Wild Thing

44. Forty-Four

Forty-Four

Five Months Later

DYLAN

Present Day

Heartbreak is a real bitch.

The unrelenting pain of a broken heart… well, it fucking hurts.

I miss Brax. I still love him. Part of me probably always will.

How do I get over someone I never really had?

Even though I know better, I keep checking his social media, hoping for a glimpse of his life. Of course, he hasn’t posted anything. I haven’t either. The radio silence is torture—what is he doing? Has he moved on, maybe even gone back to Ally?

Don’t go there, Dyl.

My session with Dr. Crowe has just ended and Brax's face is still vivid in my mind.

Since I moved from White Point to Miller’s Bay, we’ve shifted our sessions to Zoom, but some things never change; Dr. Crowe is still guiding me and helping me heal, and Brax’s presence still haunts my thoughts like an uninvited ghost.

Picking up my pen, I turn to my journal. I’ve gotten into the habit of writing down my feelings after each therapy session.

When will I not feel like I'm dying a slow death? I move through the days in pain. Sometimes, the pain is so sharp, so visceral that I struggle to take a deep breath.

Other times, it feels like a boa constrictor squeezing every ounce of air from my lungs. And it hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, so bad that I can’t move.

And then there are days where I feel nothing at all. I'm empty, a shell of a human. How is it that one week of fucked up, impulsive decisions is still wrecking me?

I pause, my pen hovering above the paper.

Which is worse, I wonder. The relentless feeling of heartbreak or that endless, empty void?

I close my journal, deciding that’s enough for now.

I used to see journaling as weak, pointless. But Dr. Crowe is right—it helps. And it’s a hell of a lot cheaper than real therapy. Even though real therapy has pulled me from that dark pit of self-loathing into a place where I’m starting to find acceptance.

Journaling has become my way of processing these thoughts so I can finally start letting go of something that was never truly mine to begin with.

I’ve accepted that maybe my happy ending doesn’t include Brax. Maybe my happy ending doesn’t include anyone but me.

And maybe that’s okay.

“Do you want wine?” Taylor yells from the kitchen, her voice pulling me out of my thoughts.

I look around my new bedroom, taking in the haphazard stacks of moving boxes scattered along the walls that I’m yet to unpack. I toss my journal on top of one of the boxes and make my way toward the kitchen. “Sure.”

I might not have any food in the place, but I certainly have an essential: Pinot Grigio.

I rummage through one of the kitchen cupboards until I find two wine glasses and set them on the counter, watching as Taylor twists open the bottle with ease.

She pours generously, then nods toward the wide kitchen window, her gaze following the horizon. “This place has a killer view, Dyl.”

I follow her line of sight, letting my eyes rest on the vast stretch of ocean beyond. She’s right. The view is breathtaking, particularly at dusk, with the sky painted in streaks of amber and violet.

My new two-bedroom apartment overlooks the shoreline, perched three floors above the bustling esplanade filled with cafés and restaurants.

It’s the perfect place to start over. Or at least pretend I can.

Moving house is a task that sucks, even in the best of times. But moving across state lines has been an entirely different level of misery, one I hadn’t quite prepared for.

Thankfully, Taylor was here to help finalize the move from White Point to Miller’s Bay. I suspect, though, that her willingness to help has more to do with making sure I don’t spiral into an abyss of self-pity.

Which I'm not doing. Not yet anyway.

We walk out onto the balcony, glasses in hand, and lean against the cool metal railing, silently watching the sunset. The sky looks like spun sugar, a breathtaking blend of colors.

The last time I saw a sunset like this was at the beach cottage with Brax.

My chest tightens at the memory.

“You’re still thinking about him, aren’t you?” Taylor’s asks, as she takes a sip of her wine.

I want to lie, to tell her no, to say I’m moving on. But I’m trying this new thing called honesty, and I owe her the truth. “Every second of the day.”

“Have you heard from him at all?”

I shake my head, staring down at the wine in my glass. “No.”

Taylor sighs and reaches out, giving my back a gentle, reassuring rub. “Men suck.”

A lazy smile tugs at my lips. She’s not wrong.

“What about Zack? Heard from him?”

“No,” I reply. “But I didn’t expect to. The breakup was… rough.”

I lean over the balcony, letting the breeze cool my face as fragments of that awful conversation surface in my mind.

“So, how do you feel now that you’re here?”

I turn and survey the half-unpacked living room.

Leaving White Point was an easy decision, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t painful. Some might call it running away, and maybe it is. But I couldn’t stomach the gossip, the side-eyes, the endless judgment. Small towns thrive on scandal, and I’ve given them one to last a lifetime.

“I feel… good.” I answer finally.

“Nervous about starting your own consultancy?”

“Funnily enough, no.” I reply, realizing it’s one of the few things I don’t feel nervous about.

“And Marie’s been supportive?”

“Super supportive. She was sad to see me go, but she understood," I answer. "She knows why I had to leave."

It’s taken many sessions with Dr. Crowe to unravel the trauma from what happened with Steven. For so long, I told myself that what happened to me was my fault. That I deserved it. I’d convinced myself it was punishment for the affair I had with Brax—that it was karma, retribution for being a whore.

Admitting this was the breakthrough I never knew I needed.

Dr. Crowe helped me see that my deep-seated lack of self-respect led me to believe I wasn’t worthy of anything better—of happiness, of love, of success.

I thought my problem stemmed from a fear of commitment, but it was actually a fear of myself. Of what I might become if I ever accepted joy and love into my life.

I’ve been my own worst enemy, a fierce saboteur. I believed that I had to be this wild, tortured soul who could never settle down, who drifted from place to place.

And so, for years, I’ve engaged in toxic cycles of self-sabotage, tearing down any chance I had at happiness.

But now, here, on this balcony with a friend who has seen me at my worst, I can finally admit it: I deserve to be happy.

Even if that means being alone.

Which is my greatest fear.