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“Feel better soon, Dr. Goode,” she says in a chipper tone.
I hit the end call button without a response. Setting my phone down on the coffee table, I recline on my couch with a glass of whiskey resting in my lap. Half-eaten cartons of Thai food are scattered across the coffee table, right next to a group of empty beer bottles, stationed like sentinels at my feet.
They keep me from feeling too much. Not everything, though. I wish they could protect me from feeling everything, but the regret and loneliness still seem to slip through from time to time.
Sadie left two weeks ago. For the first few days, I was able to pretend I was okay. I even managed to teach for a couple of days. But every chance I could, I reached for the bottle and by the weekend, I dove headfirst into the swamp.
Then, I started wallowing, and now I’m on day nine of this spell, and at this point, I wallow on a professional level. I’ve made a living in this swamp.
I’ve even taken to writing humiliating and depressing poetry. Burned that as soon as I woke up the next day. Turns out there was nothing romantic about the old drunk poets of the past—just pathetic misery.
I miss her so much it hurts. I miss the way she hummed songs, even in the silence. I miss the way she danced when she ate. I miss her fucking shoes kicked all over the house.
“Lucas.”
I must have fallen asleep because I peel my eyes open to find my shirt cold and wet from the whiskey I spilled and someone standing over me, silhouetted by the TV playing behind them.
He slaps his hand over his chest, gasping for air as if I’ve somehow scared him.
“Jesus, I thought you were dead. You scared the shit out of me.”
Wincing, I force myself to sit up and face my younger brother, who is somehow standing in my living room.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. “You don’t live here anymore.”
“Maybe I should…” he mumbles as he scans the current state of my house. “Look at this place.”
“I’m not feeling well this week so housework has fallen a little behind.”
“A little?” he snaps. Then, he glances around the house. “Where’s Sadie?”
“She left,” I groan.
“Left…”
“She left me,” I say as I lean forward, squeezing my eyes shut and wishing my headache away. I’m still too drunk to be hungover, but lucky me, I seem to be caught between both states at the moment.
“Oh no,” Isaac murmurs. He sits on the couch next to me as he places a hand on my back. “Luke, I’m sorry.”
I swipe his hand away. “I’m fine. It was nothing. Just a fucking fling. I’m not really a relationship guy anyway.”
“So you’re not drunk and living in squalor because of a bad breakup?”
“What?” I grunt. “No. That’s ridiculous.”
“Sure, it is,” he replies like he doesn’t quite believe me. “I’m going to make coffee and open some fucking windows. It smells in here.”
I lie back down on the couch and cover my eyes as Isaac tears open the curtains and throws open the windows to let some light and fresh air in. Immediately, I hate it. I want to vomit or cry or yell or something.
It’s the middle of the fucking day and I’m drunk, trying to hide in the dark. How goddamn depressing.
But then I smell coffee and it gives me a small thread of hope. My stomach growls like it’s hungry and I welcome the warm mug my brother hands me.
“Tell me everything.”
So I do. I try to play it off as something casual that doesn’t matter, but quickly, it turns into something more serious. And by the end, when I’m telling him how she left, my voice is cracking from emotion.
“Damn, Luke.”
