Page 63 of This Woman Forever

Fuck me, I really am broken. She might be dead set against having kids now, but she might change her mind in the future. And I’ll be useless to her.

Not that any of this matters. She hates me right now.

I laugh under my breath and start pacing, feeling a stressed sweat developing. This is too much. Maybe it’s me who needs to see a doctor. Broken? Pickled. “Shit,” I breathe, turning on my Grensons and marching back, peeking inside as I pass the window. She’s sitting, waiting, her knee bouncing again. Still nervous. Up and down I go, having a heated discussion with myself, analyzing the situation, Ava’s persona, our marriage, my mental state. My conclusions aren’t reassuring.

I hear the door open, and she appears. Eyes me. “What’s that?” I ask, motioning to the paper bag in her hand.

She comes up close. Definitely not for a kiss. “Backup pills,” she says reproachfully. “Now we know I’m not pregnant; I want to stay that way.”

The sting is real. She doesn’t need pills, because I’ve clearly done myself some irreparable damage with years of drinking and mistreating myself. Another reason not to want me. Fuck.

She pivots and walks away, and the hollowness intensifies, my heart thumping with panic while slowing at the same time. “You’re not coming home, are you?” I call, my words as broken as I feel.

She doesn’t answer.

It’s a no.

Does that really mean she’s completely done with me?

11

I don’t remember my walk from the chemist to my car. I don’t remember the drive from Hammersmith to Lusso. I vaguely recall texting Kate to ask if Ava’s there, just to make sure. I got a thumbs up. Nothing more. I can’t blame her for giving me the cold shoulder and, really, she didn’t even owe me that thumbs up.

I watch my feet as I stride through the foyer to the elevator, hearing the new kid greet me. I think I hear him ask me where my wife is. I don’t answer. I get in and stare at the reflection in the mirror, but not the reflection of myself. I stare at the empty space next to me. Where she usually is. Beside me.

The doors open, I find my key, and let myself in. Cathy’s getting her coat on when I enter, her face a picture of happiness.

And then... not.

“Boy?” she says, a million questions in her voice as I close the door and wander past, going straight to the stairs.

“See you tomorrow, Cathy,” I murmur to thin air in front of me.

“I made a lasagna,” she calls.

“Thank you.” My body feels so heavy. So slow. Shutting down.

“Where’s Ava, boy?”

I don’t answer. Can’t. Entering the bedroom, I slowly cast my eyes around the vast space as I kick my shoes off. Empty. I leave my clothes on and collapse on the bed, grabbing her pillow and snuggling into it. Lonely.

I probably shouldn’t be alone, but the thought of facing anyone? Besides, loneliness isn’t measured by how busy your life is with people. It’s measured by love. I never quite understood how someone can be surrounded by others but feel so incredibly lonely. Their head full of noise, but their life still so empty. And solitude is only heightened when you’ve experienced something that’s enriched your life. Something that makes you smile. Gives you purpose and feel your heart beat strongly.

But it can be taken away.

Gone.

And it doesn’t matter what people say, what they do, what you do yourself to conquer it, there’s only one thing that will.

Peace.

Contentment.

Ava is those things for me, and she knows it.

And yet, she left me after less than one day of marriage.

I know I look terrible—my skin sallow, my eyes dull, my body heavy. I don’t need John to tell me. I’m empty.