Chapter 43
Chapter Forty-Three
JENSEN
THEN
“Jensen!” Alley’s voice comes sharp from the other side of the door, the pounding insistent and unnecessarily loud.
Jesus Christ. Can’t she just knock like a normal person?
I’m agitated. On edge. I stayed late at work, then hid out in my car, snorted some Oxy, and took a nap. I had to chill out from the stress of the day before I could face her.
It’s getting too hard to be around Alley. I avoid her at all costs. I can’t mask it anymore—can’t control it. I’ve spiraled further than I ever thought I would.
It’s starting to show at work. I can barely focus. It takes everything I’ve got to appear present. My boss is noticing—small things, but I’m slipping. Thank God he likes me. I’ve got years of success with him under my belt. I’ve proven myself, that’s for damn sure.
But how long before that’s not enough?
He cornered me today. He said I seemed off, and asked if I was okay. I told him shit at home with Alley wasn’t great. I blamed it all on my marriage. Sure, we’re hanging by a thread, that part’s true. But it has nothing to do with Alley.
It’s me. It’s all fucking me.
I did this.
I fucked up.
I ruined us.
The banging grows louder, adding fuel to the dumpster fire of my already-shitty day.
I’m losing everyone else too. Matt’s starting to avoid me. Megan won’t talk to me. Jeff treats me like I’m fucking twelve. It’s awkward as hell with Kevin because of the whole Megan thing. My dad’s pissed.
My mom’s the only one I can still talk to. She’s the only one who doesn’t criticize every little thing I do. She doesn’t mention my problem every time she sees me. Doesn’t treat me like an addict. She just… lets me be.
Coming home and finding the door off my office, when all I wanted was some privacy to take a hit, was a slap I didn’t see coming.
Unfuckingbelievable.
I had the door switched out in fifteen minutes.
“Jensen! Open this fucking door right now!”
Damn. She’s really mad. I move fast, stuffing everything away. The hit I took ten minutes ago is settling in fully now—and God, I needed it. I can’t do evenings at home without it anymore. The day drains the life out of me, and it’s the only thing that lets me even pretend to be present.
I shove my kit into my backpack. I have to keep it all with me now. Alley thinks she’s the fucking CIA.
She’s kicking the door now, screaming at the top of her lungs, and I snap. “I’m fucking coming!” I yell, my patience gone two hours ago. My pulse spikes—coke and adrenaline—a toxic combination. I already know I’m not in complete control here.
I unlock the door and swing it open hard, coming face-to-face with my wife. Her face is red and tear-streaked, eyes wild.
She shoves past me and darts for my backpack. I reach for it, but it’s too late. She has it.
“Babe, give me my backpack.”
She doesn’t even look at me—just storms past and into the closet, yanking down a suitcase and tossing clothes into it.
Panic shoots through me. “Jesus. What are you doing?”
She doesn’t respond. And to be honest, I prefer screaming, shouting Alley to this—this version that won’t even look at me. It’s like she’s already gone. Like she doesn’t give a fuck anymore.
I watch her pack, my eyes flicking to my backpack lying on the floor near her. I could grab it, take it to my car. Get it out of the way before she—
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I’m actually debating saving my stash over my marriage. Like I’d rather watch her walk out that door than lose my drugs.
That reality hits like bricks to the chest.
I’ve lost it.
I’m completely gone.
She’s a hurricane of rage—all that built-up hurt and resentment ripping through her. Drawers slam shut. Her breathing’s loud, fast and sharp—exhaling in ragged huffs, cries bursting between each one.
I stand there, completely dumbfounded, at a total loss for what to do. My brain and heart aren’t aligning. Part of me wants to stop her. To pull her close. To tell her to stop crying. That everything’s going to be okay.
That I’ll stop. I’ll fix this—I’ll fix us.
But the other part—the part overtaken by the coke—is seething. How dare she take my stash. Ignore me. She thinks she’s just going to walk out of here without saying a damn word?
Fuck that.
Alley zips her suitcase and slings my backpack over her shoulder, heading for the front door.
“Babe, what are you doing? Where are you going?”
She keeps walking.
“Alley, I’m speaking to you,” I say, louder this time. “Alley!” I shout. “Don’t you walk away when I’m talking to you!”
Nothing.
She reaches for the handle.
“Give me my fucking backpack!” I’m yelling now, and I regret it the second the words leave my mouth.
She stops, turns suddenly, and shoves my pack into my hands. “Fuck you, Jensen!”
She backs toward the door, tears falling hard with every step. The look on her face rips my goddamn heart out, gutting me alive.
“No, Al.” The words rush out—shaky, desperate, full of fear. “Don’t go. Don’t fucking go.”
Her hand trembles as she opens the door, and I hate myself—more than I ever have.
The door slams shut.
She’s gone.
My jaw clenches, and the tears sting like fire behind my eyes. “Fuck,” I grit through my teeth. I grip my backpack, holding on to the only thing I have left.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
I chuck my pack across the room, yelling out another “FUCK,” and drop to my knees. My hands wrap around my head, and I fold to the floor, sobbing.
And I pray.
I fucking pray.
I’m not even sure to who—or what. Anyone. Anything that’ll listen.
God. Buddha. Allah. Motherfucking Earth. I don’t know. I’ve never prayed before.
Please.
Don’t let me lose her.
She’s all I’ve got.
She’s the only thing that matters.
Please.
Help me.