Returning like a woman on a mission, I pour a heavy dose of accelerant onto the sad pile. I pick up one picture and light the edge. Orange flames lick their way up the cardboard and I toss it in. A satisfying whoosh rises from the pit, a plume of heat and fury, and I let out a victorious whoop.
"Yeah! Take that, fucker!" I shout into the night.
Now that I’ve had a taste, I want more.
Marching through the house, I dump out a laundry basket onto the floor and start filling it with Ben’s things. His favorite hat. His entire underwear drawer. The photo albums I had lovingly made of our years together. His precious collection of journals he’d been published in.
Passing through the kitchen, I toss a bag of chips on top, a tub of ice cream with a spoon, and the bottle of expensive tequila he’d been saving for a “special occasion.” After all, I think this qualifies.
Back outside, I flop into one of the Adirondack chairs Ben insisted we buy last summer because they looked good. I try to get comfortable in it, but I’ve always hated them. I wrestle my way out, turn around, and hurl the damn thing across the lawn. It doesn’t go far, but the crack of wood splitting as it lands is deeply satisfying.
I fetch a folding chair from the garage, wrap myself in a blanket, and settle in beside the fire. As the flames start to die back down, I feed them piece by piece—his journals, his underwear, and the photo albums. As the pieces of my life burn to ash, I work my way through the ice cream, the chips, and the booze, drinking straight from the bottle.
“Cheers, fucker,” I mutter, raising it in a mock toast.
Despite my best efforts, nothing fills the aching hollowness his betrayal has left inside me. The throbbing emptiness spills over, carving hot, salty tracks down my cheeks. I toss his final pair of underwear into the fire, surprised to find the basket as empty as the bottle of tequila.
Pulling the blanket tighter around my shoulders, I let my fuzzy gaze drift to the edge of the woods. Even though I’m half a world away, I find myself scanning for those silver eyes again. Their absence triggers an ache within me—irrational, impossible, and yet so visceral.
A desperate, relentless need to see them again curls in mygut, even in this drunken, grief-slicked haze. There is nothing left for me here. The life I built is gone. And if I don’t find that plant, things will only get worse.
The solution floats to me like a whisper on the crackle of the fire. With a slurred giggle and a hiccup, I pick up my phone and finally start making decisions for me.
Chapter
Three
With a loud groan, I grip my head and squinch my eyes shut. My body protests spending the night on the hard ground, and my mouth feels like I ate a bag of cotton balls. The thought of eating anything makes my stomach lurch.
I crack open my eyes and survey the damage around me—a broken Adirondack chair, a melted tub of ice cream, and a very empty bottle of tequila. Scrubbingmy hands over my face, I smooth them back through my hair to wind it into a knot and find the missing ice cream spoon stuck in my curls. I pick up the empty container to throw it away.
Heading inside, a whiff of last night’s mint chocolate chip hits my nose. My stomach heaves in protest, and I pause to empty it into the bushes. With that cheerful start to my morning, I head back to my room, gather my toiletries, and go to the guest bath.
I still can’t face my bathroom with the image of Ben’s betrayal so fresh. I brush my teeth, chasing the resurrection of the tequila away, then sink into the comfort of a long, hot shower.
Part of me wants to stay here in the sweet-smelling steam, hide away from the reality waiting just beyond the curtain, maybe let the warm water wash it down the drain.
But another part of me is ready to move on. Now that I’ve realized what I sacrificed for Ben and his success, I vow to make myself the priority. With one last deep breath, I shut off the water and step into my new life, starting with doing some laundry.
While I wait, I choke down some tea and toast, missing the sweet chai of India, then stand at the kitchen sink, staring out the window at the edge of the woods as the rain begins to fall, lost in thought.
The harsh buzz of the dryer pulls me back. I fold my clothes and carry them to the closet but can’t bring myself to put them away. As much as I don’t want to stay in this house—this mausoleum of my failed relationship—I don’t know where else to go.
All of my friends were our friends, and as I run through the list of people I might call, I realize I don’t have anyone. The friends I had from college drifted away while I focused all my attention on Ben.
And now, I can’t help but wonder if that wasn’t intentional on his part.
I’d been the only child of a single mother, gone too soon from the same hereditary disease I’m trying to escape. It had been so easy for Ben to become my whole world. Without him, I have nothing.
The thought stops me cold.
I consider looking for another bottle or burning something else, but instead I retreat to the guest bed and curl into the blankets. I silence my phone. No interruptions. Just the welcoming escape of sleep.
When I wake, the sun is setting. I grope for my phone and squint at the too-bright screen in the dim room. Notifications of dozens of missed calls and texts from Ben light up the screen.
I’m not ready to hear his voice, so I open the messages first.
They’re exactly what I expected—apologies, excuses, more lies. I pocket the phone and head to the kitchen, popping a frozen pizza into the oven. While it cooks, I pull out my phone again to start the search for a new place to live.
