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We can work it out.
I’m leaving.
The end.
She chose to leave, to fall out of love with me. Ready for the brutal part? I let her, and when she left the ring on the nightstand, I did nothing to stop her because there are some heartaches that you’ll never get over. Like girls who give back diamond rings.
I try to get comfortable on the bed with my feet hanging off the edge and a stuffed animal practically up my ass. I think about Tara, my wife. The one who thought we weren’t enough. The one who Camdyn has her smile and Sev has her temper.
So you might wonder how’d I get over her?
Well, after drinking more than I needed to, I went off-the-rails crazy, and rock bottom became a hell I visited often. There for a while, I couldn’t even force myself out of bed. What got me through it? It wasn’t the whiskey I thought could take the pain away and it wasn’t my brother telling me Elvis was right: fools fall in love. It wasn’t even my dad telling me she wasn’t worth it. It was the newborn and one-year-old she left me with. No one in the world would love them more than I do.
Beside me, Sev’s asleep, and I’m still staring at that damn poster. I pull out my cell phone and check the time. Four in the morning. Might as well get up.
Prying myself from the bed, I make my way into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. Outside, a ribbon of navy blue lines the horizon. With a million memories in my head, I think about Tara again and the last words I said to her.
A heat-soaked summer night, wind kicking up, her hand rested on my cheek, and my knees found the dirt. “I love you. Isn’t that enough?” I said some other things, lost my temper, sighed a lot, probably yelled. The list goes on.
Hers?
“Thisplaceisn’t enough.”
It wasn’t. Born with wandering feet, Tara despised the idea of staying in this dusty North Texas town. It meant being trapped in a life she never wanted. Before she got pregnant, she had dreams of leaving this map dot and never return.
Me? I never wanted to leave. I grew up baling hay, got my first taste of moonshine at ten, and spent my life working until I couldn’t stand up straight. I drive the same beat-up Ford I bought at sixteen, and all my jeans have holes and dirt that will never come out of them. I built the house I’m living in from the ground up, and my pride gets me into trouble more times than I care to admit. I spend Sundays in a field working and wear my heart on my sleeve under a steel lock. I was raised to say “sir” and “ma’am,” and when I promise something, I keep my word.
It wasn’t good enough for her.
Maybe to torture myself, I stare at her Instagram page. She’s a model now. Lives in LA and is technically still married to me. I haven’t signed the divorce papers and won’t until she gives me what I want.
Sometimes I don’t want her on my mind, but tonight, maybe I’m weak. Her memory hangs on me, like cobwebs on a ceiling. Between promises, and ones broken, she’s not entirely to blame for leaving. Rebellious and restless, I didn’t make the best of decisions back then.
I click on the latest one she posted yesterday of her and another guy, and the rock on her finger. Pain hits my chest thinking about the day I slipped a ring on that same finger. I was eighteen, about to be a dad, and thought you married the girl you knocked up.
My gaze moves to the skin of her collarbone, the spot I used to taunt with slow kisses and heated words. From her blonde hair to the blue eyes, she’s the definition of pure beauty. The kind you don’t see often but appreciate. She doesn’t need makeup plastered to her skin, the lip injections she clearly has, or the name-brand clothes. I remember the girl wearing jean shorts and my flannel, clinging to my shoulders in the back of my truck, scared for the life inside her stirring. I’m haunted by the way my name used to sound on her lips, and her kiss filled my mouth.
I can’t pinpoint when we went from “I can’t get enough” to “I can’t stand you,” but it happened in a blink of an eye.
With a heavy sigh, I stare at the Hollywood playboy I’ve seen in a couple movies next to the girl I thought was my forever. I shake my head, anger pulses through my veins. “Good luck, man. You’re gonna need it.”
Setting the phone down, I catch the photograph on the counter of me and the girls riding in the four-wheeler in the back fields last Christmas—their laughter heard even in the stillness now.
Without a doubt, I got the best part of Tara. These girls.
And what does she have?
Hollywood, I suppose. Fancy cars. Money.
Sure, I struggle with them, and they don’t have the best things money can buy. They have a roof over their heads and a dad who loves them more than anything else in the world. She can keep all those material possessions. I’ll take the “I can’t sleep, Daddy. I need you,” because that’s so much better than anything money can buy.
Am I bitter now?
I can’t say I’m not, but I know I have iron in my veins, and there’s not a damn thing I can’t endure. My stare moves to the envelope on the counter, and the papers I’m sending back unsigned, covered in my greasy fingerprints to remind her I’m a hardworking man. And no, this isn’t that movieSweet Home Alabama. My reasons go far behind being in love with her.
Fuck her.
I’m not giving her what she wants until she gives me what I’ve been asking for. Two can play this game, and I’ve never been fair when it comes to losing.