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She's in this situation because of me.
Everything she said about us is true. We met in law school. I pursued her, and hard, and I wouldn't let go once I had her.
I thought I was in love with her. Now, I'm not so sure. It was puppy love, admiration, something much less deep and true than what I have with Alyssa.
But back then it felt real. And I held on to it tightly, even after we graduated law school, even after she started to pull away.
I knew something was going on. I didn't know what it was, but I knew something was different. She stayed at work late. She spent weekends with girlfriends she hadn't seen in years. She made excuses about why she didn't want to have sex.
She was having an affair with my father. Edward Lawrence. He was her boss. Senior partner at the firm.
I got her the job, more or less.
I put her right in his path.
She spent the better part of a year having this affair, lying to me, getting more and more obvious.
And then one day she broke down in tears. She told me what was going on. Not to beg for forgiveness, but to explain why she was breaking up with me.
She was in love with him.
But, asshole that he was Edward rejected her. It wouldn't look right. She wasn't even mad at him for it. She understood completely. I guess they always had that in common, that obsession with how things look.
I know. I should have walked away. I should have wiped my hands clean of both of them and moved on with my life.
But I didn't.
Instead, I begged Samantha to take me back. To give me another chance. I promised I'd treat her better, love her more, give her everything he did.
But I didn't.
I was too hurt, too angry, and I ignored her. We went on like that for a few months, until Edward dropped dead. It was a heart attack. Over in the blink of an eye. No one got a chance to say goodbye.
Samantha was heartbroken.
I should have been there for her. I should have done something to help her. Gotten her into therapy at least. But I did nothing. I ignored her. I was too angry at him, at them, at the whole fucking world.
She sunk into depression.
I knew how miserable she was, but I didn't do anything about it.
Then she swallowed my bottle of sleeping pills.
I left my prescription on the bedside table for weeks, right there, right in her face. It's not like I did it on purpose. It's not like it was any secret I took them.
It's not like I was trying to tempt her. I didn't want her to take the pills.
But I knew it was a possibility. I knew she was miserable. I knew she was desperate. I knew she'd prefer anything to living with the shame of her dirty secret becoming public, the pain of losing the lover who didn't even want her.
Maybe I did want her to take them. Maybe I wanted her to put us both out of our misery.
I still remember the first night I left them there. I had that thought--what if she's thinking of ending things?--but I ignored it. I told myself it was impossible. Samantha wouldn't do that.
A few weeks later, she was in the ER with her stomach being pumped, a suicide note tucked under the bottle.
I'd promised to help her. I'd promised to be her boyfriend again, but I ignored her. I insulted her. I tried so hard to forgive her, to be there for her, to hold her when she cried, but I couldn't. I knew she was crying over that bastard Edward and his stupid fucking death.
She was crying because he didn't love her.
