Page 66 of Stealing His Cupcake (Stockholm Syndrome for the Win #2)
Wyatt
The bottle is annoyingly empty. Again. Seriously, there must be a leak in it because there’s no way I would be this sober if I’d drained the entire thing.
The dingy motel room spins as I get up, so maybe I am a little drunk, but nowhere near as much as I want to be.
The scar on my abdomen throbs as I stagger across the room searching for a bottle that isn’t empty, but they all are.
Fuck! Now I’ll have to crawl to the fucking liquor store or face the world sober, which is not fucking happening.
The world without Amy is depressing enough even with alcohol to take the edge off.
Sober, I might just step into the traffic and be done with everything.
Truth be told, I don’t know why I even bother getting out of bed anymore.
Nothing feels real, nothing holds my attention.
Food tastes like ash and even the sharpest liquor goes down like iced tea. There’s no color in the world anymore.
Maybe I’m in Hell.
Desperate not to get any more sober, I grab my wallet and head out of the room.
I should probably also wear a hoodie or a ball cap to disguise myself, but it’s not like anyone is looking for me.
Even if Amy wanted to find me, which is extremely unlikely given the cowardly way I left her, she wouldn’t have access to security cameras or a facial recognition system.
Slava might, but I’m not hiding from her.
I owe her a favor and if I’m not around, she might try to collect it from Amy, which is something I can’t allow.
It’s also the main reason I haven’t bitten a bullet yet, despite not having any motivation to live left.
Nothing makes sense without Amy around.
I hate myself for leaving her, but I stand behind my decision. She deserves someone better. Hopefully, she’ll realize it and build a better life for herself. With another man.
The sharp pain in my knuckles makes me realize I’ve punched a lamp post. Fuck it for standing in my way. I need to pull myself together, though. The store won’t sell me any booze if I’m visibly wasted and if they don’t, I might just fucking rob them because there’s no way I’m surviving this sober.
If I focus enough, I’m able to walk in a somewhat straight line, which will have to do.
I brush a hand through my disgustingly greasy hair, pull it out of my face, and shake the chips out of my craggy beard.
I hate having a beard, but I haven’t really trusted myself with a razor that close to my throat.
Not to mention I hardly bothered to brush my teeth, let alone shave.
The liquor store clerk eyes me suspiciously as I grab several bottles of whatever is closest, but he doesn’t kick me out. “ID?” she asks, and I give her an incredulous look.
“Do I look like a fucking teenager?”
She shrugs. “Sorry, sir. We have a ‘card everyone’ policy. I can’t sell you anything without seeing your ID.
” Cocking a brow at my generally disheveled state, she silently lets me know that she sure as hell shouldn’t be selling me anything even with an ID but is willing to look the other way if I don’t make trouble. Bless that bitch.
“Whatever.” Struggling a little with the clasp on my wallet, I manage to pull out an ID. Norman Gates, it says, right next to my photo. I snort, only now realizing it sounds like Norman fucking Bates and isn’t that just ironic?
“Thank you.” The clerk either doesn’t see the similarity or doesn’t consider it funny.
I suppose that if I had to deal with drunks and low-lives like me every day, I wouldn’t find a lot of things funny, either.
She rings up my purchase and I hand her a wad of cash.
I left almost all of my money to Amy, but I grabbed a bunch of cash from various hiding spots around the house.
I’m not about to run around paying with a credit card like an idiot.
Even Amy might find me that way, and there’s not enough liquor in the world for me to face her again.
I would shatter, drop to my knees in front of her and beg for her forgiveness, and I can’t let that happen.
I’m bad for her. Toxic. She deserves a healthy relationship with someone who hasn’t kidnapped her.
Someone who isn’t a killer. Someone who isn’t me.
Sensing I’m ready to punch something again, I hurry out of the store and unscrew the bottle. I shouldn’t risk drinking in public, but it’s not like there are any cops around here to hassle me for it.
The clear liquid burns in my throat but doesn’t lighten the world any. Fuck it all.
Back in the motel room, I eye the wall-mounted TV.
Despite spending the last few days in a drunken haze, I know exactly what day it is today.
It’s Sunday and the final episode of Price of Passion is on today.
I’ve watched every single one with Amy, texting her while she was on the phone with her friend.
We’ve discussed fan theories, made pros and cons lists of why Maggie should end up with Eric and not with Henry, and endlessly debated about what might really be buried under the old apple tree in the orchard.
It was…normal. So fucking normal, something I imagine normal couples doing in their normal lives together.
There was nothing normal about Amy and I’s relationship, but this stupid TV show gave us that illusion.
Will it hurt watching it without Amy one last time? I imagine it will feel like having my broken heart pulverized by a sledgehammer.
Will I watch it? Of course I will, because I’m apparently a sucker for pain .
Pausing to shake out chips and stray french fries from the blanket, I settle on the bed and turn the TV on.
The first bottle is half empty by the time the show starts, the buzz mercifully dulling the sharpest pain.
There’s some wetness on my cheeks as I watch Maggie finally run into Eric’s arms and passionately kiss him.
I want that, but don’t we all want things we can never have?
“Motherfucker!” I yell at the screen as the episode culminates with a grand revelation that Maggie’s grandfather is truly his own twin who killed his brother and buried him under the apple tree.
“I fucking knew it!” And Amy kept telling me it was nonsense.
Ha! In her face. Grabbing my phone, I’m ready to text her a very smug “I told you so”.
The pain lancing through me when I realize I won’t ever text her anything again is unreal.
Completely ignoring the alcohol-induced numbness, it envelops me until I feel like my heart is literally breaking.
Perhaps I’m having a fucking heart attack.
I would welcome it over this miserable existence.
The TV drones on, showing snippets from the next season of the show, because of course the final season wasn’t really final, but I already know I won’t be watching it because I’ll be dead by the time it airs.
No one can live with this kind of pain for long without opting out and I’m no exception.
I’m not strong. Not by a long shot. The only reason I’m not calling Amy right this very second is that I’ve permanently blocked her number on my phone and I’m too wasted to undo it.
Hopefully, by the time I’m sober enough to change the settings, I will have realized what a bad idea it is and stop myself from actually doing it.
I can see why so many people are evil. Doing the right thing fucking sucks.
I pull up the photo I took the morning I left and stare at Amy’s sleeping form, curled up on the bed, weeping like the pathetic waste of space I am. It’s the right thing to do, I keep reminding myself. Staying away from her is the right thing to do, even if it’s killing me.