I hate that he hurt me. That it still hurts.
But more than anything, I hate that I still love him.
I swipe out of Instagram, a steady stream of tears now soaking my pillow, and open my texts. I search Jensen’s name.
Dozens of messages come up. I only replied to one.
August 23—the day after I left.
Jensen
Babe, where are you?
I’m done, Jensen. I can’t do this anymore. I’m in Chicago, and I’m not coming back.
He called me after that. I answered. I owed him that much. It’s not like I would end our marriage over text message. But I also didn’t want to talk to him while he was high. It would havebeen pointless. He never remembered conversations we would have.
I told him what happened the night before. That he blew it, and that I was leaving and contacting a lawyer.
He begged me to come home. To give him one more chance. He cried—and somehow, I didn’t.
That was the last time I spoke to him.
August 25.
Jensen
I’m sorry, babe. I’m so sorry. Please come back.
There’s a whole slew of messages after that which are similar, spanning the next two days. Then, they just… stopped.
Matt said they got in a fight and that Jensen went MIA.
Then came September 14, after I sent multiple calls straight to voicemail.
Jensen
Al, I’m clean. I detoxed at Matt’s. I’m going to a rehab in Switzerland. It’s the best of the best. I leave in two days. I’d love to see you—please. Let me at least see you to apologize in person.
Please, babe. I love you. I’m going to get better. For real this time.
Babe. Give me another chance. I know I don’t deserve it, but come on. I love you. We love each other. You’re my best friend. God, please just text me back.
When I read that last one, a whole new wave of emotion crashes over me.
Jensen
I can’t imagine doing this and coming home to a world without you in it, Alley. You are my everything. Please wait for me. I love you.
I swipe back to the Instagram photo, my gaze locking on Jensen’s face. “I love you too,” I whisper.
I shudder, a quiet sob forcing its way out. I glance past the phone to the window. It’s snowing, and the peaceful serenity outside does nothing to calm the silent storm inside me.
I picture him—laughing, teasing, watching football—memories flashing like snapshots. Our wedding. Honeymoon. Skiing. Joking. Kissing…
Fucking.
God, the fucking.
