Honey Girl

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Chapter 22

ALEXANDER


I woke up on the bathroom floor.

The tiles were cold.

The air was hot.

My head felt like a bomb that had already detonated and was thinking about doing it again.

I had no idea what time it was, what day it was or how long I’d been here.

I tried to stand up, holding onto the exposed pipe for support. It would hurt to fall and crack my head on those fucking black and white tiles. Maybe I’d already done it once or twice. Maybe that’s why my head was so fucking sore.

But I was upright. That was something.

I reached for a glass, almost knocking it over. I turned on the faucet. Fuck, water had never tasted so good. I drank four glasses of it. I managed to get out of the bathroom and down the stairs. Out onto the patio. To the beach and straight into the sea, which was the temperature of bathwater. I swam out and floated for a while. Maybe I should just keep swimming. Straight out. Just keep on going. Until the sharks got me.

Yeah. That’s what I would do.

Later.

Right now, I didn’t have the energy. I wouldn’t even reach the fucking sharks in this state. I’d just sink out there like some goddamn pussy who couldn’t even get past the reef.

There was something I wanted to do first anyway. I didn’t even fucking care. Don’t contact me, she’d said. Don’t come after me. I wasn’t going to but it was bullshit. Biding my time while she made up her fucking mind. Sure, I was going to trust her and respect her wishes and all that fucking bullshit but all it meant was that we couldn’t be together.

It would kill me. I was sure of it. I wasn’t geared up to sit back like this and just let her walk away. Without fighting. That’s what she’d done: she’d stolen all my fucking ammunition. Leaving me standing there like a fucking idiotic piece of meat.

I’d made up my mind. I was going to contact her. Fuck it. She needed me. I knew she did.

She still had her goddamn phone for all I knew.

I walked out of the water and up to the house, dripping all over the floor. Where had I left it? What had I done with my fucking phone? I remembered: my tux. Still crumpled in a heap where I’d left it. I ran up the stairs. Nothing like a good dunk in the ocean to make a dent in a hangover. I found my tux and reached into the pocket. 189 messages. 324 emails. Could any of them have been from her?

I scrolled through, looking for her name.

Nothing.

Fuck.

I didn’t care. One text wouldn’t bring the world crumbling down any more than it already was.

I typed my message and hit ‘Send’ before I could overthink it. Which wasn’t likely at this point anyway.

I love you.


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