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I'm so pissed and sad and just downright sick of this whole messed-up situation, I don't know what to do. There's no solution, I know that much. I've racked my brain trying to come up with something. I've asked the vet gang. Consulted with Gran and Em. I even called up Dunlop and Travis.
Nothing.
No one has got any brilliant ideas to make Col and me work. I can't leave here, he doesn't want to leave New York. That's it. That's all there is to it.
I tap out a message.
Wilby:I'm miserable, and I miss you so fucking much.
My thumb hovers over the send button.
Why am I hesitating?…
Maybe it's because it feels like the longer this goes on, the more any hope I had of being able to make it work fades further and further away.
I've let Col down. I've let myself down. And I've broken a promise. I told him I'd find a way to make this work, and I haven't.
We're so compatible, but our lives aren't. It's as simple—and heartbreaking—as that.
So maybe…maybe I need to finally let Col go? What's the point of holding on like this? Our messages and video calls are only delaying the inevitable final goodbye.
And if it's inevitable, why drag it out? Why not just rip off the Band-Aid, go cold turkey, and face up to the reality of the situation—Col and I are never going to be together.
I delete the message and place my phone on the charger stand by my bed. A few minutes later, small footsteps pad down the hallway. Kolby climbs into bed with me, and the nightlylet's see how many times we can kick Uncle Wilbymatch begins.
33
Col
"Are you hungry?" Dad asks me, poking his head out of the empty fridge in my loft-style apartment. If he tries the pantry next, he'll be equally disappointed. I haven't done any grocery shopping in alooongtime. Or, more accurately, not even once since I've been back. Yes, I've been living off takeout for close to six weeks, and, no, I can't be bothered to do anything about it.
"Nah. I'm fine," I reply from my position, sprawled out on the sofa.
He shoots Brant a look that has my bestie tentatively approaching me. I can't be sure if the reason for him approaching me like a zookeeper approaching an injured wild animal is due to my stench, my inability to string together more than a few words at a time, or my general lack of looking, you know, alive.
I know that I probably should get off the couch at some stage this weekend. Maybe shower, too. But I only have the strength to do those things, along with other everyday activities like going to work and acting like a semi-normal person around fellow humans, during the week.
Weekends are for slumming around my apartment in dirty sweatpants feeling sorry for myself while ordering the best Chinese in the city, which I can't even appreciate because I'm too busy wallowing in how unfair life is while re-bingingBondi Rescuefor the ten thousandth time.
At least that was the plan.
I thought this weekend would be as uneventful as every weekend has been since returning from Australia. Dad and Brant popping in for a surprise visit has thrown a spanner in the works. And now I think they expect me to wear clean clothes,look presentable, and actually leave the house with them. Freaks, both of them.
"I'm worried about you, Col," Brant says, his forehead etched with lines as he gingerly sits on the edge of my wooden coffee table, wiping his hand across it first to make sure it's clean. Fair call, the table is littered with a buffet of take-out containers and soda bottles.
"We both are."
Dad leaves the kitchen and wanders over to us, sitting down in an armchair. Brant gets off the table and sits himself in Dad's lap.
I manage a small smile. It's nice seeing them together. At least one Langdon has found love and is living his best life.
"Guys, I'm sorry. As you can see—and probably smell—I'm a mess. But I just need to be a mess for a little while longer. I'll get over it soon. I swear."
"Col." Dad heaves out a breath, looking at me with those same blue-green eyes I've inherited from him. "You've been back for well over a month now, and I'm going to be honest with you, it doesn't seem like you're getting better."
"Yeah, well…"
He's absolutely right. I'm feeling worse.
