The Lost Fisherman (Fisherman #2)(73)

What was that acronym everyone used? Oh yeah, FML. Really … fuck my life.

Recent photos included the shot that Rose showed me of Fisher getting his fill of alcohol, but also of their room in Costa Rica confirming that they only had one bed. An hour earlier, she’d posted a shot of her reflection in the mirror of the hotel room. She was in the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her body and another one wrapped around her head, and Fisher was already dressed in his suit for the wedding, looking out the window with his hands casually slid into the front pockets of his pants.

My heart cracked again and again, barely hanging on.

Her caption was: My Future Husband. With a heart emoji.

My level of obsession hit the most destructive low when I heard Rory and Rose pull into the garage. I grabbed a bottle of wine and an opener and ran to my room and closed the door. When one of them knocked and opened the door a crack, I remained perfectly still on my bed, with my back to the door, so they thought I was taking a nap. When the door softly clicked shut again, I sat up, pulled the hidden bottle of wine out from under the blanket, and opened it.

Over the next hour, Angie documented the wedding in her Instagram story with a nice mix of still photos and short videos.

The venue on the beach.

Clips from the ceremony.

Her and Fisher holding hands, posing next to the bride and groom.

“We’re going to dinner. Pizza? You coming?” Rory knocked on my door. I quickly set the bottle of wine on the floor where she couldn’t see it, nearly falling out of bed onto my butt. Then I grabbed a book from my nightstand and buried my nose into it just as she opened my door.

“I’m uh … good.” I couldn’t tell if my words were slurred, so I yawned to hide anything that might make her suspicious. It was incredibly hard to pretend you weren’t drunk when you were.

“Sure you don’t need a break? Or you can bring your book.”

“Good.” Another yawn. “Totally good.”

“You sound exhausted. Might want to go to bed early and get more sleep, in case you get called for a delivery.”

Oh my gosh …

She was right. I was on call and drunk. Only Rory didn’t know I was drunk.

“Okay,” I managed.

Once I heard the back door to the garage close, I stumbled out of bed and drank a hundred gallons of water to flush out the alcohol … give or take ninety-nine gallons. Then I spent the next hour on the toilet peeing out all the water, eating chips from the bag, and monitoring Angie’s Instagram page.

Kill me now.

I’d always felt like saying “yes” to Brendon, and then losing my virginity with him when I knew I wasn’t going to marry him, was my lowest of lows.

Wrong.

My self-destructive drunk ass on the toilet, stalking Fisher and Angie in Costa Rica was my new low. I should have deleted the app and gone to dinner with Rory and Rose. When my bladder gave me a break, I took my pathetic self to my bedroom, and I deleted the Instagram app. Then I prayed, on-my-knees-hands-folded prayed, for God to make it stop. I left it up to Him to determine what that meant. I just wanted something … anything … everything to stop.

While I waited for his answer, I grabbed my Bible from my bookshelf and plopped onto the bed. Suddenly I was inspired to read some 1 Corinthians about love and marriage inspiration.

It doesn’t envy. Well … too late.

It doesn’t boast. It is not proud. Clearly Angie needed to spend a little more time in God’s Word.

So many things love was not supposed to be.

Rude.

Self-seeking.

Easily angered.

Keeping no record of wrongs.

Never delighting in evil.

Demanding its own way.

Had I believed all that, then the only conclusion I would have come to was … I couldn’t love Fisher.

But for the record … neither could Angie with her mega boasting and larger-than-life pride.

Thou shalt not judge.

It wasn’t all restrictive. There were a few things love was supposed to be.

Patient.

Kind.

Rejoicing in truth.

Hopeful.

Enduring in every circumstance.

Wow! Was I incapable of loving Fisher the way God intended for humans to love one another?

Feeling a little nauseous and mentally broken, I slid my Bible onto my nightstand, pulled my blankets over me, and fell asleep.





Chapter Thirty-One





Sunday morning was rough. My head felt like it had been shaken with a 6.0 magnitude earthquake.

“Muffin?” Rory asked.

She and Rose eyed me from the kitchen table. They wore matching white robes and big smirks.

Squinting against the light from all the window shades drawn open, I shook my aching head.

“I knew something was up when I asked you about dinner last night. But the un-flushed toilet, empty bag of chips on the bathroom floor, and empty wine bottle next to your bed this morning confirmed it. Not to mention your Bible next to your bed. Wanna talk about it?” Rory slowly sipped her coffee.

I poured myself a cup of coffee and filled a tall glass with water before taking two pills for my head. “So you knew I wasn’t right, but you went to dinner anyway?” I shuffled my feet to the table and plunked my butt onto the chair.

Rory shrugged. “What’s that saying … something about the only way to get past something is to go through it? I noticed you were going through it. And I didn’t want to stop your progress.”