His jaw ticks, but otherwise he’s calm as a lake, which only itches at me more. How can he just sit there and act like this isn’t a big deal?Fucking do something, Garrett.
“You knew this would happen eventually. If it wasn’t him, it would be someone else.” He rests his head on the black leather seat and closes his eyes. “There’s no need to be a sore loser.”
“It’s not a competition.”
“Then stop pouting like you’ve come in last place.”
“She doesn’t give a damn about him. You know that.” It’s fucking plain as day. He has to see it.
“Maybe you don’t know her as well as you think you do.”
“I know her better than I know myself,” I yell, launching the words at him with the force of all the frustration boiling in my gut, but he doesn’t even flinch. “I’ve seen them. He’s just a guy. She couldn’t give less of a shit about him.”
How do I know? Because no matter how much she hates me, she’s still my fucking wife.
“Last I checked, she doesn’t give a shit about you either.”
The truth that rings through the comment shuts me right up for the rest of the drive to my place in Chelsea.
I want to tell him he doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about. But just last week Avery was asked about my newest album, and she asked the interviewer,“I’m sorry. Why do youthink I’d have an opinion on music that relies on the same tired chord progression and overly dramatic metaphors he always uses?”
Honestly, all I got from her response was that she’s still listening to my music.
They’re always asking us about each other, since that first major show in Vegas when we were barely more than kids. Back then they wanted to know if we were together. Now they’re desperate for a crumb of what caused our fallout but settle for whatever vitriolic attention grabbing headline they can cobble together.
When we arrive, the car jerks to a stop. I dart past the ever-present paparazzi and go up to my apartment.
I fumble with my keys, my fingers struggling to select the right one. The last few hours have drained me entirely. At last, I slot the key into the lock and push through the front door.
Lights are on in the living room, even though I could have sworn I turned them off. But it’s not like I’ve been all that present today. My keys jingle as I toss them into the ceramic dish on the entryway table.
It was stupid to come to this apartment when I have other places in the city, but it’s the last place she woke up next to me. I swear the woody amber notes of her perfume still cling to the art adorned walls. And if I listen hard enough, there’s a faint meandering humming of a song yet to be written, the lingering effects of the alcohol and the ringing in my ears playing a cruel trick.
There I go blaming the alcohol as if I wasn’t the one who tried drowning in it. Maybe she did choose the right guy, one who isn’t the punchline of some cosmic joke. The man everyone claims to want, but only for a night. To possess and toss to the side, destined to become proof that they used to be young and fun before settling down with someone worth committing to.
I walk toward the lights of the living room. As I get closer, the humming gets louder. A dissonant siren song.
Reaching the threshold, I pause, because if I step into the room the vision of her might disappear.
Red lips. Red hair.Red. Red. Red.
Red has always belonged to Avery. The flecked dried crimson of scraped knees from the first time she fell off a horse. Glowing embers coaxed back to life. Ruby lipstick smeared on my mouth in a bar bathroom.
In all its shades, it’s her.
It’s tricky to love someone whose essence is so vast you see them in a fucking primary color. I can go about my day, not thinking of her or us or all the regrets that press against my ribs, and then I’ll be caught at a stoplight. A sea of red. Brake lights flaring.
I remember it now with her sitting on my couch, cherry hair draped over the straps of the dress she got engaged in. The slit displays a flash of moonlit porcelain skin.
“I was starting to wonder if you were ever coming home.”
3
Avery
August 2024
“Sorry, I wasn’t exactly expecting guests, you know, since the only other person with a key to this place hasn’t stopped by in ten years.” Wesley stands, one arm braced against the doorway as if he can’t hold up his own weight. Tousled brown strands hang over hazy blue eyes, an ocean cluttered with sea foam.
