Page 9 of Dirty Husband

I try to shut it up by piling the entire portion onto my plate. But it still echoes through my head as I sort mail.

All alone, again.

With Dad in the hospital, we're relying on my salary alone.

I'm good with money. Smart. But I'm not a miracle worker. Even if I did max my credit cards, I wouldn't have enough to cover Dad's treatment.

I run the numbers a dozen times. Then a dozen more.

Maybe if I cut my cell phone. Or the electricity. Maybe I could stay with a friend. Only all my friendships have faded. I don't have time to stay in touch. Any request would be taking advantage.

I stack bills in a neat row. Junk mail in a pile. Magazines on the coffee table. I'm not sure who paid for these subscriptions to Cosmo and The Economist, but they make a hell of a contrast.

Thirty new ways to please your man.

Guess what: the world is falling apart. Again!

At the moment, I feel both in my core.

My world is falling apart.

Unless I find help from someone, I'm screwed. And Shep is the only one who's offering.

It's right there, in the Manila envelope between the magazines.

Jasminein black marker.

That's Shepard's handwriting.

Not his lawyer's assistant. His.

I undo the clasp. Pull out a stack of stapled papers.

A folded paper falls from a legal document.

A note. From him.

He has something to say.

Knowing Shepard, it's not:

I'm so sorry, I was rude. I know, six years ago, you finally had enough and said "I can't do this anymore, Shep. I love you, but I can't be with you if you keep drinking. This is it. If you don't check into rehab, tomorrow, I'm leaving. I'm walking away and never looking back."

I know, the day after, you left. And I kept drinking. But I can explain. I was a kid. Barely nineteen. Too stupid to see what I had.

I can explain why, a year and a half ago, when my brother blackmailed me, and used this tiny clause in my contract that said "get sober or lose the company," I did go to rehab. There's a perfectly good reason why I chose booze over you. Then money over booze. It's not that I love money more than I ever loved you. It's not that money is the only thing in the black hole I call a heart.

I really am sorry. I should have written to you after I got out of rehab. Apologized. Made sure you were okay, surviving New York on your own.

I should have written when your dad got sick. Sent help. Or at least a Get Well Soon Card.

I'm sorry I didn't. I'm sorry I let you feel like you weren't enough.

I'm sorry your love wasn't enough.

I suck a breath through my teeth. Try to wade through my thoughts. Whatever this is…

It doesn't matter how much I hate Shepard…