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What have I done?

It’s the question with no answer that continues to swirl around my brain.

What have I done?

I keep trying to convince myself that I’m doing what’s best for Gabby.

What have I done?

When I try to convince myself I’m acting in her best interest, I feel like I’m making myself out to be some martyr. And I’m definitely no martyr. That’s for goddamn sure.

Instead, I’m driving away with my heart planted firmly in her hands. She will forever hold onto it. No other woman will ever measure up. No other woman will ever give me what she did. No other woman will ever be the other half of me the way she was.

But what choice do I have?

Her father holds the cards here. I didn’t sign a three-year contract so I could sit on the bench because he’s throwing a tantrum, but that’s not why I had to let her go.

It’s all the other pieces of the puzzle.

In the end, her father is right. She deserves better than a baseball player. And even though our age difference was never an issue for either one of us, she still deserves someone closer to her age. Facts are facts, and while not a single one of us is promised tomorrow, knowing what I know about my family history and how long the Noah men get on this earth, I can’t help but think she deserves someone who has better odds at more years than I might have left.

No matter how much I throw all that around my brain, though, the fact remains: my heart is shattered. My chest hurts, and I feel nauseated. My head throbs, and my eyes burn.

I need a drink.

I need several drinks, actually. I need to drink myself into oblivion. I need to drink until I no longer feel the pain, even if it’s only for tonight. It’ll be worse when I wake in the morning, but the promise of just a tiny bit of relief tonight is appealing in a way I’m not sure I fully comprehend.

It feels like the opening stages of grief as I act purely on instinct, the shock of what just went down starting to wear off as the pain sets in.

The truth of the matter is that Gabby made me happy.

I haven’t been happy in a long, long time.

If ever.

She made me the kind of happy that I could’ve lived on forever, but I walked away.

And the thought of what comes next, the thought of the days ahead without her…well, it’s enough for me to pull the car over on the side of a dark, deserted highway in the middle of the desert, turn on my hazard lights, and puke my fucking guts out.

It happened when I found out my father didn’t make it.

It happened when I found out I’d need surgery that would take me out of the game for a year.

And it’s happening again today.

The three worst events I’ve ever lived through…except I haven’t actually lived through the fallout of this one yet.

I try to convince myself that I made it through the first two, so I can pick myself up and do it again.

But as I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, I can’t help but think I’m not strong enough to make it through this time.

I don’t want to make it through if I don’t get to make it through with her.

That’s the difference.

I had to be strong for my mom when I was a kid.

I had to be strong when I left the game because the media was watching.

But this time?

This time, I’m all alone. I can grieve in peace.

I sit on the side of the road and try to catch my breath. I draw my knees up, hugging them into my chest, and I tilt my head back to look up into the clear night sky.

I study the stars, but all they do is remind me of everything I’ve lost. All they do is make me think back to the night we sat in the bed of her truck and stared up at them as we got to know one another—as I fell head over fucking heels in love with her in what was meant to be the most important relationship of my life.

What have I done?

I ruined the best thing that ever happened to me.

I’ll be okay. Eventually, I’ll be okay.

In the coming days, surely I’ll figure out why all this happened. Surely I’ll start to understand why it’s better this way. I can’t see that right now, but the pain is too fresh. It’ll take time to step forward from this. It’ll take time to heal.

At least I have the game to fall back on. My first love. My only love now, I guess.

It’s dark and depressing as I kick that dream of having a family down the road a little further…as I ponder how many—or how few —years I’ll get to spend with kids if I’m ever blessed enough to have them.

If I’ll ever find a woman I want to have children with the way I wanted them with Gabby.

I force another deep breath into my lungs, inhaling the cool desert evening air, but it feels like I can’t quite take a deep enough breath to satisfy the need for oxygen inside me. It’s like a heavy weight presses against my chest and I’m no longer able to breathe without assistance. So I suck in small breaths instead, hoping they’ll be enough to allow me to carry on.

And then I force myself up.

Baby steps. I force one foot in front of the other.

I climb into my truck. I pull on my seatbelt. I fire up the truck. I put it in drive and check for oncoming cars.

The road is deserted, so I pull out onto it, the lone driver in the lone car heading toward a lonely home where I can break open a bottle of whiskey and drown my sorrows before I leave town—before I leave her —in the morning.