That’s all. Justhuh. Because what do you say when the thing you once ached for finally happens, and there’s nothing left in you to want it anymore?
No hope.
No fire.
No flinch of possibility that maybe now he’ll come back.
Bonnie shifts in her seat. “I thought maybe you’d want to know.”
“I appreciate it,” I say. “I’ll have to adjust the seating chart.”
And I mean it. But I also don’t feel it.
She hesitates, then reaches across the table, covering my hand with hers. “You used to light up, Phern. You’d come in and the whole room would shift. I haven’t seen that in a long time.”
“Just been busy with the wedding,” I lie.
Bonnie squeezes my hand. “I better get back to work.”
I nod, watching her go.
Will and Missy broke up. And I am too far gone to care.
That’s the only explanation for why I order a drink at the bar from Bonnie. And then another. And then another.
It doesn’t numb the pain. Not really. It just turns the volume down on everything screaming inside me. Blurs the sharpest edges. Dulls the ache to something bearable. Manageable. Survivable.
I pull out my notebook, the one I’ve been using for the wedding. It’s full of scribbled names and timelines and table placements. Fake smiles pressed into the page like dried flowers.
I flip through absentmindedly, sipping whatever number drink I’m on now. Whiskey, maybe. Or tequila. I stopped paying attention somewhere around glass three.
My pen falls out. A folded page slips loose.
I know what it is before I unfold it.
My fuck-it list.
Things I swore I’d do someday. Things that used to make my blood feel like fire.
Silly things, like getting laid in Vegas.
Deeper things, like falling in love without fear.
I stare at the list, finishing the last sip of my drink. Then I laugh. It’s bitter and hollow, and it scrapes up my throat like glass. None of these things are ever going to happen to me. Not after everything I gave was thrown back at me like it was nothing.
Slowly, I crumple it into a tight, useless ball. It drops from my hand and rolls off the barstool, landing on the floor like it’s just another piece of trash.
Fitting.
I’m on my sixth drink when I feel someone beside me.
A hand on my back. Too familiar.
Will.
“Come on, Phern,” he says softly. “Let’s get you home.”
I blink up at him, vision fuzzy and slow. The bar is empty now. Quiet. Lights low. My glass is nearly empty again. When did that happen?
