Total pages in book: 235
Estimated words: 224334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1122(@200wpm)___ 897(@250wpm)___ 748(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 224334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1122(@200wpm)___ 897(@250wpm)___ 748(@300wpm)
“Ava?” I whisper.
“I’m here.”
“I love you.”
“I know you do, Jesse.”
The phone goes dead, and I drop my arm to the mattress, closing my eyes, wondering if I can sleep until later. She didn’t tell me she loves me in return. Does that mean she’s changed her mind? Have I blown it? “Shit,” I hiss, scrambling up and going to my dressing room, rushing into some running gear. I can’t sit around here. I’ll drive myself insane.
Too late, brother.
Like a man possessed, I scramble into my shorts, hopping around my dressing room like an idiot, before stuffing my feet into my trainers. I scan my drawers. For the life of me, I can’t remember where my running shirts are kept. I feel myself getting more and more worked up by the second, so I abandon looking for one and hurry out. I walk up and down the elevator, back and forth, willing it to hurry the fuck up, and when the doors open, I’m out of the cart like a horse bolting, flying through the lobby, no stretching, my flexing, no preparing my recovering body. I just need to run.
I can hear Clive yelling after me. I don’t stop. Can’t stop.
The gate opening courtesy of a fellow resident is a blessing. The clear road outside so I can run straight over it is a blessing.
My damn fucking mind and thoughts are a curse.
I pick up my pace, hell-bent on banging them away, each pound of the pavement breaking down the clusterfuck in my head. Every store I sprint past seems to beckon me, the liquor shelf flashing. Run. Just run. Run off the anxiety. Run off the negativity. Just fucking run.
My head is burning by the time I make it to St. James’s Park. My heart is burning with it through Regent’s Park. My whole fucking body is flaming hot by Green Park. But I keep running, because focusing on the inferno within is a far better option than obsessing over whether I’m being dramatic. Questioning my choices. Questioning Ava’s love and commitment to me. Avoiding the drink.
And there’s my problem. I’m not being dramatic. Every fear, every worry, every wild, drastic action is warranted. I’m a man on the edge of rapture and ruin, and I’ll do whatever the fuck it takes to keep myself on the lighter side. And, more importantly, keep Ava there with me.
I run.
I run, and I run, and I run.
My bare chest is drenched, my heart booming, but that’s okay. At least I know I’m still alive. At least I know I’m still breathing.
Nothing could slow me down.
Until I get a fucking blister. I break down to a steady jog, hobbling like a dickhead, my face screwed up. A fucking blister. I find a wall and rest back against it, drinking in air urgently. I feel sick. I try to regulate my breathing, try to get hold of the nausea. “Fuck.” I brace my hands on my knees and fold at the waist, heaving my guts up, retching. But there’s nothing inside me to bring up. Empty.
I drag the back of my hand across my mouth and look up, blinking my vision clear. I don’t even know where I am. I wince my way upright and glance around. I shouldn’t have. A liquor store waves from down the road, enticing me that way. And this is the man I’ve become. One wobble, one doubt, one insignificant hint that Ava’s gone, and I’m a fucking wreck. Useless. But, and it’s fucked up on too many levels, it’s got to be better than drowning in a bottle of vodka. Has to be. Or else why the fuck am I putting myself through this? And Ava. Why would I put her through his? Not that she knows what state I’m in now. She’s having a merry old day with her long-lost brother while I’m here trying to fucking kill myself in an attempt to occupy my mind until I have her back in my arms, where I’m sane and she’s safe.
Safe from what?
“Everything,” I gasp, sniffing. “Every tiny little fucking thing.” I swallow and reach down for my T-shirt to wipe my face. No T-shirt. I’m beyond fucking help. I start pacing down the road, away from the liquor store, trying to talk some sense into myself. I’ve got her. She loves me. I’ve got to get past this, get my head on straight, or I’ll fuck it all up, and that’s going to lead me straight back to the bottle.
I never had these kind of withdrawal symptoms when I tried to abstain from alcohol.
But trying to abstain from Ava?
Fuck me.
It’s brutal.
9
“Ah, Mr. Ward,” the concierge says as I drag my knackered form through the lobby. I made it a few hundred yards walking before I broke back into a run. Desperate. And now, virtually crawling.