Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 95307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
He.
Apparently, I say the word aloud.
The ER doctor gives me another smile. “Yes, your husband. It’s good that you have someone listed in there for emergency situations. Not many think to include one for times like these,” he says before turning and walking out the door.
Harrison.
He’s coming.
And there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
Chapter 5
Harrison
* * *
A lonely Saturday night at home. Not just any Saturday night, today is Winnie’s birthday. The big three-oh and I’m not there to celebrate it with her. I sent her a text earlier, but it’s still radio silence on her end. That’s okay because at least she knows that I’m thinking about her. That I’m always thinking about her. I’ve called or sent her a text every day since the divorce was final. I guess you could say I’m having a hard time accepting it. My phone rings in my hand, and I silence the call. This is the second time Chase has called, and I’ve ignored him. I don’t want to go out tonight.
Not without Winnie.
It rings again, and I know that persistent fucker won’t stop. He’s like a gnat that keeps swarming around your head you keep swatting at, but it never goes away. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a great guy, my best friend since college, but he’s really starting to grate on my nerves with all this, go out and find someone new bullshit. Snatching my phone from the couch cushion beside me, I swipe the screen. “What?” I ask, annoyed.
He laughs. “I knew I would wear you down eventually. Let’s go grab some drinks.”
“Nah, not feeling it.”
“Here we go again.” He sighs heavily into the phone. “Harrison, come on. You can’t mope. I refuse to let you.”
“I’m not moping,” I lie. “It’s been one hell of a week, and I just want to stay in. I’m not good company tonight. Trust me on this.” That part is not a complete lie. I buried myself in work this week to fill the ache, to fill this void that knowing we’re divorced brings me.
“So, you’re saying you’re not up for being my wingman?” I can hear the humor in his voice. He knows damn good and well I’m not up for it. Not tonight or any night in the future. “I need backup.”
“Afraid not, you’re flying solo on this one.”
“Fine,” he grumbles. “I can tell by your tone that I’m not going to get you out of that apartment.”
He’s right. Nothing is going to get me from this recliner, my only piece of furniture in the living room, well, unless you count the TV and the TV tray I bought to eat my takeout on. I can’t seem to find it in me, to try and make this place home. It’s not home and will never be. It’s a constant reminder that I fucked up and lost my wife. Maybe I should look into moving to a new place, one that I pick out with plans of long-term? Yeah, not ready for that either. I always thought when we moved into a bigger place, it would be because we were growing our family.
“You take the ring off yet?” he asks.
“Don’t,” I warn.
“Jesus, Harrison.”
“Don’t,” I say again, not wanting to hear anything he has to say about it. I know it makes me a pussy. I get that. I know that it’s over, that the ink has long since dried on our divorce papers, but damn it, I can’t seem to make myself accept it. Taking off my wedding band is a part of that. My eyes dart to my left hand, where my ring still sits on the fourth digit. Then there’s the W tattoo. Both reminders of what I’ve lost. I’m going to take it off, but I was hoping that I would run into her and she would notice. This town isn’t that big, yet we’ve managed to avoid the awkward run-in.
“So what, you’re just going to sit around and do nothing?”
“There’s a John Wayne marathon on,” I tell him.
“Hold me back,” he jokes. “Seriously, this is the last time, man. I’m not going to let you sit and mope your life away. What happened to fighting for her?”
“She won’t reply to me,” I grumble, already over this conversation.
“Make her.”
“Right, and how do you suppose I do that?”
“Go to her, make her listen, do something. Staying holed up in your apartment all the time is not the answer.”
Again, he’s right, not that I’m going to tell him that. “Drinks next weekend. None of this wingman shit, got it? Drinks, but I’m not ready for all that other shit.” I don’t know if I ever will be.
“Fine,” he concedes. “Call me if you change your mind.”
“Sure,” I say, ending the call. I have no plans to change my mind. He can try all he wants, but I’m not leaving this apartment until Monday morning. I need some time to get my head together, figure out a plan. I’m going to fight for her, and I just need to decide how I’m going to do it.