The text comes through from Jolie, and I scroll through the selections she’s sent to me:
Furnished apartments.
One bedroom, furnished, great location.
Week to week, no lease.
And btw, Santiago is a prick.
Had a gangbang last night with four girls.
He’s gone.
I smirk, thank God, that’s over. I mark it down to go and look at it. I don’t want to be locked into anything long term.
I’m in a café, and I’ve been in New York for three days. I’m staying at a hotel. I don’t start work until next week but I just had to get out of San Fran… away from him.
The dust has settled, and the tears have stopped. I’m getting angry now.
How could he do this to me?
I thought after he read the letter that things would work out, or I would at least hear from him for closure. I was sure the letter explained everything: my thoughts and hopes and dreams for us. My undying love for him and how much I cherished what we had.
I thought he would have called, if not as a lover, but as the best friend he’s always been. Nathan has always been my biggest supporter, the friend who loved me through anything.
Except his own pride, apparently.
Is he okay? What if something has happened to him?
Stop it. Stop worrying about him.
I called Alex the day I left. I explained that we had broken up and asked him to watch over Nathan for me. He promised me he would, but is he?
Is Alex looking after him? My stomach twists. I know that nobody looks after Nathan as well as I do.
He needs me.
But then I remember that maybe he doesn’t, maybe this is his ticket out. And just maybe, he’s happy that I left. I let my mind go to the dark place it likes to visit at 3 a. m. and I wonder if he’s called Robert. He called him as a friend for all these years, yet he can’t even check in on me now.
I’m alone in a city where he knows that I know nobody.
It hurts to realize that he doesn’t care, and even if he does, he’s too proud to call me anyway.
I fear the worst for us, I thought he would’ve called me by now and we would talk and work this out without being blinded by each other. I thought that once sex was taken off the table, he would be forced to open up to me. I honestly believed that he would need to look at things through my eyes.
Guess I was wrong.
The more time that passes, the sadder I get.
I thought the day I left San Fran was the worst day and that it couldn’t possibly get any worse. I was wrong. Losing a little more faith in someone every day is insidious.
The toxic poison of lost dreams and hopes is seeping into my bones.
The taste of disappointment runs through my veins.
I’m questioning everything: who I am, who he is, if he ever loved me. Perhaps I imagined the whole thing because no one could ever be this cold to someone they truly cared about. Ten years together, and now it’s like we never existed.
I didn’t just lose my love. That would be bearable. That would be recoverable. I lost my best friend. I lost a part of myself. My identity as a person has somehow been altered. I need to get it back because I don’t want to live in a world where my best friend doesn’t care.
A man comes into the café carrying a bunch of roses, and he orders a coffee. He’s in a suit and looks professional.
I watch him with a sad smile. Are those for his wife? Is it their anniversary? I watch him talking and laughing with the cashier. He seems so happy.
I blink to stop the tears. I would give anything to feel happy again.
I’m sick of fucking crying.
I’ve been doing it for nine days now since this all began.
This isn’t who I am.
Nathan
I close my eyes as I put the key into the door.
I hate coming home.
Coming home to an empty house is the worst kind of torture. It reminds me of what I don’t have. It hits me straight in the face as I walk in the door to a cold and lonely apartment without of the aroma of a home-cooked meal or Eliza’s infectious smile.
The house is deathly silent.
I throw my keys on the sideboard and go straight to the bar to pour myself a scotch-my only friend and constant companion. I’ve found if I drink enough, I can sleep.
With a shaky hand, I sip my scotch as I walk out into the kitchen with the bottle, Eliza’s unopened letter sits on the bench where she left it. It’s taunting me, begging to be read.
It’s this little game I play with myself every night. I call it the wheel of torture.
I sit at the counter, drink in hand, as I stare at the letter. It taunts me with words unsaid.
But I can’t read it. I will never read it.
Because she didn’t love me enough to stay and fight, and I loved her too much to let her go.
But she went anyway.
So, it doesn’t matter.
I tip my head back and drain my drink before I pour another immediately. I feel the heat of the spirit rolling down my throat.
I’m done with love. I never want to feel this bad again.
I get my laptop and I open it up to click on the history.
Find My Phone.
I switch it on and type in Eliza’s phone number. I watch the little red dot light up the screen. It blinks, the beat strong and consistent.
She’s in her hotel.
My chest tightens as I watch it. Her phone is a hotline to my heart. It brings back everything, and I see her laughing and smiling up at me. I see us making love and lying together naked. I remember the happiness I felt in her arms.
With a shaky hand, I refill my glass and drain it. Then, I do it again. I just want to sleep. I want to wake up and not feel like this.
I close my eyes as her betrayal washes over me.
It’s cold, bitter, and it hurts like hell.
One month later: September
I sit at the bar and stare at the screen on the wall.
I’m in a dark place.
Twenty-nine days without her. Twenty-nine days in a cage of living hell.
I miss her.
I miss who I am when she’s beside me.
Happiness.
The elusive emotion.
I’m angry that my life has turned out the way it has.
I’m not talking to Robert for purposely hurting Eliza. I’m not talking to Eliza for purposely hurting me.
I’ve never felt so alone and I don’t know how to pull myself out of this.
I know I need to. This can’t go on. Every day, I tell myself that this is the last day I will let myself feel like this, and yet, every day I wake up and do it again.
I exhale heavily as the noise from the bar bustles around me. I’m lost in my pity party for one.
“Hi there,” a voice from behind me says.
I turn to see a man standing there. “Hi.”
He gestures to the stool beside me. “Mind if I take a seat?”
I shrug. “Sure.”
He sits down and orders a drink. “I’m Anthony.”
“Hi.” I raise my eyebrows as I stare straight ahead.
Fuck off, Anthony. I am not in the mood to talk shit tonight.
The bartender puts Anthony’s drink down in front of him, and he takes a sip. “Do you have a name?”
“Nathan.” I turn my attention to him.
He smiles as he sips his drink as his eyes linger on my face. He has dark hair and an athletic physique.
“Are you always so rude?” he asks me.
I exhale heavily. “Apologies. I’ve just had the worst month of my life. Not really in the mood for talking.”
“That makes two of us.”
I nod and continue to stare straight ahead. “Well, you seem to be talking just fine.” I sigh.
He chuckles. “I could talk underwater. What happened to you?” He lifts his scotch to his lips.
“Girlfriend left me.” I glance over at him. “You?”
“Boyfriend left me.”
I nod, and we both exhale heavily as we get lost in our own thoughts.
“So, if you’re not in the mood for talking, why did you come out?” he asks.
I shrug. “Trying to drag myself out of this hole. I’m sick of being home alone. You?”
“Same.” He smiles over at me. “I guess I was looking for someone to take my mind off my problems.”
His eyes hold mine, and the air buzzes between us.
He puts his hand on my thigh and slides it up my leg. “I was hoping to run into someone like you,” he whispers.
“Is that so?”
“Do you want to go back to my place?” He shrugs. “We can… talk… in private.”
My eyebrow rises. “Naked?” I ask.
“That’s what I was hoping for.”
We stare at each other as the air between us swirls with something dark and familiar.
The chance to not feel-to block everything out.
A reprieve from reality.
I drain my drink and slam it down on the bar. “Let’s go.”