Out of Love(78)

And he married another woman.

Nothing … nothing had ever felt so fucking painful. Not Jessica’s fists landing on my face and ribs. Not the night a man tried to rape me. Not even the day I thought he died.

My mom’s death. It felt like that.

Unexpected.

Unimaginable.

Un-fucking thinkable.

I’m happy you’re alive.

I’m happy you’re in love.

I’m happy you’re happy.

My mind tried to latch onto something positive. Mind over matter.

But I couldn’t.

I couldn’t be happy that he was alive and with anyone but me. Maybe that made me a terrible person. Or maybe that made me twenty-six, heartbroken, and human.

Love was supposed to be many beautiful things. And it was. But at the core of love, there existed this really selfish need. I refused to believe that if you truly loved someone you’d set them free. No. You didn’t set them free.

You held them.

You nurtured them.

You made their happiness yours.

His hand dropped to his side as Floyd headed to the door after saying goodbye to everyone, including me. I think I smiled or nodded, but I can’t remember. He curled his fingers and ran the pad of his thumb over the ring. My focus shifted up his body, and it latched on to his gaze. He knew what caught my attention because his gaze quickly averted to Floyd.

In seconds, they were gone.

“Let’s show you your office. I remember what it felt like on my first day at a big firm. I’m pretty sure I was as nervous and pale as you.” Tricia nodded toward the door.

In one hour, my hopes were resurrected from the dead only to be demolished by a little round band.





Chapter Thirty-Three





I hadn’t had a drop of alcohol.

Not one. Not ever.

My dad ruined that for me. He no longer consumed alcohol, but I couldn’t erase the man he was—absent and barely living—after Mom died. When I lost Slade, I thought about drinking, finding something to numb the pain.

I didn’t.

When I passed my boards, I didn’t celebrate with alcohol like the rest of my friends.

I surfed.

I hiked the hills of LA.

I sparred with my dad and sometimes Jessica.

I focused on searching for a job.

After seeing that ghost, I picked up a bottle of wine and headed back to my apartment.

“Hey, Jerry.” I managed a tiny greeting. Even Jericho had to think something was wrong with me. I usually greeted him with infectious enthusiasm.

Not that day.

I set the wine and my purse on the counter. “Let’s go potty, babe.” I fought an onslaught of tears, the same ones I’d been fighting all afternoon.

Wylder was alive.

And he was married.

When we reached the front of the building, I let him guide me to his favorite pissing spot, actually his favorite tree. I couldn’t blame him for having a favorite tree. I always had one in school.

Jericho marked the tree and ran—top speed run in the opposite direction down the sidewalk.

“Jericho!” I yelled, turning in that direction, shocked that the dog who never needed a leash just bolted.

My heart couldn’t take anymore. Yet there he was, hunched down, receiving kisses from Jericho. A long-awaited reunion. Breaking my heart wasn’t enough. He had to come for his dog, stepping on that barely beating organ behind my ribs and grinding it into dust, like a black boot snuffing out a cigarette on the concrete.

Slade slowly stood and walked toward me with Jericho right at his side, as if he never left. As if he never died. He no longer wore a black suit. Instead, he wore jeans and a white tee, looking like the man I loved years earlier.

Six feet apart, we stood idle, a standoff to see who would speak first. I gritted my teeth and willed my emotions to stay in check. As usual, he won. I had to say something before I exploded.

“He’s not yours. He’s mine now. You died. You abandoned him. And I know a pretty good fucking attorney if you try to fight me on this.” Anger wrapped around every word like barbed wire. I felt the words cut from my throat, and I hoped he felt them just as brutally.

“He’s yours. Always.”

Fuck you …

I didn’t want him to be nice. I didn’t want him to be the version of him I fell in love with at the beach in the back of a sprinter van.

But he was. And I hated—yes hated—him for it.

Swallowing hard, I shifted my attention to Jericho. “Let’s go.”

When I turned, that boot stomped on my heart again as he said to Jericho, “Go.”

The loyal German shepherd wanted to stay with his master, but Slade was giving him to me. I hated that too. Jericho became this consolation prize.

You can’t have me, but here’s my dog.

Once I recovered from tripping over my emotions, I continued to the door of my apartment building. Jericho followed, but so did Slade.

“Can we talk?”

I grunted a laugh, taking fast strides toward the elevator. “We have nothing left to say. I said it all, the day you died.” My finger incessantly pushed the button for the doors to open. When they did, I stepped inside and waved my card in front of the reader.

“Well, I was choking on my own blood, so I didn’t get a chance to say everything I had to say.”