Page 90 of Come Take Me Now

She was right. Like when she called me a druggie. My bee finally stung me. I’ve kept my life clean, and she knows that. Right now, the best thing I can do is give her space and not insert myself into her life again. If we have any chance of reconciling someday—days, months, or years from now—she needs to know I stepped back.

Ugh, but I weaponized her childhood trauma.

I knew as soon as I brought that up, it was fucked up, and I don’t know how we can come back from that. Admitting I kept tabs on her at the club when she was just trying to have fun after my withdrawal could have been a nail in the coffin, too. But I’m holding onto that sliver of hope she’ll come back.

It won’t be tonight or tomorrow.

So, for now, I choose alcohol. And not a glass of wine. Something to punish myself with.

I reach up into my liquor cabinet for the top-shelf shit—barrel-proof bourbon. I don’t measure. I fill a tall glass and pour blindly until it looks full.

Settling on the couch that holds memories of her, I sink into the cushions, and I don’t sip. I take long drinks that burn my chest, but I can’t stop. I need to feel the agony.

I wake the next morning sprawled out on the couch in last night’s clothes. I know it’s morning, but the light is gray, muffled by the rain tapping on the windows.

That tracks.

As I lift my head off the couch cushion, a thudding pulse takes over the top of my head. I crack my neck, too. My body isn’t built for the couch anymore. My cup sits on the floor by the couch with a burned-up joint inside.

Fuck, I never smoke in the house.

My temples pound as I remember it’s Sunday. I wish it were Monday—work would distract me from whatever the fuck happened last night with Tilly. I’m sure I could find something to tackle once the hangover subsides.

I pull my body off the couch and reach for the cup. Blood rushes to my head again, and I wince at the increased pressure. I just set it on the coffee table and drag myself to the stairs. Each step up is heavy, but I finally make it to my bathroom for headache relief.

Opening the medicine cabinet, I’m confronted with the mostly empty middle shelf where too many orange bottles used to be. I know I could get more…say I dropped the bottle down the drain. Then take less than I did—just to restore my focus. One per day, like Tilly takes. But I grip the edge of the cabinet door. I have to stay better for her. Even if I never see her again.

I pop the aspirin with tap water and clean myself up on the off chance she comes by, but my gut says she won’t. I’ve never believed much in manifestation, but I might start believing if it could help bring her back.

I end up settled on the covered back porch with a protein shake and a joint. The rain is lighter now, but it’s made the air misty and cooler than normal. The sky’s still gray, as is my mind, but the joint will continue to numb me without more extreme measures.

Fortunately, the aspirin kicks in and eases the pounding in my head, and I’m not letting myself circle last night’s thoughts. I rest my ankles on the edge of the wooden coffee table, just like the night Tilly and I got high.

How I’d redo that night.

I opened up to her. Owned why I covered everything but my face and groin in tattoos, and she just held me closer. I squeezed her back too tightly. I thought I was everything she’d need—calm, settled, immovable—but I confused what was perfect for me with a two-way street.

And here I go spiraling again. I’m not what she needs. I thought I had protected her, but I drove her away. Because I wanted to keep her without ever considering that she wasn’t one to be kept.

My phone buzzes on the coffee table with a text.

Mom: On the way.

Fuck.

I rub my temples to soothe the remaining pounding. I forgot she was coming by this morning with my jeans she fixed for me. They were expensive and finally soft from being worn in and laundered, so I didn’t want to replace them.

My phone chimes with a notification from my doorbell. I smash the end of the joint into the glass ashtray on the outdoor table and stand with my half-empty protein shake.

“You smell like weed. Why do you look like shit?” Mom says when I invite her in.

“Thanks, Mom,” I deadpan as I close the door behind her.

“I fixed your jeans, but this might be the last time I can fix this pair. I’ll never understand how you split the in-seam so often,” she adds, draping my jeans over her arm.

“Thank you,” I quietly reply. This particular in-seam rip was from squatting to hook up the horse trailer for Uncle Bruno. At least, I always wear briefs under my jeans. I turn, head into the living room, and plop onto the couch.

“I’ll just go hang these in your closet.”