Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 133224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
I’m having some kind of existential crisis.
Old wounds have opened back up, and the infection is beginning to fester, poisoning the life out of me breath by breath.
There are so many questions that he raised, and deep down I’m also wondering about the answers.
Why did I sign that contract when I knew it was wrong?
Why did I keep that flower card?
Why would I even want a house that reminds me of John and of our life together?
And more than that, why was the first man I slept with a dear friend?
Was I ready for love, or was I simply seeking comfort in the arms of another?
Physical contact and a safe place to fall.
I was in a dark place when my marriage broke up, but that place seems like a children’s picnic ground compared to where I am now.
I picture my beautiful Blake all alone in New York, and my heart breaks.
He deserved so much better than what I offered.
I haven’t tried to call him again; I need to get myself together.
I’m no good to anybody like this, least of all to someone I care so deeply for.
I’m quite the expert now.
I should write a book of heartbreak: Memoirs of the Battle-Scarred Wife.
I walk into the restaurant with my head held high.
Gone is the worried woman who was afraid of her own shadow.
Today . . . I’m here for blood.
I see John sitting at the table, and I walk over.
“Hi.” He smiles all sexy-like. He stands to kiss my cheek, and I push him back into his chair.
“Don’t touch me.”
He frowns up at me. For the first time, he seems confused as I sit down.
“How are you?”
“I’m great.” I pull out the contract from my bag and tear it in two.
“What are you doing?” He frowns.
“Divorcing you.”
“You can’t.”
“I filed this morning.”
“I’ll take the house.”
I look him straight in the eye. “Nothing on earth is worth being tied to a loser like you.”
His face falls.
“This is your first and last warning, John. Stay the fuck away from me, or I’ll have a restraining order put on you.”
He sits back in annoyance. “You don’t mean that.”
“Try me.”
His eyes hold mine. “You’re not thinking straight.”
I smile. The audacity of this pitiful man.
So pathetically weak.
“For the first time in my life, I’m seeing things with crystal-clear clarity. You are the biggest regret of my life, and I’m embarrassed to even know you.”
His face falls.
“I hope you rot in hell.” I stand.
“Rebecca,” he stammers, as if sensing that I’m completely done. “I love you.”
“Goodbye, John.”
I walk out of the restaurant and smile as I hit the fresh air.
That felt good.
Blake
The sirens echo in the distance. Has there ever been a more iconic New York sound?
I look around my new apartment. So different from home.
With such short notice, I had to take whatever furnished apartment that I could find. Thankfully I could organize another doctor to stand in for me back home and take care of things. It wasn’t urgent that I come here immediately—I don’t start at the new hospital for two weeks—but I just had to get out of Kingston Lane.
I couldn’t be there anymore.
Even the thought of one more day was unbearable.
My heart is heavy and painful in my chest, and with the way that I feel right now, I’m not sure if I’ll ever recover.
Or if I even want to.
Because if I lose this feeling, then there will be nothing left of us. She’ll just become someone that I used to know.
Another slot in the memory bank that will weaken over time.
I sip my red wine and slowly turn the glass by the stem to look over the rich color.
It’s been eight days since I last saw Rebecca, and like a man starved for air, I can feel myself dying without her love.
Marriage is just a piece of paper.
The biggest disappointment was learning that I didn’t even know her.
Not really, anyway.
I may have gotten around in my former life, but deep down I wanted the happily ever after . . . with someone who . . .
Maybe this is my punishment for being so insensitive to all the women I dated over the years.
Karma.
I swallow the lump in my throat, and it hurts all the way down.
I close my eyes and take a long, steadying breath; I need to stop wallowing in this self-pity.
It isn’t healthy to be acting like this.
Tomorrow, I’m going to go back to the gym. I’m going to eat healthy. My eyes linger on the deep-plum liquid in my glass. I’m going to stop fucking drinking all the time.
I’ll be okay.
I take a big gulp of my wine and slosh it around in my mouth, and like the masochist that I am, I hit play on Spotify. I’ve been listening to this song on repeat, again and again.
I tell myself it’s to make me feel better, but the reality is that I want to keep being sad. Because sad is all I have left of her, and I’ll hang on to anything that I can.