Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
L iam
Cam’s ticked-off rant plants a bug in my head that crawls through my mind all evening. I hit the gym for a late session despite the fact that I worked out this morning, and I plan to go again when I wake up. Nothing flushes toxins from the mind better than a good sweat.
I muse on the events that got me where I am today, letting the memories linger like a faithful friend. Not all friends give you hope, after all. Some friends are just there to slap you upside the head and show you where you went wrong.
I begin with the day I lost Ashley. I had just one question, a valid concern, I might add: Won’t you resent me later if you don’t date any other men? Heck, she was fifteen when we started dating, and we dated the remainder of her high school years and her first year in college, too.
We were at the beach cuddled up on a hammock, the restless tide crashing against the shore, the breeze toying with her ebony hair. She was caressing my palm with hers when I broached the topic. I always loved the feel of her skin, remarkably smooth and silky.
I replay the look in her eyes as she misheard every word I said. The panic it triggered in my chest. The way she stormed off, pleading with me not to say another word. “If you want to date other people,” she had cried, “ just tell me. Don’t act like you’re doing me a favor.”
Mercy, that day broke me. And no matter how hard I tried, no matter how many texts or direct messages I sent, I couldn’t undo it.
For years, I tried to get her back, all the way up to the night before she got married. The memory is razor-sharp and dagger-deep. For a minute there, I almost thought I had her. I shove past that one and think about the day I proposed to Gabrielle. Things were good. And even when they were bad, I focused on the good. At least, I tried.
I put up with years of terrible treatment from a woman who can only love herself. Since the kids are half-her, she loves them too, but she loves herself more.
You’re supposed to respect the person you love, and that’s exactly what I tried to do. But some of her traits made that more difficult than I imagined it’d be. So I read books, followed programs, and did everything under the sun to build the love-and-respect-relationship my parents had.
Meanwhile, Gabrielle belittled me in front of the kids, my family, her family, and even in public, like at restaurants.
“You’ll have to forgive my husband. He hasn’t bothered looking at the menu yet.” Tsk, tsk.
Yeah, because I was taking the kids potty while you played Candy Crush. Did you forget to mention that?
“And don’t let his good looks fool you; he eats like a pig and snores like one, too.”
This was after I’d gotten over a miserable cold that made breathing and sleeping an impossible combo. Forget the TLC I gave her every time she sneezed; I was on my own.
I think I stayed for the kids. I fell in love with Gabrielle because she was ambitious, serious minded, and witty with that sharp tongue of hers. I just didn’t realize I’d soon become her number-one target.
Not that she was ever sweet and adoring the way Ashley was. Curt and condescending was more like it, but I probably wasn’t worthy of that type of love anyway. And maybe I didn't trust myself to call the shots in another relationship after I obliterated the first one. Or, at the very least, if things did go awry, I didn't want to be the person responsible for it.
I hit the shower as soon as I get home and, since I'm too riled to sleep, grab the food-stained book off the coffee table and head straight to the den. With our faithful collie Fifi (you can guess who lost that coin toss) anxiously circling my feet, I pour myself a modest shot of whiskey; I deserve it for putting up with whatever’s in this book.
The moment I plop into my lounge chair, Fifi leaps like a lemur onto my lap and makes herself comfy by curling into her favorite form—the kidney bean.
I flip open the page to read the intro:
Hello there, Hurt, I’m Healed. It's nice to meet you.
I used to be you. That is to say that, though my name has always been Barry Brown, I went through a season where I wasn’t myself anymore.
I wasn't Barry with the incredible wife and the great job in finances.
I wasn’t Barry, happy father of three rowdy girls and two doting dogs.
No, I became Barry-and-his-hurt-heart. Some men go off to war, come back, and wear pins or badges of honor. They’ve been in the trenches, and they deserve due respect.
I was in a different sort of trench, which left me with a broken heart I wore like a badge of honor. I wanted everyone I encountered to know just what I had endured.
I take a pause, open the flap of the hardcover’s slip, and fold it over to mark my page. I was going to get through the intro before rewarding myself with a sip, but I grasp the glass early, bring it to my lips, and tip it back short and fast. I gulp, smear away a drip with the back of my hand, and smile ruefully as I notice new splotches on the cover.
I flip open the book and yank the recline lever on the side of my chair. Fifi readjusts, digging her small claws into my legs as punishment for disrupting her.
“Me and my hurt heart, huh?" I set my eyes on the spot where I left off and shake my head. “That's rich."