Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 116232 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116232 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
She didn’t owe me anything, and I didn’t deserve one, did I?
The plan had been to get some sleep, but it was hard to come by. Everywhere in the house, I saw reminders of her. There weren’t any dirty clothes on my bedroom floor because they were all tucked away in the laundry basket in my closet. My bed was made because I’d started doing that every morning.
The new habit had come about because I always wanted to be prepared in case she came over. But I had quickly discovered I was making the bed more for myself than her. I liked coming home to a house that wasn’t a mess, and I especially liked getting into a bed when it wasn’t a rumpled pile of sheets.
Did she realize how much of an effect she had on me?
I barely slept that night, so it made sense I felt like shit in the morning. I used that, plus the fact that it was a weekend, as my excuse when I didn’t make any headway on the job front.
I wallowed for an hour, and then guilt over hurting Charlotte stormed in, and that was louder than any other emotion I had. I was desperate to talk to someone, and it was fucking ironic that the person I’d grown closest to—the one person who knew me better than anyone these days—was the one person who wanted nothing to do with me.
Me: Please, Charlotte. I’m so sorry. Can I call you?
This text message also went unread.
I waited hours before caving and called, only for it go straight to voicemail. I sat at my desk in my office, and the realization of how fucked I was slowly dawned on me. She hadn’t just been my girlfriend; she’d been my best friend . . .
And I was terrified I might never see her again.
I wouldn’t get a chance to apologize for hurting her or explain how badly I’d gotten scared and fucked up. That if I could do things over again, I would have done them so differently.
Shit, I would have stood beside her instead of running away.
My phone chimed with a text, jarring me from my thoughts.
Shannon: Are you and Charlotte free next Friday? Patrick and I are going to Club Eros. Would love to see you there!
We hadn’t played with them since the night on their boat. Shit, I hadn’t thought about them much in the weeks since then. In fact, I hadn’t thought about them at all.
I’d only wanted to be with Charlotte.
I stared at the text message for a long time and spent even longer trying to compose a reply.
Me: We’re not together anymore.
Shannon: Oh no, sad to hear it.
The bubbles blinked as she typed out a new message.
Shannon: Was it something we did? If so, I’m sorry.
Me: No. It was something I did.
Shannon: I hate that it didn’t work out. Seemed like you two really liked each other.
I started to type out that we did but ended up deleting it before sending. I didn’t want to open the door and make Shannon feel obligated to talk to me about feelings, nor did I want to explain what had happened with Charlotte.
Shannon: If you’re still interested, you’re welcome to join us at the club.
A frown twisted my face at the idea. I had enjoyed playing with Shannon, but now that I’d done it with Charlotte, I didn’t want to go back to how things had been. It wasn’t exciting or interesting without her, and—fuck.
Being with anyone else felt wrong.
Me: No thanks, but you guys have fun.
I didn’t sleep much on Saturday night either. My appetite was gone, and my anxiety was at an all-time high. What was Charlotte doing right now? Was she over at her friend Sasha’s place, drinking and cursing my name? She hadn’t posted new content on any of her accounts, so maybe she was working on that.
Did she miss me even a fraction as much as I missed her?
It was mid-morning when I finally dragged myself into the kitchen and forced myself to make breakfast. I cooked up a plate’s worth of scrambled eggs, carried that and my cup of coffee into my home office, and sat down at my computer.
I always took an hour on Sunday mornings to go over my trading wins and losses from the previous week. I’d spend time studying why those losses happened and then mark up my charts for the coming week. It was my typical routine, and I hoped sticking to it could help break me from this fog of depression.
I scrolled through the accounts, scribbling out numbers in a notebook as I went. Eventually, they’d go in a spreadsheet, but I preferred pen and paper first. I liked the tactile experience of recording the figures this way.
But it did have the potential to cause errors.