Chapter 5
Chapter five
Bex
It’s mid-afternoon, I think, and I’m on to the next bottle of wine while lying on the sofa, watching a celebrity dating show.
How pathetic are these people’s lives that they need to date on TV to make money?
My mind turns the negative thoughts over as I recognize I’m just as pathetic—lying here, watching them all, because I got caught kissing a married man.
Shame seeps into every bone like it has every time I’ve faced reality.
I’ll never get over this. Maybe it would be better if I weren’t here at all; if I disappeared and didn’t come back.
It would save both myself and those I’m closest to the shame of explaining why, in my mid-thirties, I’m unemployed and alone.
The sound of a knock on my door comes as a surprise. I stagger over, attempting to spy through the peephole. Closing one eye, I try to focus through the hole with the other. My balance is off; I stabilize myself by leaning on the door with my forehead.
Max is standing on the other side. His hands stuffed in the pockets of his casual jeans. Is it that time already? Has school finished for the day?
I swing it open, but not before plastering on a huge smile.
“Max, I take it you’re here to check up on the new lady of leisure? You’re finished work early.” His face drops as he takes in my appearance. “What’s wrong?” I snap viciously. It’s what he doesn’t say that stings; his look is enough to tell me what he’s facing isn’t good. “Not like what you see?”
He ignores my outburst and walks past me, leading me back into the apartment after I close the door quietly behind us. His shoulders straighten before he speaks, his chin rising as if ready to argue should it be required.
“Bex, I’m really worried about you.” Concern is clearly expressed in his simple statement. His brows furrow with worry. Before he can continue his little speech, I cut him off.
“Stop! Just stop! Some friend you are, letting me walk into the lion’s den yesterday.
To be shamed by my boss for a drunken Saturday night.
For all I know, you could have been the bastard who sent the fucking photo in.
” He tenses, but on a roll, I continue. “We both know you’re a jealous bastard, Max.
You hate the fact I love Ben and not you.
You hate what we have together.” Anger and rage drip from my words.
I storm around my apartment, not knowing where to look.
And wanting to look anywhere but at him.
Then I see it, a small glass I had my morning orange juice in, inscribed with World’s Best Teacher.
I pick it up and hurl it at the wall. It smashes into a thousand pieces.
The shards scatter across the floor like my heart has so many times before.
Max looks at me with so much pity; I feel it like a punch to the gut.
He walks over and puts his hands on my shoulders.
The sadness on his face is unfamiliar. Max is usually so carefree.
I hate it. He’s worried. I can see that.
And it stings that my actions are causing it, but I can’t seem to stop.
I’m spiraling like I have so many times before.
Falling into old habits like they’re good for me, knowing all the time they aren’t.
“Bex, I love you. I hate this downward curve you’re determined to take. We’ve been friends for a long time, and I can’t watch you self-destruct.” He pins me with a look. “Ben isn’t yours. He never has been.”
Something inside snaps, my eyes burn with anger at the truth being laid out, but Max soldiers on. He’s not being cruel, he’s being honest. And I can’t stand it.
“He’s been with Kelsey since he was a boy; they’re married with children, for fuck’s sake.
When will you have more respect for yourself?
You need to get fucking real.” He holds his hands up to ward off any argument.
Today, my friend isn’t interested in my excuses.
“I’m not here to fight, but I am here to tell you, you need to wake up. ” He goes to leave, then turns back.
“And Bex,” he says quietly. “It’s actually Saturday today.” With that, he walks away.
Saturday?
Just one word, but it knocks the wind from me.
Fucking hell. What happened to Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday?
The last thing I remember is getting back from work on Tuesday, cracking open the wine, and drinking myself into oblivion.
I’ve never lost days before. Hours, but never days.
This is a whole new level of zoning out.
Discarded bottles and takeout containers are all I see when I scan my apartment. I don’t need to look far to know what I’ve been doing. Shaking my head and inwardly hating myself, I do the only thing I know that numbs the pain. I head for the fridge.
***
My head is going to explode.
It’s official.
I’m going to die from an explosion of the brain.
Lying in bed, I curse the concoction of alcohol that flowed down my throat last night.
