Garrett
Ishould be able to bounce back from this. Go to the club. Go for a run. It’s one girl. One mistake. It shouldn’t be this hard.
For the past decade, I could do what needed to be done to shake an episode. Maybe hide under the covers for a day or two and then bounce back. I don’t do meds or therapy, and I’ve gotten through every single one of these nasty bouts of depression without any help.
Except for one fucking time.
And I am not repeating that episode again. I’m not.
But no matter what I tell myself, everything right now is hard. It’s like a sickness oozing through my veins. This slimy sick feeling penetrates my mood, turning everything sour and heavy and wrong. It shouldn’t be this fucking hard.
This whole spell was triggered by her leaving, but it’s just a fucking breakup. Get your head together, Garrett. And kick this mood already.
I should be relieved she dumped me. It’s better this way. The whole thing with Mia is over; she’s free to move on and find someone better. And I can get back to the life I love, the one where I can focus on the shit that really matters to me. Like work.
So why do I suddenly feel like a giant piece of shit?
Rolling out of bed, I walk to the window. Replaying the events of that night, the part I hate the most is the good mood I was in walking up to my apartment door, on a high after confessing everything to my mom, ready to confess it all to Mia. I was in love. I was ready to commit. I was ready to be in a relationship and keep the promises I made, even though the very idea terrified the living fuck out of me.
And then I saw Drake, standing in my kitchen, and I knew it was over.
I had so many chances to come clean, but I blew every single one. Maybe I didn’t want to. Maybe, deep down, I knew that there was no hope, and I self-sabotaged…again. Shocker.
Oh, well, I tell myself for the hundredth time in the last fourteen days. Oh fucking well.
This is better for Mia. In fact, it’s the best damn thing I could do for her. She’s free to find someone who deserves her. Someone hotter like Drake. Or smarter like Hunter. Or more confident like Emerson.
I’m a mess, and I tried to tell her that. So now I’ve done her the courtesy of saving her months or even years of trouble. A girl like her can do a fuck-ton better than be with a mess like me.
Goddammit. I need to get out of my head. Muttering a curse to myself, I head toward the bathroom. I have to get back to the club today. The event is tomorrow night, and if I don’t make an appearance, they’re going to cancel it.
Maybe they should.
I should go for a run. A run would be good. But all I do is stare at myself in the mirror and try to muster an ounce of the energy it would take to even put on my fucking shoes, but it’s just not there. It’s nowhere to be found.
“Fuck,” I mutter again, slamming my palm against the countertop. I stare into my reflection and berate the man looking back for being the lazy, crazy, broken piece of garbage he is.
I’m not doing this again. I’m not going to spiral down again. It took me too goddamn long to pull myself out of it last time, and I’ve worked too fucking hard to keep this thing, this emotional parasite that gnaws and consumes and rots, hidden from everyone. If I let this out now, then it wins.
And I’m not going to let that happen.
I talk a big game for a guy who is defeated only moments later by a hair tie. One single black elastic hair tie, sitting on the back of the toilet where she left it two weeks ago before she climbed into my shower with me.
That’s my trigger. The thing that sends me back into the dark, safe confines of my bed for the fourteenth day in a row. A black rubber band.
A solitary reminder that she was here, she was happy, she was mine…and I ruined it.
TEN YEARS AGO
Garrett
Ipull up to my mom’s house two hours late, still wearing last night’s suit, with the remnants of a twenty-four-hour tequila buzz, about four hours of sleep, and an energy drink in my hand. I probably should have just gone home to sleep it off, but fuck it. I’m in a good mood. Before jogging into the house, I quickly glance in the rearview mirror to fix my hair. There’s not much I can do about the circles under my eyes at this point.
As I step out of the car, my mother is waiting for me.
“You’re late,” she says from the front porch, standing with her arms crossed and glaring at me angrily. Fuck.
“I had to work,” I say as I paste a fake smile on my face and jog up to the house.
“Work? It’s two in the afternoon, Garrett. You work at a nightclub, so tell me why the hell you’re just now getting here?”
I laugh instead of answering her. My mother doesn’t want me to actually fill her in on my last twenty-four hours, the two girls I woke up next to…whose names I don’t even remember. Yeah, I was working—about ten hours ago. We’ll just call the rest networking.
“Would you rather I just didn’t come?” I joke, but she doesn’t laugh.
“It’s her birthday, Garrett. Don’t walk in the house if you’re going to be like this.”
“Like what?” I snap.
“You smell like alcohol. Your suit is wrinkled, and you look like you haven’t slept in days.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say with a laugh as I lean in to plant a kiss on her cheek, but she pulls away. “I have slept. In fact, I just woke up.”
She stops me, putting a firm hand on my chest.
“I’m serious, Garrett. Talk to me.”
“I’m fine,” I reply, trying to make it sound convincing enough.
“You’re not fine.”
“Mom, I promise. I’m just working a lot, okay? I’m fine.”
She heaves a sigh as I open the door and walk into her house—her new house. The one three sizes bigger than the one I grew up in. There’s laughing coming from the backyard and a spread of food on the dining room table. Passing by, I grab a chip and scoop up some dip before heading out to the back patio where Paul is sitting with some of their new friends and their kids are splashing around in the pool.
