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"Fuck, Evelyn," I groan as my hand moves down my body. The fantasy takes hold, consuming me entirely. In this world, she belongs to me – and her ex can do nothing but watch.
"Maybe you're not such a bad distraction after all," I think as my body tenses and I find sweet release. But even then, I know the truth: Evelyn Moretti is under my skin, and there's no going back now.
Chapter Eleven
I'm sprawled on my couch, swirling a glass of red wine in my hand at noon. Pathetic, I know, but it's my last day off before another stretch of night shifts at the hospital, and I want to take full advantage of it. My thumb flicks across the screen of my phone as I mindlessly scroll through Buzzfeed, soaking up all the meaningless articles like a sponge.
"12 Celebrities You Didn't Know Were Vegan" – who cares? But I can't help myself; it's a guilty pleasure.
A notification pops up at the top of my phone – an unfamiliar number with a text message:
I miss you.
My heart sinks like an anchor into the pit of my stomach, and I have to fight the urge to hurl my phone across the room.
"Ugh," I groan, knowing exactly who this is from: my worthless ex-husband. Five years have passed since our divorce, and he still keeps trying to weasel his way back into my life.
"Leave me alone, you piece of shit!" I had said during our last conversation, feeling both furious and bitter. "We're not getting back together – not after what you did."
But he was persistent, like a damn mosquito buzzing in my ear. It made sense, considering things didn't work out between him and my traitorous former bridesmaid. They'd gotten engaged almost immediately after our divorce, so they must've been more than just friends long before our marriage fell apart. I blocked his numbers, emails, everything – yet still, these texts keep slipping through the cracks. Each one is a slap in the face, making it impossible for me to move on and forget about him.
I sip my wine, but the bitter taste does nothing to soothe my anger, but it provides a small distraction from the unwanted memories resurfacing.
"Hey, Siri," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "Block this number."
"Blocking this number now," Siri confirms, and I let out a sigh of relief.
"Good riddance," I mutter, taking another swig of wine. But I know deep down that it won't be the end. He'll find another way to contact me, like some twisted game of cat and mouse.
I remember the conversation I had with my sister about getting a restraining order. She was honest, telling me that judges are strict about granting them, and since he hasn't physically tried to come see me, it might not be worth the risk. "If you lose the hearing, it could motivate him even more," she had warned.
"Maybe if I just ignore him, he'll go away," I tell myself, trying to believe it. The time between his pathetic attempts at contact does seem to grow longer, but he never completely gives up. I pour another glass of wine, but my thoughts keep circling back to him and the mess he's made of my life.
Anger simmers beneath my skin. He had his chance, and he blew it. I force myself to remember how bad things were, especially the sex. God, it was terrible.
My wedding night flashes through my mind, and I cringe. I was so excited to lose my virginity, only for it to be the biggest letdown of my life. I remember his clumsy hands fumbling over my body, his heavy breathing in my ear. It felt like an eternity of awkwardness and disappointment.
"Jesus, Evelyn, get a grip," I mutter to myself, trying to shake off the memories. I take a large gulp of wine, letting the bitterness wash away the lingering taste of regret.
"Anyway, I don't need him," I say, trying to convince myself. "I'm better off without him."
Another sip, another attempt to drown out the past. But as I sit there. The bitter taste of the wine coats my tongue as I pour myself another glass. I stare into the crimson liquid, willing it to erase the memories that cling to me like a second skin. I'm only two glasses deep, so the alcohol hasn't had a chance to block out the anger I feel towards my ex-husband or the sickening reminder of our wedding night.
"Ugh, fuck this," I mutter under my breath, gripping my phone tighter.
As if on cue, a new text message appears on my screen. I brace myself for another wave of nausea, expecting yet another message from him. But instead, my eyes widen in disbelief at what I read.
It's C. I need you at the mansion. Medical emergency.
"Shit," I mumble, quickly dialing Constantino's number. The call goes unanswered, just a cold, robotic voicemail greeting. Myheart races in my chest, and I can feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins, sobering me up.
“Okay, Evelyn, think," I tell myself, tapping my fingers anxiously against the wine glass. "You don't have to go. It's not your responsibility. It's not. But..."
I know deep down that I couldn't live with myself if someone died because I didn't help. As much as I want to stay here and wallow in self-pity, there are lives at stake. And those guys at the mansion – they can't just call 911. They're bound by their own twisted code of silence.
"Dammit," I curse, setting my untouched third glass of wine aside. My mind races with thoughts of what might be happening at the mansion, and I realize that time is not on my side. With a heavy sigh, I grab my keys and sprint out the door, my heart pounding in sync with each step.
I fumble with the keys to my car. "You're going to save some lives today. And then you're going to come back home, finish that bottle of wine, and figure out how the hell to move on from all this crap," I vow to myself.
