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Looking around my home, I remember all the happy memories, all the happy memories with Dixon. But now those memories are tainted with what he has done. They are plagued with doubt. Were any of those moments actually real? Did he really mean it when he told me he loved me while making love to me on the sofa? When he revealed that I was the only woman forhim as we lay side by side in front of the fireplace, did he mean forever or did he mean at that moment?
Everything is tainted, and nothing seems real. My entire relationship with Dixon has been a sham. I don’t want to believe that’s true, but my heart can’t deal with any more pain. I may not know what is fact and what is fiction, but I do know Dixon lied to me about Beth. He slept with her before and after me. I don’t want to believe he cheated, but I don’t want to be naïve, either. I also believe that poor, innocent child might be his.
His confession about sleeping with his patients makes me feel sick all over again. I blink back my tears; I can’t believe the mess I find myself in. I know what I have to do. It’s the first step to taking back my life.
My phone feels like a lead weight as I scroll through my contacts with shaky fingers. When I stop at the letter D, I allow a single tear to fall. Dixon’s name stares back at me, a name which once brought me nothing but joy. Now it brings me nothing but sorrow.
I say goodbye to all my memories, all the happy times which now seem like such a waste of time. I say goodbye to all parts and aspects that make up Dixon Mathews. Thanks for the memories—memories which I wish had never been made.
With resolution, I promise myself this is the end. There is no looking back. Hitting delete and seeing Dixon’s name disappear from my life should be liberating—even cleansing. But it isn’t. All it leaves me with is an empty place in my chest where my heart once beat for him.
To get through this, I have to focus on tomorrow, and to do that, I have to forget I ever met Dr. Dixon Mathews.
Carpe diem.
Two weeks later
You know you’ve hit rock bottom when you’re lying in the same clothes, in the same position, in the same spot you were in two weeks ago, and using seven scotch bottles and an empty packet of Cheetos as your pillow.
Whoever said time heals all wounds is a fucking idiot. With time, my wounds have gotten worse. I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t weighed down with this heaviness, and as each day, each minute, each second passes, I doubt I’ll ever be rid of this guilt.
Once I left Madison’s apartment, I called Susanna and told her to reschedule my appointments for the next couple of weeksbecause I was in no frame of mind to be counseling anybody. I’m the one in desperate need of therapy, but I wouldn’t even know where to start.
So this option of drowning my sorrows in a bottle of liquid gold and reminiscing about the good ole days is far better than dealing with my feelings. My feelings aren’t going anywhere, so I can deal with them at a later date. A far, far later date.
My internal debate whether to visit my next-door neighbor to see if he has any booze I can buy off him is interrupted by a loud pounding on my door. I raise my stiff neck from my makeshift pillow, groaning the minute the light streaming in from the window hits my sensitive eyeballs.
I decide against answering it and toss the blanket over my head, hoping whoever is at my door will go away. They don’t. The pounding continues for countless minutes, but then it suddenly stops. I breathe out a sigh of relief and return to my memories of the first time Madison and I made love.
Just as I’m getting to the good bit, the blanket is ripped from my head, and I’m doused with a torrent of freezing water.
“What the fuck?” I yell, wiping the water from my eyes.
“Oh, good. You’re alive,” replies Hunter, who is standing by my bedside looking relieved. He’s holding a now empty water bottle.
“Of course I’m alive! Now get out,” I gripe, attempting to throw the blanket back over my head. But Hunter reaches out and yanks it off the bed.
“Why in God’s name are you clutching onto that pillow like it’s your damn life raft?” he asks.
“Because it is,” I reply, burying my nose in the cotton. “It’s Madison’s pillow,” I clarify. “It smells like her.”
Hunter pulls a repulsed face. “No, it smells like you. Therefore, it smells like shit. When was the last time you showered?” he asks, opening a window.
“Fuck off, Hunter.” I’m in no mood for banter.
“Dude, I get it,” he says, leaning against the dresser and folding his arms. “She broke your heart, and you’ve needed time to grieve or whatever, but c’mon, how long do you plan on staying cooped up? This is totally unhealthy, not to mention unsanitary.”
“She didn’t just break my heart. She destroyed me,” I amend, clutching onto the pillow tighter.
“Yeah well, you’ve got no one to blame but yourself,” he declares with no sympathy. I don’t even bother fighting back because he’s right. “I’ve been trying to call you all week. Why haven’t you answered your phone?”
After a week of tormenting myself with should I or shouldn’t I call Madison, I decided to put myself out of my misery. I look at the corner of the room where my cell lies in a thousand pieces.
Hunter follows my line of sight and shakes his head. “Now that’s just wasteful.”
“I don’t care. It wouldn’t stop ringing. It also wouldn’t stop taunting me with the fact that I can no longer call Madison. So problem solved,” I reveal, sitting up and running a hand through my snarled hair.
The moment I do, I flinch and remember my hand was the size of a balloon, thanks to the beating I gave Dylan. I tied a temporary bandage around it and didn’t really do much else. The fact it’s still stinging like a bitch confirms that I probably should have gone to the hospital to get it looked at. It’s too late now. And besides, the hurt is worth it because I can only imagine the pain that son of a bitch is still in.
