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“The damage will be worse if you leave me.” So much worse. There’s still a chance this can be repaired. If I walk out of this room, there will be no going back for me.
“Get out!”
“No.” I will not give up. “Ava, please, I’m begging you.”
She looks away.
“Ava, look at me.”
“Goodbye, Jesse.”
I will not let her do this. “Please.”
“I said, goodbye.” She swallows, and the shift in her persona is like a punch to my gut. And I see it. Resolve. I see the end.
I’m not enough for her. And I absolutely cannot risk spilling my agony, my entire fucked-up story, for her to reject me. I can’t confess my love for her to throw it back in my face. It would destroy the idea of her. It would make me hate her, and I have no energy to hate.
She’s taken away my choices.
It really is the end.
Numb and beaten, I turn and walk away, my despair fading, my anger returning. I pass Sam and Kate in the hall. I don’t look at them.
“Jesse?” Sam calls.
“It’s over.” I say, swallowing hard.I’mover.
I make it to my car and stare at my reflection in the window. This feeling of loss, of grief. It’s embedded on every inch of my worn face. It’s familiar. It’s excruciating.
It’s all my fault.
Again.
My lip curls at the man staring back at me. A man I hate.
And I launch my fist into his face.
38
I pushthe door of my penthouse closed behind me and go to the kitchen, sliding the box onto the counter and bracing my hands on the edge, staring at it. My heart hasn’t slowed. My pulse is still booming. Has been since I entered the liquor store and bought enough vodka to kill me. I’ve ignored endless calls from John, Sarah, Sam, and Drew. Everyone in the fucking world is trying to get hold of me except the one person who could stop the train crash that’s about to happen. But this pain. This anger.
With no Ava, there is only emptiness without a cure.
I pull out a bottle and unscrew the cap, breathing in deeply, staring at the clear liquid. My nostrils flare. I snarl and take it to my lips, swigging, clenching the side of the worktop with my spare hand, closing my eyes. The burn isn’t so familiar anymore. It hurts, and I gasp, slamming the bottle down on the counter, breathing hard.
More anger.
More pain.
Drown it.
I gulp back more, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, gasping for air in between mouthfuls. And still, the agony remains. “Fuck you,” I spit, taking more, determined to be rid of this noose around my neck. I carry on swigging and pluck another bottle from the box before loading the rest into the freezer and heading for the stairs. Every single thing in my home is a trigger. It all has her name on it, and worse, I see her everywhere—on the couch, on the stairs. I finish the bottle, drop the empty at my feet, and make fast work of opening my fresh one as I take the stairs slowly, inspecting my abused, swollen fist. There’s blood everywhere, and stupidly, I don’t want to get it on any of the walls or furnishings. It’ll smear her hard work with my pathetic-ness.
I go straight to the bathroom, avoiding the bed and the vanity unit, and flip on the shower. Her shampoo stares at me. I reach for it as I take another swig, before lifting it to my nose and smelling it. My stomach turns. My head booms. I discard it and strip down slowly, stepping in the stall, and I spend just enough time under the spray to clean up the blood before exiting and finding my vodka. I avoid the mirror, getting my phone and putting some music on to blanket the unrelenting silence.Angelcomes through the speakers, and I still, listening, the part of my mind that the alcohol hasn’t reached yet telling me to turn it the fuck off. But that’s a small part of my mind. I turn the volume up to max and put it on repeat. I deserve to be tortured.
Wrapping a towel around me, I go back downstairs. My only escape from the visions of her all over my apartment is the terrace, so I go there, collapsing onto a sun lounger. I have time to make up for. An oblivion to find. I stare up to the sky while working my way through my second bottle, the fuzz in my head becoming thicker with each swig I take. Yes. Nothingness is within reach, but I frown, the bottle pausing at my lips when the music shuts off. I swallow and start to push myself up, set to find my phone and put it back on. I was enjoying the torment.
“Fuck,” I mutter as I fight and struggle with my unresponsive body. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I finally make it to my feet, and when I stagger, the alcohol now replacing the blood in my veins, I find Ava standing on the threshold of the terrace. I blink. Once, twice. She’s not a hallucination.
