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Whenever I show up to work, people seem to avoid me. I sit in meetings, rolling my pen between my fingers, not even removing the cap to take notes. My secretary barely talks to me. I have become a ghost looking in on my own life.
And hell, I hate the man that I see in my place.
It's like a veil has lifted, and now I see it all clearly. The hollowness of it all. The repetition. The decay. This is a job that will eat you alive.
What was it that Harris said? That I couldn't have both the success and the life, the family, the wonderful wife? I'd said he was wrong. I was determined to prove it. What a fucking joke.
In the end, I couldn't have them both. In exchange for getting my dream job, I lost Denise. The only woman I ever truly cared about.
I can now say without a doubt that making partner wasn't worth it.
My sullen mood has also affected Harris. He retires in a few months and wants me at his side every day until then, learning his every move. But if I'm being honest, I don't know if I can.
Before I met Denise, I didn't mind being alone. An empty apartment, a life consumed by work.
I loved it.
I would work my ass off all day, taking phone calls from rich people asking me how to spend their money, and I always had an answer. After I'd clock out, I would take the train home, surrounded by people yet bored by the idea of connecting with any of them.
When I got home, I would head upstairs to my apartment, ignoring the dozens of others living in my building, holding open stairwell doors for them but unwilling to learn a single one of their names. And at the end of it all, I would sit on my couch and watch sports, drinking alone, and like an idiot, I would think I was living the good life. Like I had it made. Like I was somebody.
There is nothing lonelier than life without Denise.
If I have to feel the emptiness and the quiet for one more night, I'll go insane. So I take off from work and immediately head to the airport, suitcase in hand and credit card in the other, willing to buy a ticket for any amount of money.
I head straight back to Barton Beach.
Bash lets me into his loft without question, carrying my suitcase into one of the guest rooms while I pour myself another drink. As I sit on the couch, he returns, his cat in his arms.
Without any warning, he dumps her on my lap. "There," he says firmly like he's just put out a fire. "That'll help."
"More than the whiskey?" I ask halfheartedly, taking a deep drink from my glass. It always empties too fast.
As Bash watches me, he frowns. "Yeah. More than that."
The cat, Jackie, sits precariously on my lap like she's considering whether or not to leap away. Her large yellow eyes meet mine, considering me. I pet her cautiously, and to my surprise, she leans into it, her purr vibrating against my legs.
I take her into my arms, holding her against my chest. Bash was right. This might be better than whiskey.
"Okay. Now that I've got you comfortable, I'm going to take these away," he says, plucking the bottle of whiskey and my empty glass off the arm of the couch, "and you're going to tell me what's going on."
"Hey," I protest. "Give those back. I'll gladly pick the drink if it has to be the drink or the cat."
He gasps playfully. "Don't let Jackie hear you say that. Her paws may seem furry, but weapons are hiding there."
Setting the bottle and glass back in the kitchen, Bash returns to the living room and sits in an armchair across from me. His jaw is set, and his gaze is clearer and more determined than I've seen him have in a lifetime together.
"This is an intervention," he announces. Pulling a slip of paper from his pocket, he unfolds it and clears his throat.
"Fucking hell," I groan, making the cat tense against me. A few pets help her settle again.
"'Dear Brett,'" Bash begins to read, ignoring me completely. "'How are you? Because, from what I can see, it's not so good.'"
"Look, you don't need to read from that. If you have something to say, just say it."
Bash glances up at me, obviously annoyed that I've cut him off in the middle of his speech. But after a moment, he just shrugs and puts the paper away again. "Fine. You want me to say it, I'll say it: I was right."
I blink. "What?"
