I scan the next few sentences and pause when I come across reason for divorce.
Petitioner asserts that the marriage has suffered an irretrievable breakdown.
“Irretrievable.” The word tastes bitter in my mouth. I scoff. “Fuck.”
I toss the papers down like they’re on fire. Planting both palms on the counter, I brace myself as my heart hammers in my ears.
I squeeze my eyes shut.Just breathe.In and out. That’s all. One breath at a time.
My eyelids flutter as I sniff, holding back the pressure building in my chest. I won’t let this wreck me.
I count to five. Then again.
Inhale. Exhale. Again.
Eventually, my heart rate starts to slow. I open my eyes and glance at the clock on the stove.Dammit.I’m supposed to meet Megan in twenty minutes.
I can’t do it. Not right now. I’m too close to breaking. Too fucking fragile.
I push away from the counter, head to the bathroom to grab my phone and text her.
I’m really sorry, but I need to reschedule. I can do later today or tomorrow.
I drop the towel and throw on boxer briefs, sweats, and a T-shirt. Phone in hand, I turn toward the kitchen, a sudden craving for a drink hitting me, fast and strong.
My phone dings.
Megan
Figures.
Shit. She doesn’t believe I’ve changed. Probably thinks I’ve relapsed—that I’m using again. It hurts more than I expected. The disbelief. The lack of faith.
Fuck that.
I text her back, shaking my head.
The fact that you have so little faith in me hurts in ways I can’t even explain. I’m not using. Something came up.
Megan
The fact that you can’t show up to a breakfast that was planned twenty-four hours ago to mend a relationship speaks volumes. I have a babysitter at my house and I’m already on my way. Fuck whatever came up. If this was important to you, you’d make it happen.
I slam the phone down, swing open the liquor cabinet, and stare up at all the liquid courage glaring back at me—Jameson, Maker’s Mark, Grey Goose, Casamigos Blanco, Patrón Silver, Hendrick’s. Bottles of wine too—Pinot, Cab, Malbec, Sauvignon.
Christ. I had a problem long before the addiction.
It’s a goddamn liquor store in here. I built this arsenal one bottle at a time—celebration, stress, sleep, sex. There was always a reason. This was always the answer.
I grab the Jameson—closest to me—and twist the cap off. Then I walk to the sink, turn on the tap, and tip the bottle over. The brown liquid spills down the drain in a steady stream, and I watch it disappear.
One down.
Then I do the same with the rest. The tequila. The vodka. The bourbon. The wine. One by one, I pour every single bottle down the drain, until it’s all gone.
I rinse my hands and dry them on a towel. Gripping the counter, I stare at the empty bottles, feeling equal parts defeat and satisfaction. They almost had power over me.Almost.But they didn’t. They don’t. Not anymore.
I pick up my phone. I can’t be alone right now. I’m too raw. Too tempted. My body’s yearning for an escape. I think about texting Matt, but the need to make things right with Megan is stronger.