After Max left, I sank further. I didn’t care what came next.
Right now, stars—no, meteorites—are flying around my skull, crashing into whatever brain cells are left.
I keep my eyes screwed shut, terrified of the light. It hurt too much before.
The sun beats through the window onto my face.
Obviously, I was too drunk to even close the blinds.
Mustering enough courage to open one eye, I snap it shut.
Perhaps the other one will be less agonizing.
No, it feels like someone stabbing at my eye sockets with a toothpick.
Eventually, both eyes open, and the ceiling swirls out of control. My stomach retches.
Another Sunday morning lost to the demon drink. Another weekend ruined. But without a job, what does it matter?
I reach for my bedside water glass, then grimace at the taste of stale vodka instead.
Typical. Most people drink to loosen up, to have fun.
I drink to quiet the thoughts I don’t want to face.
Like how long it’s been since I felt wanted.
Or how the man I’ve loved for half my life belongs to someone else.
The hangover is mild, but the shame is worse. It always is. Shame doesn’t come with a headache. It settles in and stays. Sometimes I wonder if this is just who I am now. Not a mess. Just… stuck. Living the life I didn’t plan, and losing battles I never dreamed I would fight.
A familiar dread creeps through the alcohol fog.
What happened last night? What did I say? More importantly, what did I do? Did I cry? Did I beg? Did I say things I meant or things I’ll regret?
I grab my phone and immediately open the call history.
Three calls to Amy – my poor sister. One of them was ten minutes long.
Two calls to Terry, Amy clearly stopped answering, so I switched tack and tried her partner.
Then there are ten calls to Ben. Ten individual calls, every one ignored.
I pray I didn’t leave a voicemail, or worse, more than one voicemail.
I lie back on my pillow, staring at the ceiling. When I stop, when everything goes quiet, I hear his voice. Ben’s voice. Low. Gentle. Filled with hope, care, and desire. Last weekend felt like traveling back in time to a place where everything was possible, life was fun, and our future was bright.
I recall him leaning in too close, his fingers brushing mine.
I remember the silence between us stretching a little too long as we stood in the bar, chatting, laughing, ignoring everyone else around us.
Amy shook her head. Kelsey watched me too closely, playing her part as the trophy wife, ensuring anything we did in public view didn’t upset her narrative.
Ben told me Kelsey and him were ending. That the night was for show.
They finally called quits on their sham marriage.
She told him she was done. That they were finally admitting they stayed together for the wrong reasons.
Their life was crafted under the pressure of other people’s expectations, and they both regretted it. And I remember leaving.
Not for home, just… outside. Out into the night.
Away from what I wanted too badly. The temptation so great that all I wanted to do was grab him and run.
I don’t remember him following, but I can feel the echo of it, even now.
Which is worse, because it means I said yes without hearing the question.
He suggested we make up for lost time. I went along with it without considering the fallout.
Understanding that neither of us were in the right place to act on our desires.
The weight of him. The warmth. The ache of all the time we’d missed.
It took over. Ben became the most important thing in the room, and nothing else mattered.
I remember kissing him like it would fix everything.
How he looked at me like it already had.
Then nothing. Because he left my home, saying he would call.
He didn’t.
And now, he won’t even answer mine.
My head continues to pound. I need painkillers. Lots and lots of painkillers. Bracing myself, I swing my legs out of bed and sit on the edge. The room spins. Even my regrets make me feel nauseous. There’s no one in my bed but me.
No shouting.
No frantic search for clothes. But my body remembers him like he was here.
Because he was here; on Saturday night. In my bed when he shouldn’t have been.
We both let it happen, and it wasn’t a mistake.
Not then. It was the climax of years of yearning for what we lost. And at the first chance we had, we took it.
But just because we could, doesn’t mean we should have. We only ripped open old wounds that had barely healed in the first place.
I crawl back under the covers and let the alcohol-induced tiredness engulf me as I drift into a restless sleep. Tomorrow, I’ll pretend I don’t remember. But I will. And I always will. Because, even if he forgets what we have, my body won’t. It hasn’t for over a decade.