I am severely overdressed, and the laughter dies as everyone glares up at me. I don’t belong here. They might as well paint it on my forehead, but fuck it. I’m here, and I’m not going to just bounce now.
“Hey, Garrett,” Paul says, breaking the silence with a cordial greeting.
“Hey, Paul,” I reply. His friends are all still staring at me uncomfortably.
Then, I spot the bright-eyed blonde with freckles and braces in the pool. Previously giggling with her friends, she instantly pauses and frowns in my direction when she sees me.
“Happy birthday, brat,” I call toward her, but she doesn’t respond. Just stares at me with a cool expression. Then her eyes dance over to the woman standing beside me, and I see her share a look with my mother. A tight-lipped smile.
And that feeling of being unwanted is no longer subtle or quiet. It’s loud and humiliating. Turning my back on the uncomfortable eyes, I go back into the house. At least the spread of party food won’t judge me. And I only have to root around in the cooler to find an ice-cold beer—the expensive brand too.
“Thanks, Paul,” I mumble quietly to myself as I crack it open. They continue their conversation outside, and I shrug out of my jacket.
I’m eating alone in the kitchen when Paul’s thirteen-year-old brat of a daughter finds me. “What happened to you?” she asks in a snotty, sarcastic tone. She’s wrapped in a tropical flower beach towel, her dirty blonde hair still wet and stuck to her head.
“What happened to you?” I reply with a sneer.
“You didn’t even wear your swimsuit to a pool party.”
“I don’t plan on swimming, and I’m not a kid.”
“Well, you act like one,” she snaps back, and I know she’s just being a brat. It’s what she always does when we’re together, and I can dish out the attitude too, but today, I’m just feeling tired. And bitter. And empty.
“Easy on the chips,” I reply, watching her hand as it reaches for another handful of Doritos. That was a dick thing to say because I am a dick. I’m an asshole, and she’s just a sweet kid whose mom died when she was a baby and certainly didn’t ask for such a dickhead of a stepbrother.
But deep down, I hate Mia for really stupid reasons. Reasons that only a self-absorbed, chemically imbalanced man-child would hate a little girl. I’m not proud of it, and I’m not denying the fact that I am a grade-A asshole.
“Fuck you, Garrett,” she mutters in return, tossing a handful of chips at me.
I deserved that. Then she storms out of the house, and my mom is rushing in, obviously overhearing her little princess getting upset.
“What was that all about?” she asks.
“She was being a little bitch,” I reply.
“Garrett!” My mother’s voice is piercing, too loud and harsh to feel like a warning. I’ve gone too far. I’ve pushed too hard. Everyone is at their limit, and I know by the way she’s looking at me now, the limit has been passed.
“Why don’t you just leave,” my mother says, unable to look me in the eye. “The party’s just about over anyway.”
The party doesn’t look over. But it sure as fuck looks like I’m killing the mood. Without a word, I spin on my heels and bolt out of the kitchen. “It’s all right, Mom. I won’t interrupt your new family’s perfect day.”
“Stop it,” she snaps. “That’s not fair.”
I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the black screen of the television as I pass, and I realize just how wrong I look here. I’m a mess. My whole life is a mess. Every single decision I’ve made has led me to this mess.
“You’re clearly in a bad mood,” she says with a little more care as I make my way to the front door.
I scoff. “A bad mood?”
A bad mood. Fuck, I wish I knew what a bad mood felt like. I wish my bad moods weren’t like tornado-sized spirals. I wish I could brush off a bad mood with some sleep and a warm meal.
“Your life is so perfect now, and you don’t want me around. I get it.”
“Stop it,” she mutters. “That’s not fair.”
“No, it’s not,” I reply.
“You need to grow up, Garrett. You’re twenty-six. It’s not fair to Mia to have you show up like this.”
“Probably better if I didn’t come at all, right?”
“I would never say that,” my mother argues. “I just want you to be happy, Garrett.”
I throw my arms in the air. “I wish I knew how, Mom.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the blonde standing in the doorway, tears streaking down her face with a frown as she stares at me. She wants me to leave, I can tell. She’d rather I wasn’t in her life at all, and I’m more than happy to satisfy her wishes.
“Sorry to ruin your birthday, brat,” I mutter before disappearing through the front door.
The rest of the day I’m numb and I feel like I’m silently sinking into mud.
I go to my apartment. I drink a little more. I replay everything that happened, letting the harshness of their looks dig a little deeper each time.
Replaying today funnels into replaying last night, then the last week, then the last month, until I realize that my life is shit. My job is shit. My friends are shit, and every good feeling I had when I woke up today is stained black.
When eight o’clock rolls around, I don’t leave for work like I’m supposed to. I don’t even call in. They don’t need me there. They probably don’t even want me there.
I dig out an old bottle of benzos from the back of my closet, because I just need it to quiet the voices. I haven’t taken them in years, but I haven’t had a real attack since high school either. But I remember liking the way they drowned out the noise and I’m just thinking that it will help me sleep. Maybe two will help take the edge off. Maybe three will make the vodka hit a little harder.
Before I know it, I’m in a bad-decision spiral, and the rest is an accident. It really is. They’ll say it wasn’t an accident, but it was. Because I don’t want to die. I just don’t want to live like this anymore.
