DRAMA NOVEL ONLINE Fragile Lives: Chapter 7
It was a fun night, indeed. We got wasted on bourbon Kenneth had stashed, and I’m fucked by the queen of all hangovers. I should have gotten used to it by now, but I feel like shit every morning after drinking. It’s getting worse and worse every time. I’m getting old, it seems.
Taking a few pills helps me survive the morning. And a gallon of coffee. The wedding is in a week—I didn’t intend to stay that long since I have a business to run (such a pitiful excuse since I have Cherry for that), so I talk to Alex on the phone and tell him that I’ll be back in a couple of days.
He doesn’t want a bachelor party, saying that Freya would give birth too soon if she heard that he went to a strip club, so we opted for a chill night with drinks at Kenneth’s place the night before the wedding.
The whole drive back to Boston, my mind drifts to Leila and how she changed once she read that damn message. I need to know what it said.
When I pull into my driveway, a big empty house greets me with its cold, unwelcoming windows. I paid a shit ton of money for it, hoping it would bring me peace since it was in my father’s family for many generations until he sold it.
I still don’t know why—money was never an issue for him. But I’m beginning to get an idea—maybe he felt as shitty as I did here alone. I wish I could spend that one year with him in this house instead of his flat in the city. Maybe this house would feel different to me now.
He left all his money to me in the will, and the first thing I did was buy this house. He always talked about it. How he grew up here, but when his parents died, the house felt too lonely, and heavy shadows of the past lurked around every corner. He was an artist too and very sensitive to changes in the air, so he sold it. And I bought it, like an idiot, hoping to feel a bit closer to him, settling in my American roots.
Spoiler alert, though—it didn’t make me feel closer to anyone. Quite the opposite, actually. I feel even lonelier here. I was thinking about getting a dog because that’s what everyone does, but then I decided against it since I don’t want to make the poor creature suffer in my absence.
I park my Rover and go to unlock the door. Silence greets me. It always does. I don’t turn on the lights—no need; I know this house like the back of my hand, and light won’t make my mood brighter. I walk to the liquor cabinet and pull out a bottle of bourbon. Dropping two ice cubes into the glass, I pour more alcohol than I probably should and drink half of it in one go. Alcohol helps me forget, but the relief is temporary. I find myself wanting to forget the very next day. So, I drink again.
My phone starts ringing. Who even calls these days? But I have a suspicion, and she would be the only one who expects an answer.
“Yes,” I answer, grouchy because I’m right—it’s her.
“Hello, asshole.”
“Why are you calling, Cherry?” I ask with a sigh.
“Because you would never respond to my text anyway.” Her tone is extra bitchy today—I must be in trouble.
I chuckle—she’s right. I probably wouldn’t. “What happened?”
“What happened? What happened?” Then she asks someone next to her, “He’s asking what happened? Can you believe it?” She speaks into the phone again. “What happened is where the fuck have you been? And why the fuck did you avoid my messages and calls?”
“I was in Maine.”
“A-a-ah, pining after the hot chick again,” she singsongs.
I nearly spit out my drink. “For fuck’s sake, Cherry, how many times do I have to tell you that I’ve never pined after Kayla.”
“Well,” she sighs, “maybe you should. It would do you a ton of good.”
“Please, not you too,” I groan.
“I mean, sex never hurt anyone, you know. Especially good sex.”
“I get plenty of that. Leave it alone.” I force a fake laugh.
“Alright,” she chuckles. “But really, boss. When are you coming back? I need you to sign some shit, and clients have been asking about you.”
“We have seven top artists in Boston, Cherry, and a few really good ones scattered across the country.” I regret her not seeing me now because I’m rolling my eyes so hard. “They can manage without me.”
“Nah, boss.” She loudly pops her bubble gum—a habit of hers I hate. “They want your hand and your art.”
“I haven’t inked anyone in years, and I’m not planning on ruining the strike,” I reply firmly, praying she’ll leave me the fuck alone about it finally. We’ve been having this conversation at least once a week.
Another bubble pops.
“Will you ink me?”
“Nice try. No. Does anything need my immediate attention?”
“We miss you.” I can hear her pout even through the phone. “Though you pay me handsomely to avoid complications, we just miss you. Will you stop by?”
“Yeah,” I sigh in defeat. “I will tomorrow.”
“Cool beans. See ya.” She blows a kiss into the phone and hangs up.
Cherry has been with me for a long time—I’m talking a decade. And I don’t know how I would manage my business without her. She’s the sister of one of the guys who served with us and didn’t make it.
We emailed back and forth while I was there, and when I came back, I made sure she was taken care of, knowing their living situation sucked. And that’s how I found myself ten years later with the most loyal person in my life. I also know that she’s destined for bigger things, but she doesn’t leave to explore them. I’m dragging her down along with me.
And the thing about Kayla? Yeah, Cherry has been crushing on her since the moment Kayla stepped foot into my parlor. It was hilarious to see how Cherry tried to sway her, but Kayla was too in love with her dickhead of a now fiancé and didn’t pay her much romantic attention.
Good fucking thing Cherry moved on because she lost her sleep over it. She legit had cartoon eyes every time Kayla walked in, and I need this woman because she’s the only thing that’s holding my business together at this point ever since I lost all interest in it.
Since Cherry is doing everything, there was no need for me to come home, but I couldn’t stay in Little Hope any longer during their pre-Christmas chaos. Everyone has a family, and I don’t belong there. I belong here, in this empty, cold house, with a bottle in my hand. And when, if not the holidays, does a lonely person feel the loneliest? Never.
I rise from the chair I’m sitting on, and the dog tags click under my shirt. I grab them with my hands, remembering why I’m still here and why I do what I do, so I go to my laptop and initiate another wire transfer to the organization that supports fallen vets’ families. It makes me feel better. Well, not better, but less shitty.
Then I pick up my phone and browse the names of women I hook up with when the mood strikes.
Well, maybe this one. She is a feisty redhead. Nope. This one. Redhead too. I browse two more before I realize I’m stopping on redheads only. I didn’t know I even knew so many. But every time my finger hovers over the ‘send’ button, I pause.
I don’t want just any redhead. I want one redhead who radiates fuckin’ sunshine that pisses me off. I want to swallow and absorb all that light, hoping it will make me see in color too. I want to drink her purity, hoping it will free me of my darkness.
And then a wave of hate sweeps over me for the thoughts I’m having. Everything that pops into my mind is selfish and aims to make me feel better, with not a thought about how she’d feel with such a shithead like myself around. Alex was right to warn me off. He was so right.
I throw my phone on the couch and lean my head against the back of it, looking at the ceiling. How long can I go like this? Why do I need to go on like this?
These questions are not new to me, and as usual, they don’t come with answers, so I take the bottle I brought with me and don’t bother with a glass anymore.