Chapter 3 #2
I press my thumb and forefinger to the screen, zooming in. I focus on Jensen—on his smile, his dimples, his eyes. They’re clear as day. And he looks… happy.
A pang hits me right in the gut. It feels like envy, but that doesn’t make any sense. Then I glance down at the fresh martini the waitress just dropped off. The one I’m drinking to forget how miserable I am. Or maybe just to forget him. Either way...
Jealousy creeps in, quiet and sharp, like a thief in the night.
I guess the martini’s not doing its job, because here I am, still thinking about him.
And why?
He’s clearly fine. In Switzerland. Having fun. Smiling. Clean. Happy.
That’s what wrecks me. It’s not that I don’t want him to be clean, of course I do. It’s that he waited until after I left. That he couldn’t get clean for me.
That hurts like hell.
For two years, all I wanted was for him to get to this place, to be okay, to be sober.
And now that he is, it feels like a knife in the back.
I close out of the app and dab at the corner of my eye, catching the tear before it falls.
Suddenly, I’m no longer in the mood to be here, or to drink. I just want to go home. Be alone. Wallow.
Leo says that’s not healthy.
“Hey.” An elbow nudges my arm, pulling me out of the spiral. “You okay?” Cooper asks, her voice soft and full of concern as she studies me.
I take a deep breath, pull up the picture again, and slide my phone over to her.
“Look how good he looks,” I say quietly.
“Let me see,” Vivian says, and Cooper slides the phone across the table after taking a look.
They both fall silent as she studies it. Then, she offers a small smile and slides the phone back to me. “Ah, shit. He does look good, Al. I’m sorry. That’s gotta be hard.”
“Yeah. It is,” I whisper.
“You know, it’s okay to be sad about this,” Vivian says gently. “You still love him. That’s normal.”
“I know. But why do I still love him? Why can’t I move on? It’s been four months.” My eyes flick from Vivian to Cooper.
“Because you watched the person you loved more than anything disappear right in front of you,” Vivian says softly. “It’s like watching someone die. You loved him. You still love him. You don’t just snap your fingers and make that go away.”
She takes a deep breath, reaches for her martini, and takes a sip. “Trust me, you’re going to feel this way for a long time. But it will get easier.” She offers a small smile. “I promise. Eventually.”
The mood has turned heavy, and I hate that I did that. If anyone here knows about loss, it’s Vivian. She lost her husband and unborn child in a car accident.
And I’m over here bitching about my soon-to-be ex-husband because he’s apparently doing great and looking better than ever.
Nothing like your widowed friend to give you perspective.
I muster a pathetic smile. “Thanks, Vivian.”
Cooper drapes an arm around my shoulders.
“I wish I could relate, but I actually hated my ex by the time I left him. My only fear now is running into him alone somewhere, unprepared… But I’m sorry you’re going through this.
” She gives me a squeeze. “You still coming to hot yoga with me in the morning?”
My brow lifts. “The morning? After these?” I point to my drink.
She laughs. “Relax. There’s a class at eleven. You know I’m not a morning person.”
“And you know I’m not a hot yoga person. Can’t we just do normal-temperature yoga? That last class made me want to throat-punch the girl teaching. You should really get into running, then you could run with me and Viv instead.”
“Listen.” She cups a boob. “These tits weren’t made for running, okay?”
I laugh at that, and she keeps going. “Come on, I used to hate all yoga. I could never quiet my mind long enough to focus. But I promise this class will be better than the last one. It’s flow style.
You’ll like it.” She stirs her drink, then takes a long sip.
“Plus, you’ll be so busy plotting the murder of the dumb bitch kicking your ass for sixty minutes, you won’t even have time to think about Jensen.
Not for five seconds. It’s fucking magic for forgetting an ex. ”
I try to hold in a laugh, but fail. “Fine. You talked me into it. I’ll come strictly for that. Anything to keep my mind off him.”
She lifts her glass, bringing it to the center of the table. “I’ll drink to that,” she says with a grin.
“To moving on to bigger and better things,” Vivian adds, tapping her glass to Cooper’s.
“To moving on,” I echo, clinking mine against theirs before bringing it to my lips and swallowing down the sweet, potent liquid.
It’s time to move on.
And then I think it again.
And again.
And again.
I stare blankly at the ceiling, blinking. This is one of the downsides of drinking. I always crash when I get home, but then I wake up in the middle of the night and can’t fall back asleep.
I keep replaying the image of Jensen and Matt in my head, because apparently, I love to torture myself at night. My brain loves to play this game every time I lay down. It’s called: Let’s think about Jensen and everything that makes me sad.
Yeah. I really hate it.
I reach for my phone—because yes, I’m that stupid. Rolling onto my side, I pull up the photo of Jensen and Matt. My thumb brushes across the screen, like touching him could somehow take the pain away.
