don’t I see?”
He drinks more water. “Doc Rich said I have to let her go. I don’t want to let her go. She was my fucking wife. My best friend. How do I let her go? Doc Rich—stupid Doc Rich. He said letting go of her doesn’t mean forget her. Just let go. Stop holding on to her memory. But then what? Then what? He doesn’t fucking know, the dumbfuck. Let her go, he says. But how? Doesn’t fucking know that either.” He twists his head to look at me. “It’s your fucking fault.”
I flinch. “What? What’s my fault?”
“I was content being miserable, damn you. I was happily miserable. Lonely old fuck, and fine with it, that was me. And then you. Then you came along, with your fucking beautiful hair and your fucking beautiful face.” His eyes fix on me, on said hair, said face…and then rake downward, and I remember I went to bed like usual: T-shirt and underwear, and nothing else. “You, and your fucking hair like fire, like the sunlight on brand new copper. Like the flame from a welding torch reflected off a piece of copper. Your eyes like…fuck, I don’t know. Like the sky, like sapphires. You, and your…your fucking body. Those big perfect tits, and that big round tight perfect ass. Fucking…fucking abs, and fucking hips like a church bell. You’re fucking perfect, goddammit, and you made me just miserable. You made me realize that I wasn’t happily miserable or fucking—fucking content, or any of that bullshit. I was just lonely and I’d accepted it as my life. And then you. Goddamn you. You made me want you. You made me fucking need you.”
I’ve never heard him talk like this—or this much, or with this much vulgarity. It’s shocking, scary, and painful.
“James, I—” My throat is tight.
I know he’s drunk, but he’s not incoherent; he’s talking the kind of truth that often only come out when the filters have been washed away like they are right now.
He cuts in as if I hadn’t spoken. “She’s dead, goddammit.”
“I know, James,” I whisper.
“I loved her so fucking much.”
“I know that, too.”
He swallows hard, and I see moonlight glinting off the tears I don’t think he’s aware he’s shedding. “She made me promise I wouldn’t be alone. ‘Swear to me, James,’ she said. ‘You’re not built to be alone. Find someone.’” Tears flow. He doesn’t wipe them away. “Find someone. And I promised her.” He tips his head backward. “I found someone, but now I don’t know how to—how to do it.”
“James—”
“I’ve been seeing a therapist. Dr. Richard. He makes me talk about things. Talk, talk, talk. How I felt inadequate, sometimes. Like I wasn’t a good enough husband or father. How I loved Renée, but sometimes—sometimes I did think about what she would look like with…more. You know? I wouldn’t have ever wanted her to change. I loved her as she was—I fucking loved her. Loved her—loved the actual shit out of that woman. And I felt guilty about that—about sometimes thinking about what she would look like with bigger tits, more of an ass. And I’d be like, I’m such a fucking asshole. Because I didn’t care. I really didn’t. Not just didn’t care—I loved the way she was built. I loved her tiny tits and boy hips and her bony little butt. And then you came along. And you’re like, a wet dream come true, and all that guilt, plus so much more guilt on top. All the guilt. And Doc Rich says I have to forgive me—I have to forgive myself. I loved her, he said. I loved her, and I lost her and I’m here and she’s not, and I’m allowed to love again. Loving again doesn’t mean I never loved her. It doesn’t mean I’m replacing her. Forgetting her. But it feels like it.”
My throat is so tight. Hot and thick, filled with a lump I can’t swallow. I don’t know what I’d say even if I could talk right now.
He shakes his head, scrubs at his face with the back of his wrist. “Dammit. Crying like a little bitch. But I don’t care.” He looks at me with a tear-tracked face. “Do you care?”
