Unforgiven(10)

Off of the main living area is an open door and, as I approach, I can see it’s a bedroom. Inside sits a king size four-poster bed covered in light cream bedding—everything in this condo is cream. Again, there are decorative pillows strewn everywhere in this room; on the bed, covering the chaise lounge that sits in a corner and even on the bench at the end of the bed. I take a seat on the edge of the bed and lie back. With my feet dangling, I take a deep breath and close my tired eyes. While everything here is gorgeous—stunning, to be exact—I’d rather be with Matt in his smaller, cozy house… wrapped in his arms. It’s the only place I really feel at home.




 
 
Lindsay left for Arizona and I let her go without a fight. I left her standing in my living room weeks ago, crying, and I walked out. I was bitter and hurt and I was a giant prick to her. I didn’t say goodbye to her—because I couldn’t. It would have destroyed me. A year and a half ago, I almost lost her in a car accident. I almost died that day—thinking of what my life would be like without her. Today, I’m fully aware of what it feels like to be dead—not physically dead, but emotionally. Emotionally, I’m a dead man. She was everything to me—everything.
Every time my phone chimes with a text message, or rings—I jump in anticipation that it’s her. It never is. Landon and Reagan have been calling and texting non-stop for the last week, but I don’t care to talk to them—or anyone, for that matter. I only want to hear Lindsay’s voice, see Lindsay’s messages on my phone.
I pull the bottle opener from the drawer and pop the cap off another bottle of Dos Equis, tossing the cap and opener onto the kitchen counter. I let the cool, yet sharp liquid slide down my throat as I look around my filthy kitchen. The kitchen island and counters are littered with beer bottles and empty take-out containers. When Lindsay was here, everything in this house was in its place, clean—perfect. Everything was perfect with her. Now my house looks like the bachelor pad of a twenty-two-year-old college senior, not a thirty-two-year-old police officer.
“Matt?” I hear the recognizable voice of Reagan as my front door squeaks open.
“In here,” I mumble back, hoping she doesn’t hear me and will just go away. No such luck. I hear the front door close and her heels click against the hardwood floor, becoming louder as she nears. She stops and watches me as I toss my head back and take another pull from the bottle of beer in my hand. Her eyebrows raise and her lips curl in disgust. I know I’m a fucking mess, and I can only imagine what I look like.
“It’s ten in the morning. How many of those have you had?” She nods toward the beer in my hand.
“A few,” I answer her curtly. A few, or six, I think to myself, lifting the bottle to my lips and emptying the rest of the cool contents down my throat. I belch loudly and toss the beer bottle into the kitchen sink on top of a stack of dirty dishes.
“Seriously?” she says, scrunching her nose in revulsion as she walks further into the kitchen and sets her purse on the kitchen table.
“What? You live with Landon and that man can burp.” I chuckle to myself, realizing how obnoxious I must sound. I reach for the door of the refrigerator and locate another tall green bottle and pull it out.
“Not so fast,” Reagan snaps as she snatches the bottle from my hand and pushes the refrigerator door closed abruptly.#p#分页标题#e#
“Give it back.”
“Not until we talk.”
“There’s really nothing to talk about.” I cross my arms over my bare chest, realizing for the first time since she got here that I’m standing in a pair of jeans that are unbuttoned and nothing else.
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that. There’s a lot to talk about—let’s start with why you won’t return our calls or texts?”
“Because I’m dealing with shit right now and I don’t want to talk to anybody.” She leans back against the fridge door and juggles the cold bottle of beer back and forth between her hands.
“So drinking your life away and living in squalor is how you’re going to handle this?” Her eyes move from the stack of dirty dishes to the kitchen island full of empty bottles and take-out containers.
“For right now, yes.”
“Matt,” she whispers. “Let us help you.”
“Help me what, Reagan? I’m fucking lost. I can’t think, I can’t sleep.” I turn my head to look out the kitchen window as my voice trails off. “I fucking miss her.”
“I know you do,” she whispers as she sets the beer bottle on the counter and pulls me into a hug. “We all miss her. But, Matt, we miss you too. You shut us out.” She pulls away, but rests her hands on my biceps. Reagan’s mannerisms, even the simplest of touches, remind me of Lindsay. Her soft eyes and caring nature remind me of everything I’m missing—everything I no longer have.