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Suddenly, I feel bile creeping up my esophagus, which is what brings me back to reality. My sweaty body writhes as I register that I’m seconds away from puking my guts up in real life.
I shoot up from the bed, the sheets clinging to my damp skin as I gasp for air.
I frantically toss the covers off my body before sliding out of bed and sprinting tothe bathroom.
I burst through the door just in time for my knees to crash against the cold tiles and my arms to hold my weight above the toilet bowl.
My chest rises and falls as I dry heave a few times before I puke, trying to empty the bottomless pit of regret that I live with daily. Salty drops trickle over my lips, a mixture of sweat and sobs.
I hate myself. I hate what I’ve done. I hate who I’ve become.
But most of all, I hate Roxanne for believing that I could be anything other than the monster that I am.
I hate that she’s slowly worming her way into my heart. Because I never let anybody in. I didn’t even let my fiancée in when I had her.
I hate that Roxanne acted like she cared. I hate that she treated me with kindness, even after how I’ve treated her.
I hate her inky black hair and emerald green eyes. I fucking hate that she’s so beautiful, and I hate that I can never have her. Because I seem to fuck up everything I get close to. Iwon’truin her life for the sake of wanting her.
I need a drink. Or five. Or ten.
I need to forget. And whiskey is the only medicine that dulls the pain in my heart, even if it's short-lived.
Once I have nothing left to throw up, I reach for the rack hanging next to the toilet and pull down a towel. I wipe my face before standing up on shaky legs and heading straight for the shower.
I strip off my boxers, turn the knob all the way to hot, and stand directly under the scorching stream. I close my eyes as the water cascades down my chest and abs, regretting what I’m about to do next.
I won’t regret it in the moment, but I will regret it in the morning. I always do.
I know I won’t be able to fall back asleep tonight, so I might as well hang out with the only friend who can temporarily drown my sorrows: Jameson.
After my shower, I throw on a clean pair of boxers and walk into the kitchen. I take a seat at the island, resting my arms against the marble countertop.
My eyes roam around the barren condo, luxurious and modern and sleek. And so fucking lonely. If I could describe this place in one word, it would be lonely. No pictures hang on the wall, and no item is out of place. It’s all a result of my need to have control.
If something is out of place, that means that I’ve let my mind relax. And I can’t let that happen. I can’t lose control ever again. If someone’s picture is on my wall, that means that I’ve subjected them to my destruction. And I can’t let that happen. Not again.
I hang my head before reaching for the Jameson bottle that’s already resting atop the counter. When I’m home alone, I don’t need a glass. No one is here to judge me but myself.
I lift the bottle to my lips, letting Whiskey River pull me down its current.
TEN
Roxy
I arrive at work the next morning, unsure of what mood Elliot is going to be in today. Especially after his freak-out last night.
I barely got any sleep, tossing and turning as I replayed the bizarre interaction in my mind.
“Get out of my fucking car!”
Like a crystal clear photograph, I can picture the range of emotions etched across his beautiful face as he shouted those words. Emotions such as rage, regret, sorrow, and agony.
I’m not offended or embarrassed by his outburst. More than anything, I just feel sad for him. Elliot is a person who could be described as stoic and statuesque, hiding his emotions behind his golden boy exterior. So to see him lose control like that means that whatever happened in his past must be horrific.
Even though I shouldn't feel bad for inquiring about his past just like he asked me, I do. I kept prodding for answers, even after I knew my questions had triggered him in some kind of way.
I just wish none of it had happened. I wish he had never driven past me and stopped, concern enhancing the lines of his perfect face. I wish I would have checked the weather and taken my car so I would have never known that my heart could crack a little for a broody man with gold-flecked eyes.
