Read Online Vegas to Varanasi (Fortytude Series Book 1) by Shelly Hickman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Shelly Hickman
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this moment, and I won’t do that to him.
But he sees it. He sees it all in my face.
Lowering his head, he turns away.
“So I guess this is it then,” I say.
He rubs his palm in circles against his chest and slowly meets my gaze with reddened eyes. “I can’t take disappointing you anymore. I know I make you feel lonely... and I don’t think I’m selfless enough to fix it.”
I nod, then lift my shoulders. “So you don’t even wanna try?” Frankly, I’m not sure I want to try, either. I love him, but I have this gnawing feeling it would be prolonging the inevitable.
He leans back in his chair, as if a burden has already been lifted from him, knowing we’re through. Instead of reaching out to comfort me, he’s already distancing himself. “It’s like you said, babe. I’m extreme. I have a hard time finding middle ground, a balance.”
I chew on my lip, nodding again.
“I just don’t think right now I can give you what you need, what you deserve.”
“Okay, then.” I stand. “There’s nothing left to say.”
He rises, too, his arms dangling at his sides. “I wish you wouldn’t look at me like that.”
A wry, clipped laugh escapes my mouth. “Like what?”
“Please, don’t hate me.”
I blink once, slowly, then look him in the eye. “I don’t hate you.” How do I make him understand that I’m sad, and hurt, but more than anything else, I’m worried? For him.
Eleven
David moved in with another faculty member from the university who works in the English Department. Perhaps he thinks if he’s with like-minded people who are more of his own element, he’ll be happy. I wish him the best with his book and his new job. I really do. Maybe he doesn’t have an alcohol problem and everything’s under control. But honestly, I have a bad feeling. I don’t want to see him become one of those artists who fall into the trap of believing they must be addicted and tortured to have success.
It’s been a week since he left, and in that week I’ve done plenty of crying, moping, and deliberating on whether or not I’m devastated or relieved. Relieved to be rid of the impending worry and confrontation. Well, confrontation, at least. I’ll still worry. I miss him, but surprisingly, not as much as I had anticipated. I think it may be because it’s harder to miss someone you rarely saw to begin with.
I do miss the man I met five years ago, the one who watched sitcoms with me, who played board games with the kids and told stupid jokes, who debated with Carly about which character would be the next one to kick it on The Walking Dead .
What do they say about breakups? It takes one month for every year you were together to get over them? So, I’m aware I’ve got about five months of shit ahead of me, but have determined my week of blackness has been enough for now.
In an effort to raise my spirits, I decide to throw a dinner party. It’s intimate, with just the kids, Luke, Richard, Julia and her husband. I’ve never had one before, but one of my favorite movies is Notting Hill , and my favorite scene in that movie is the dinner party. In fact, shortly after watching that film, I bought a round dining table so I could have dinner parties where everyone could see each other, and we’d have thoughtful, funny conversation. It never happened.
So, dinner party it is. Nothing fancy. I’m not exactly a gourmet. My tried and true dish will be parmesan chicken a la Best Foods mayonnaise and bread crumbs.
Everyone is seated at the table set with the lovely Desert Rose dishes Luke’s mother gave us when we got married. The same ones she insisted I keep when we split. There’s wine, bread, grilled asparagus, mashed potatoes, and if I do say so myself, everything looks pretty delicious.
“How are you holding up, my friend?” Julia asks.
“I’m fine. I’ll be fine.” I pour everyone a glass of wine. Everyone except for Hayden and Julia’s husband, Derek, who are beer drinkers. “But
But he sees it. He sees it all in my face.
Lowering his head, he turns away.
“So I guess this is it then,” I say.
He rubs his palm in circles against his chest and slowly meets my gaze with reddened eyes. “I can’t take disappointing you anymore. I know I make you feel lonely... and I don’t think I’m selfless enough to fix it.”
I nod, then lift my shoulders. “So you don’t even wanna try?” Frankly, I’m not sure I want to try, either. I love him, but I have this gnawing feeling it would be prolonging the inevitable.
He leans back in his chair, as if a burden has already been lifted from him, knowing we’re through. Instead of reaching out to comfort me, he’s already distancing himself. “It’s like you said, babe. I’m extreme. I have a hard time finding middle ground, a balance.”
I chew on my lip, nodding again.
“I just don’t think right now I can give you what you need, what you deserve.”
“Okay, then.” I stand. “There’s nothing left to say.”
He rises, too, his arms dangling at his sides. “I wish you wouldn’t look at me like that.”
A wry, clipped laugh escapes my mouth. “Like what?”
“Please, don’t hate me.”
I blink once, slowly, then look him in the eye. “I don’t hate you.” How do I make him understand that I’m sad, and hurt, but more than anything else, I’m worried? For him.
Eleven
David moved in with another faculty member from the university who works in the English Department. Perhaps he thinks if he’s with like-minded people who are more of his own element, he’ll be happy. I wish him the best with his book and his new job. I really do. Maybe he doesn’t have an alcohol problem and everything’s under control. But honestly, I have a bad feeling. I don’t want to see him become one of those artists who fall into the trap of believing they must be addicted and tortured to have success.
It’s been a week since he left, and in that week I’ve done plenty of crying, moping, and deliberating on whether or not I’m devastated or relieved. Relieved to be rid of the impending worry and confrontation. Well, confrontation, at least. I’ll still worry. I miss him, but surprisingly, not as much as I had anticipated. I think it may be because it’s harder to miss someone you rarely saw to begin with.
I do miss the man I met five years ago, the one who watched sitcoms with me, who played board games with the kids and told stupid jokes, who debated with Carly about which character would be the next one to kick it on The Walking Dead .
What do they say about breakups? It takes one month for every year you were together to get over them? So, I’m aware I’ve got about five months of shit ahead of me, but have determined my week of blackness has been enough for now.
In an effort to raise my spirits, I decide to throw a dinner party. It’s intimate, with just the kids, Luke, Richard, Julia and her husband. I’ve never had one before, but one of my favorite movies is Notting Hill , and my favorite scene in that movie is the dinner party. In fact, shortly after watching that film, I bought a round dining table so I could have dinner parties where everyone could see each other, and we’d have thoughtful, funny conversation. It never happened.
So, dinner party it is. Nothing fancy. I’m not exactly a gourmet. My tried and true dish will be parmesan chicken a la Best Foods mayonnaise and bread crumbs.
Everyone is seated at the table set with the lovely Desert Rose dishes Luke’s mother gave us when we got married. The same ones she insisted I keep when we split. There’s wine, bread, grilled asparagus, mashed potatoes, and if I do say so myself, everything looks pretty delicious.
“How are you holding up, my friend?” Julia asks.
“I’m fine. I’ll be fine.” I pour everyone a glass of wine. Everyone except for Hayden and Julia’s husband, Derek, who are beer drinkers. “But
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