Brad reached for me but I pushed his hand away, jumped up and ran for the bathroom. I puked until there was nothing left to puke. I was certain I looked like a mess and felt like one too. I mustered up the strength to head into the kitchen where Brad had fixed me a couple slices of toast and set out a glass of orange juice.
“I thought this would make you feel better.”
“You know what would make me feel better?” I asked. “You getting the hell out of my house. NOW.”
He started to say something.
“I mean it. NOW.”
“But I thought...”
“You thought wrong. Get out.” By now my voice was shaking but I remained firm. I wanted him to know that I wasn’t going to change my mind on this. I thought he was going to say something but he didn’t. He gathered his stuff and headed to the door.
“I guess I’ll call you later?”
“Don’t bother.”
“I’ll call you later,” he reaffirmed and then he was gone. Once again I collapsed in a heap against the door and I cried. Really cried. I cried until there wasn’t any tears left to cry. I had screwed up. Once again. And there was no one to blame but myself.
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1 comment:
I love this story! It's like a soap opera in writing! Great stuff.
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