Mac:What’s wrong?
Mac:What did you fuck up?
Mac:Donovan?
Mac:Then sharper
Mac:Answer me.
Mac:I’m serious, man.
Mac:I talked to Ansel. She told me what happened.
Below that, Ansel’s name, rage bleeds through each message.
Ansel:You selfish piece of prick.
Ansel:You don’t get to breathe her name again.
Ansel:Do you have any idea what you’ve done to her? No—of course you don’t, because
Ansel:You’ve only ever thought about yourself.
Ansel:If I see you, I will put you in the ground.
I sit there, phone heavy in my hand, the bourbon still burning its way down my throat. Mac’s words cut deep. Ansel’s cut deeper. And somewhere under all of it is the one thing that’s missing—not a single message from Stella.
Then, last in the lineup, the one I don’t want but somehow expected.
Elaine:You could’ve told me you were married, Donovan. Do you have any idea how fucking humiliating that was for me?
The words blur, but not from the bourbon. I’m not drunk enough to forget what I’ve done—I'd have to burn through the whole damn bottle for that. My chest feels hollow, like someone carved me out from the inside and left just enough weight behind to sink me.
Elaine’s anger should make me mad. It should make me want to defend myself and tell her she knew what this was. But she didn’t, not really. And Stella sure as hell didn’t deserve to be blindsided.
I ruined them both. And for what? A few stolen hours. A distraction I convinced myself I needed.
The taste in my mouth is sour, and my skin is crawling like I’m wearing something that isn’t mine. The jacket Stella brought back for me is hanging on the chair across the room, the same one I grabbed tonight before tearing down the streets like acoward running from the crime scene. I can still see her face in my mind, telling me to burn in hell.
I tell myself I’ll get up and do something. Fix something. Anything. But I don’t move. I just sit there in the wreckage, drinking, hating every inch of myself, until the glass slips from my hand and I sink into the dark.
Two weeks later. I haven’t let the apartment go completely to hell—takeout containers stacked on the coffee table, not the floor—but it still smells like stale food and cheap bourbon. The bottle in my hand isn’t even my first today. The stench of it leaks from my pores.
Somewhere in the building, music bleeds through the walls. Not mine. I’ve been sitting in silence for hours, letting my own self-loathing keep me company.
My phone is in my hand again before I realize it—the hundredth time in the last half hour. No texts. No calls. Radio silence from Stella. I scrape a hand down my unshaven face, and I don’t know why I keep expecting something different. The hurt in her eyes told me everything I needed to know—whatever we had, I burned it to the ground. Pulled every thread until what we had was nothing but a pile of unraveled lies.
I open her social media. The week-old posts are gone. Her profile is gone. She’s blocked me everywhere.
I dial her number anyway. Straight to voicemail. The same message I’ve heard too many times.The voicemail box you are trying to reach is full.
“Fuck.” The word drags out of me, long and jagged. The bourbon bottle leaves my hand before I think, smashing againstthe wall. Amber tears streak down the paint—tears Stella didn’t shed.
I leave the mess where it is—the bourbon pooling on the floor, the shards of glass like shrapnel—and grab my keys. The hall outside smells faintly of someone else’s takeout, but it only makes the taste of whiskey in my mouth sharper.
The drive to Stella’s apartment—our home—feels longer than it should. Traffic’s a snarl, gridlocked even though it’s not rush hour. A thin, cold drizzle has started, the kind that slicks the asphalt and makes every idiot on the road slam their brakes.
My phone lights up:Coach Headstrom, straightto voicemail. I don’t have the capacity for him right now. They’ll manage without me for a few more days.
