“I hope it works out for you, Griffin. I really do.” A tear fell from her eye and splashed onto her cheek.
My throat tightened, my eyes stung, and a wave of pain was rolling around my stomach so hard, I felt like I was going to throw up. I hated feeling shit like this. I avoided feeling shit like this. Shoving down the agony rising within me, I hardened my face, hardened my heart, and hardened my soul.
Stepping away from the door, I put on my armor of indifference. You can’t hurt me. “Fine. Leave. Whatever. You know you’ll be running back in a week anyway.” I grabbed my junk. “I mean, who else is gonna fuck you as well as me?”
Anna’s expression turned to ice as she wiped the tear trail off her cheek. “Thank you,” she said, her voice cold. “You just made this so much easier.”
Opening the door, she slammed it shut behind her. Now that a panel of dark wood was separating us, I screamed, “You won’t actually leave me, Anna! I know you won’t!”
When she didn’t respond, I started hyperventilating. Fuck…she was leaving me…and I was letting her go. What the fuck was I doing?
There was hustling, bustling, and a flurry of conversations in the house, but I did my best to ignore them. It got hard to do when I heard Gibson calling my name and Anna shushing her. Sitting on the bed, I rocked back and forth with my hands covering my ears. My only defense against the onslaught of agony battling its way through me was to repeat, It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter. None of this matters.
What felt like hours later, when my body was purged of all emotion, good or bad, I finally opened the bedroom door. With robotic steps, I made my way toward the kitchen. I needed a drink. Hopefully one strong enough to make me forget everything about my life.
Mom and Dad were whispering together. They silenced the minute I entered the room. Cigarette in hand, Mom asked, “How…are you?”
“Great. What do we have to drink around here?” My voice was coming out so monotone, I didn’t sound like me. I wondered if that was permanent. Maybe I’d forever sound like a lifeless corpse. I was fine with that. That was what I felt like.
Puffing out a long stream of white smoke, Mom told Dad, “Get him the good stuff.”
Dad immediately started rummaging through a cupboard that had always been locked when I was a kid. It wasn’t anymore. Good thing too. I’d probably break it open if it were. He started pouring scotch into a glass half-full of ice.
After he handed it to me, I thanked him and started shuffling into the living room. Mom and Dad cast each other worried glances, then followed me; Dad was still holding the scotch bottle.
“Son…you want to talk about…anything?” Dad’s voice was hesitant. Like most of the men in my family, he didn’t do “talks” or “feelings” or any of that girly shit. He wouldn’t have even asked me if Mom hadn’t rapped him on the shoulder. But I didn’t need to talk. I needed scotch, so he’d already done all he could for me.
“Nothing to talk about,” I stated.
I sipped my drink as I looked at them. Wanting them to stop looking at me like I was some fucked-up science experiment, I calmly asked, “What? Do I have something on my face?”
Mom directed me toward an open chair. “Why don’t you have a seat? I’m going to make a salad for the lasagna. It’s been done for a while now…” She started to leave once she forced me to sit. The sight of another woman turning her back on me made a flicker of something dark start to squirm its way to the surface. I buried it with a long gulp of scotch.
Before she left the room, Mom turned back to me. “In case you were wondering, Anna and the girls are staying with Chelsey. Dustin is still gone, so she’s got room…”
I wanted to tell her to shut the fuck up, that I didn’t care what the hell Anna did or didn’t do, but she was my mom, and I couldn’t say that to her. Plus, acknowledging the fuck-fest that was my life was something I didn’t want to do at the moment. Numbness was all I wanted. I raised my glass in answer. I hear you and I understand, so stop talking.
She left the room without another word. Dad refilled my scotch while he and Liam glanced at each other. They were making go-ahead motions, like they were volunteering each other for a task none of them wanted.
Face mournful, like someone had died, Liam finally said, “Sorry, man.”
I waited for an add-on to his comment, something insulting like, I knew you weren’t good enough for her, or Guess I won the pool on that one, or Mind if I date her, now that you’re through? That last thought made my fingers tighten so hard around my glass, I was positive it was going to shatter. If anyone fucking touched my wife, I would kill them—brother or not.
“That it? No snarky joke? No witty comment? Not even a putdown to go with it?”
With my tone, which was no longer dull and lifeless, I thought Liam might get ruffled, but he only shook his head. “No, just…sorry.”
My throat constricted so tight I could feel it in the back of my skull. As I nodded at him, I wished he’d made some jackass comment. His sincerity was painful.
It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter. None of this matters.
Wanting to be alone, I yanked the scotch away from Dad and trounced back to my room. Once I was inside, I slammed the door shut and started taking long pulls directly from the bottle. The room still smelled like Anna, and her things were everywhere—a shirt here, a bra there. Tiny reminders of my monumental loss. Or her loss. She was the one throwing in the towel and giving up. She was the quitter here, not me.