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Authors: L.K. Lewis
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get to my
computer and turn it on. Amanda had already gotten the hint that I need to be
alone and do this when I threw some cash at our cabby and kissed her on the
cheek before bolting out of the car. Not wasting any time, I strip myself of my
clothes on my way to the bedroom as my computer boots up so I can be in my
pajamas and comfortable when the laptop is finished loading. Sitting cross
legged on my couch, computer in lap, I stare at the blank email. I stare, and
stare, then stare some more. Fifteen minutes must have passed with me gazing
blankly at my screen before I close my computer and sit it next to me. Still in
a daze, I rise to my feet and head into the kitchen, foraging through the
fridge for the half-finished bottle of white. Forgoing a glass, I pull the cork
out of the bottleneck and tip my head back, letting the cold liquid slide down
my throat. My throat burns, and I’ve barely tasted the wine, but in this
moment, I don’t care. My hurt has turned to numbness these past few weeks, and
right now, even though binge drinking alone in my apartment on a Friday night
is probably wrong, just feeling something is better than the alternative.
When the wine is gone, I reach into the freezer and grab the
gin. I waste no time making an extra dirty martini, and toss that back as well.
When the liquid courage has set in and my now drunken numbness has replaced any
feeling of burn created by the alcohol, I stumble back over to my couch and
give the email writing another shot. I stare at the screen for just a few
moments again before screaming “fuck it”, and releasing a very primal and angst
filled grunt/sigh thing, then I dive right in. Drake most likely won’t even get
this email, so why do I even care? I need to unleash everything in my heart and
soul that has been plaguing me since his departure before it kills me. Or at
the very least causes me to drink myself into another ridiculous stupor.
From: Morgan Lane
Subject: White Noise
Date: October 20 2013 23:49
To: Drake Baylor Jr.
Drake,
I don’t even know what to say. I doubt you’ll even get this.
Don’t be mad at Garrett for giving me this email address, he had it from when
you were in the league at his bowling alley. He said you never even checked
this account anyway, but I had to give it a try. I’ve tried everything else to
find you. I miss you. I don’t know what else to say but I miss you and I love
you and ask that you please come home to me. You told me I was your home,
remember? Why won’t you just come home?
I spent a whole month searching the globe for you. I went to
every brilliant and stupid place I could think of that would mean anything to
you. I started in Vegas, and even went for a run in the desert heat trying to
bring you closer to me. You were absolutely right about that being a stupid
idea! I traveled through parts of Africa, then a lot of Europe looking for you
before ending up in Paris. I thought if I couldn’t find you anywhere, I’d
eventually catch up with you there. It’s the city of love, and you are the most
sappy, emotional, sentimental man I know so I thought there was no way I
wouldn’t find you sitting at some charming outdoor café, café au lait in hand.
I even thought I saw you in the airport. Like an idiot I called out to you a
few times but you didn’t turn. I could have sworn it was you. It was your hair,
and your build and my body was practically calling out to you as well. That old
familiar pull still haunts me I guess. It wasn’t you though, obviously. You
weren’t there. You weren’t anywhere I searched. So I came home broken hearted
and alone, again.
I’m not sure what happened to you, or to us. Your dad told
me that he dissolved your position, and that you would be somewhere tropical
licking your wounds in the arms of another woman, forgetting all about me. I
don’t believe him, Drake; I could never think that about you. I know how much
you love me, which is why I’m so shocked that we are
computer and turn it on. Amanda had already gotten the hint that I need to be
alone and do this when I threw some cash at our cabby and kissed her on the
cheek before bolting out of the car. Not wasting any time, I strip myself of my
clothes on my way to the bedroom as my computer boots up so I can be in my
pajamas and comfortable when the laptop is finished loading. Sitting cross
legged on my couch, computer in lap, I stare at the blank email. I stare, and
stare, then stare some more. Fifteen minutes must have passed with me gazing
blankly at my screen before I close my computer and sit it next to me. Still in
a daze, I rise to my feet and head into the kitchen, foraging through the
fridge for the half-finished bottle of white. Forgoing a glass, I pull the cork
out of the bottleneck and tip my head back, letting the cold liquid slide down
my throat. My throat burns, and I’ve barely tasted the wine, but in this
moment, I don’t care. My hurt has turned to numbness these past few weeks, and
right now, even though binge drinking alone in my apartment on a Friday night
is probably wrong, just feeling something is better than the alternative.
When the wine is gone, I reach into the freezer and grab the
gin. I waste no time making an extra dirty martini, and toss that back as well.
When the liquid courage has set in and my now drunken numbness has replaced any
feeling of burn created by the alcohol, I stumble back over to my couch and
give the email writing another shot. I stare at the screen for just a few
moments again before screaming “fuck it”, and releasing a very primal and angst
filled grunt/sigh thing, then I dive right in. Drake most likely won’t even get
this email, so why do I even care? I need to unleash everything in my heart and
soul that has been plaguing me since his departure before it kills me. Or at
the very least causes me to drink myself into another ridiculous stupor.
From: Morgan Lane
Subject: White Noise
Date: October 20 2013 23:49
To: Drake Baylor Jr.
Drake,
I don’t even know what to say. I doubt you’ll even get this.
Don’t be mad at Garrett for giving me this email address, he had it from when
you were in the league at his bowling alley. He said you never even checked
this account anyway, but I had to give it a try. I’ve tried everything else to
find you. I miss you. I don’t know what else to say but I miss you and I love
you and ask that you please come home to me. You told me I was your home,
remember? Why won’t you just come home?
I spent a whole month searching the globe for you. I went to
every brilliant and stupid place I could think of that would mean anything to
you. I started in Vegas, and even went for a run in the desert heat trying to
bring you closer to me. You were absolutely right about that being a stupid
idea! I traveled through parts of Africa, then a lot of Europe looking for you
before ending up in Paris. I thought if I couldn’t find you anywhere, I’d
eventually catch up with you there. It’s the city of love, and you are the most
sappy, emotional, sentimental man I know so I thought there was no way I
wouldn’t find you sitting at some charming outdoor café, café au lait in hand.
I even thought I saw you in the airport. Like an idiot I called out to you a
few times but you didn’t turn. I could have sworn it was you. It was your hair,
and your build and my body was practically calling out to you as well. That old
familiar pull still haunts me I guess. It wasn’t you though, obviously. You
weren’t there. You weren’t anywhere I searched. So I came home broken hearted
and alone, again.
I’m not sure what happened to you, or to us. Your dad told
me that he dissolved your position, and that you would be somewhere tropical
licking your wounds in the arms of another woman, forgetting all about me. I
don’t believe him, Drake; I could never think that about you. I know how much
you love me, which is why I’m so shocked that we are
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