God, he used to make everything better just by being there. The way he’d pull me in, his arms tight around me—it was like nothing could touch me. He made me feel safe. Always.
I squeeze my eyes shut as a cry slips out.
“Dammit,” I whisper.
I miss him. So damn much. And I hate it.
I hate that he hurt me. That it still hurts.
But more than anything, I hate that I still love him.
I swipe out of Instagram, a steady stream of tears now soaking my pillow, and open my texts. I search Jensen’s name.
Dozens of messages come up. I only replied to one.
August 23—the day after I left.
Jensen
Babe, where are you?
I’m done, Jensen. I can’t do this anymore. I’m in Chicago, and I’m not coming back.
He called me after that. I answered. I owed him that much. It’s not like I would end our marriage over text message. But I also didn’t want to talk to him while he was high. It would have been pointless. He never remembered conversations we would have.
I told him what happened the night before. That he blew it, and that I was leaving and contacting a lawyer.
He begged me to come home. To give him one more chance. He cried—and somehow, I didn’t.
That was the last time I spoke to him.
August 25.
Jensen
I’m sorry, babe. I’m so sorry. Please come back.
There’s a whole slew of messages after that which are similar, spanning the next two days. Then, they just… stopped.
Matt said they got in a fight and that Jensen went MIA.
Then came September 14, after I sent multiple calls straight to voicemail.
Jensen
Al, I’m clean. I detoxed at Matt’s. I’m going to a rehab in Switzerland. It’s the best of the best. I leave in two days. I’d love to see you—please. Let me at least see you to apologize in person.
Please, babe. I love you. I’m going to get better. For real this time.
Babe. Give me another chance. I know I don’t deserve it, but come on. I love you. We love each other. You’re my best friend. God, please just text me back.
When I read that last one, a whole new wave of emotion crashes over me.
Jensen
I can’t imagine doing this and coming home to a world without you in it, Alley. You are my everything. Please wait for me. I love you.
I swipe back to the Instagram photo, my gaze locking on Jensen’s face. “I love you too,” I whisper.
I shudder, a quiet sob forcing its way out. I glance past the phone to the window. It’s snowing, and the peaceful serenity outside does nothing to calm the silent storm inside me.
I picture him—laughing, teasing, watching football—memories flashing like snapshots. Our wedding. Honeymoon. Skiing. Joking. Kissing…
Fucking.
God, the fucking.
My eyes squeeze shut, desperate to remember what it used to feel like before everything fell apart. I picture Jensen hovering over me, breath warm against my skin. His mouth on mine. His hands sliding down my body, touching me like I was the only thing that ever mattered.
My chest tightens and my pussy aches, a steady thrum building between my thighs.
I let my hand slip beneath the sheets, drifting down to my underwear. I slide my fingers inside and press them against my clit, moving in slow, deliberate circles.
I’m wet—soaked, really. Four months of celibacy will do that to a woman.
With Jensen’s image burned into my mind, I sink deeper into the fantasy, working myself.
My breathing grows heavier as I picture him sliding my underwear off, then unbuckling his belt.
He undoes his pants, and I help pull them down.
He’s hard—so fucking hard for me. That image alone is enough to make me moan.
He settles between my thighs, lowering his mouth to my stomach.
Butterflies parachute through me, and I swear to God, I can feel his breath on my skin as he trails lower. I picture it—his mouth on me, tongue flicking—and I rub myself faster.
It feels so damn good.
Then he looks up at me.
No.
Goddamit, no.
It’s not him. Not anymore.
The fantasy slips through my fingers like sand, and everything I’ve been trying to forget rushes back in. Jensen—high. The first night he took coke. The hollow look in his eyes. The dark circles. The lies.
“No,” I whimper, circling faster, harder, determined to come. I need this.
Jesus. You’re acting like I fucking hurt you.
No. Stop.
Come on. Talk to me, babe… What’d I do?
My hand stops, and I make a fist. Clenching my teeth, I squeeze my thighs together and groan.
Alley! Don’t you walk away when I’m talking to you!
The sobs come hard now. Like they always do.
Please don’t leave me with them.
More tears. More shaking. More sobbing.
Give me my fucking backpack!
Fuck you, Jensen!
That’s the one. The worst one.
The one I always end on.
The one that plays on repeat in my mind.
Give me my fucking backpack!
Fuck you, Jensen!
I give up on the orgasm and pull up the photo again. I stare at Jensen through blurry eyes—my face puffy, nose running, pillow soaked.
“You chose your backpack,” I whisper. “You chose your backpack over me.”
Then I close my eyes and repeat the lie—
I don’t love you anymore.
I don’t love you anymore.
I don’t love you anymore…
Until I finally fall asleep.