Honey Girl

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Chapter 24


The days blurred into an endless sea of sorrow. I woke up on the floor of the dining room, half under the table. I wasn’t sure if I’d even slept on the bed yet. With effort, I lifted myself into a sitting position and leaned against the wall. I pushed my hair out of my face. It was getting long, not that I cared. I was still wearing the same shorts I put on when I got here. How long had I been here? Days? Weeks?

I could see the glimmer of sun on water from where I was sitting. I could see my boat, named Lucky. Yeah right.

I hadn’t even been in it yet. Not since the last time I’d been down here.

Fuck it. I got up, somehow. The world swooned. I liked the effect, except for the nausea. I barely made it to the bathroom before losing it. I vomited up torrents of the red wine I drank last night – or was it this morning? Who gave a fuck. I vaguely remembered wandering the streets, sitting in some bar where Hemingway used to drink. Maybe I should consider blowing my fucking head off with a shotgun like he did. A quick flashback flickered: of a woman, talking to me. Touching me. I couldn’t quite bring myself to regret how fucking rude I’d been. I flushed the mess away and splashed my face with some cold water from the sink. I brushed my teeth, God knows why. Habit, maybe. I went back to the kitchen. In the fridge there were two beers left. I grabbed them both and a bottle of whiskey and headed out to the boat.

I took Lucky out for a spin. The water was smooth, jeweled with diamond-light.

The beers tasted good. So did the whiskey.

I hugged the shoreline for a while.

Kept going.

The whiskey burned.

And going.

At some point, I found an idyllic little cove. Dropped the anchor. Took another big swig of whiskey and took my phone from my pocket. Scrolled through my messages, just in case.

Hundreds. But not one from Lila.

I typed in another byte-sized love letter that made the inside of my chest ache. I miss you. Where are you? Come back to me.

Hit ‘Send’.

Then I tossed my phone onto a cushion and grabbed a mask and snorkel. I dove into the cool water.

It felt good under here. More bearable. The tropical fish flitted around, the white sand seafloor looked soft. I felt buffered from the pain in this underwater seascape, just a little.

I swam for a long time, until I was so exhausted I thought I might drown. Which might not be a bad thing. It would be a peaceful way to go. Less messy than a shotgun.

First, I wanted to check my messages. I climbed up the ladder and scrolled through my inboxes.

Still nothing.


I threw my phone out as far as I could. It made a small splash and disappeared.

I was vaguely aware of my face being wet, from my own goddamn tears possibly, as I chugged the whiskey and passed out under the round glow of two afternoon suns.

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