A Love Letter to Whiskey (39 page)

But I never could have seen what would happen next.

Jamie made slow, sweet love to me once more before driving me to the airport. When we’d checked my bag, he pulled me into him, kissing me long and hard and needy without caring who was around us. I held on tight to him, too — and for some reason I couldn’t explain, I felt an ending in that kiss. It was a period, a punctuation mark, and at the time I thought it was the end of that chapter. But later, I would mark it as the end of it all — the end of my addiction, my last taste of Whiskey, my final dance with fire.

Because when I pulled away, eyes bright and heart soaring, I asked Jamie to call me when he was ready.

And he never did.

I POUNCED BACK INTO PITTSBURGH
like a fuzzy, smiley kitten. Everything felt right when my feet hit the ground in my city, and I knew everything was finally going to work out. I just
knew
it. I felt it in every inch of my body, from my ears to my toes, and life had never been brighter than it was that Sunday. My lips were still swollen from Jamie, my heart full of his words — his promises — and the pit of anxiety I felt before I flew out Thursday had been replaced with a warm ball of relief.

While Jamie was back home handling what he needed to, I did the same.

I called things off with River, even though we weren’t anything official, because it wasn’t fair to him to let him think anything would come of it. As far as I was concerned, I was Jamie’s now — hell, I always had been. I was all giggly over it, gushing to Jenna on the phone and even telling my mom, whom I barely ever talked to about my love life. She knew what I’d gone through being away from Jamie in college, but even that had been mostly endured on my own. There was a pep in my step, a light in my eyes, and everyone noticed.

River wasn’t the only thing I had to handle, though. I threw myself into work, tying up loose ends and getting through my current projects so I could have a talk with Randall about slowing down a little. I told him I wanted to have more time for things that mattered a little more than work to me, and he smiled like a proud dad, telling me it was about time I stopped working so damn hard. He told me I was fantastic at what I did and slowing down a little wouldn’t change that.

But as much as I knew I was prepared to do long distance with Jamie, I also wanted to have options, so I researched a few publishing houses in South Florida, not putting in any applications before talking to Jamie but doing the work to have the conversation, at least. I loved Pittsburgh, and I loved Rye Publishing — but I loved Jamie more. And I was finally at the point where I was willing to make whatever compromises I needed to for us to work. So that’s how it was for the first few weeks — I handled my shit while Jamie handled his, and I waited for his call.

I waited.

And waited, and waited, and waited.

At first it was patient waiting. I still had things to take care of on my own, so I focused on those things, and on my thoughts and feelings for Jamie, soaking in them, giving them life. I loved him, he loved me, we wanted to be together, and so we would. It was the easiest, most simple time in our relationship, and I was happy to revel in it.

But then anxiety flared, massive and ugly, right in the middle of my chest. It was harder to breathe then, after a month of waiting, and I broke the silence first. I called him, hoping to just talk if not make plans, but he didn’t answer. And he didn’t call back.

“It’s fine,” Jenna assured me one night when I was pacing, feet burning a hole in my apartment floor. “He’s got a lot going on, B. I mean seriously, his fiancé cheated on him. And all his feelings for you came rushing back
before
that even happened. He got ambushed with a shit storm and he’s just trying to sort it all out. He told you to wait, so just… wait.”

I’d listened to her, throwing myself into work because it was my go-to. Randall called me out on not slowing down at all, but I assured him I would soon — very soon — and I hoped in my heart that was the truth.

One day I was walking home from the office, balancing three manuscripts I planned to devour over the weekend, when my phone buzzed hard in my purse. I’d juggled the pages and my half-empty bottle of water, fumbling for my phone, praying I’d see Jamie’s name. But when I finally fished it out, an unknown number was all that lit the screen — just another call from a telemarketer, or a bill collector with the wrong number, or someone trying to tell me who to vote for in next year’s election. I sighed, hitting the ignore button and dropping it back into my purse before finishing the walk home.

Somewhere around the three-month mark, my anxiety blossomed into desperation and fear. I was barely sleeping, barely eating, and my work was suffering because of it. I was strung out, withdrawal sneaking in, and I tried calling him again. Three times. He didn’t answer any of the calls, and on the third one, I caved and left a voicemail.

“Hey,” I whispered before clearing my throat. “It’s me. Listen,” I paused then, staring out my giant window at Market Square. We were right in the middle of summer, and the city was buzzing with life everywhere but inside my apartment. “I know you had a lot to sort through. I know it’s not as simple as sign a few papers, move her stuff out of your place and call me. I know that. I can’t even imagine what you’re going through, which is why I want you to call me anyway — regardless of if you’re ready to see me yet. Let me help you through this, even if it’s just as a friend.” My voice shook a little with my next plea. “You need a friend, Jamie. Please, let me be your friend.”

I hated asking that, because it wasn’t what I wanted — I wanted more. I
needed
more. We’d tried being friends before, he’d asked me that very sentence time and time again. But having him as a friend was better than not having him at all, and I was starting to worry.

“Just call me, okay?”

I hung up then, dropping my phone to the armrest of my couch before numbly stripping off my clothes on the way to the bathroom. I took a long bath in the dark, only the faint light from my bedroom window sneaking through. I wondered what he was doing, what he was thinking. Was he hurting? Was he afraid?
Oh God
, was he with her again?

I shook my head against that final thought, convinced it couldn’t be true, but there was really no way for me to know for sure.

Things declined quickly after that.

My fear transformed into anger and hurt, and those two emotions burrowed in between my ribs. Mom tried to talk me down at first, but once it’d been six months without a single word from Jamie, Jenna was firmly on my side. She was pissed, too — and that fueled my fire.

“Can you just… check on him?” I asked her one night.

“That sounds like a terrible idea, B.”

I chewed the pad of my thumb, curling up on my sofa. “I know. I know it does, but I can’t… I just need to know what’s going on. Maybe he’s traveling, you know? Maybe that’s why he hasn’t returned my calls.”

“They have phones in other places in the world. And email.”

Sighing, I planted my feet on the floor and ran a hand through my curls. “Please, Jenna.”

She must have heard it, the desperation in my voice. It came back sometimes, drowning out the anger for a bit, and that night it was winning.

So Jenna checked on him, and it turned out to be the worst thing I could have asked her to do.

“I saw him,” she told me the next night.

“And?”

She was quiet, and my stomach rolled.

“And… he looks fine. He was out at lunch with some work buddies. I saw him on his phone a few times… no girls or anything but, he looks okay. He looks… good.”

The pain that tore through my chest with her words was a strange one. It felt like hot water, growing more intense in temperature as it leaked down deeper and deeper. I couldn’t move away from it, couldn’t cool it down, and it hurt as much as it fueled the anger that had been just below the surface.

I tried calling him one last time, on a night after I’d drowned myself in half a bottle of Jack Daniels. I’d been stalking his social media, not finding anything new at all. He’d been tagged in a few random posts, funny memes and videos, but he hadn’t posted a single photo, a single status, not even a single word. I wasn’t sure if that made it worse or better.

He didn’t answer when I called, just like I knew he wouldn’t, and I thought really hard about leaving him the nastiest voicemail I could muster. I even let it click me over to voicemail, and I breathed into the receiver like a dragon, trying to tame myself yet falling short.

But I ended the call, staring down at my phone for all of four seconds before heaving it across my apartment. It hit the edge of my kitchen counter and splintered across the floor, and I cried.

He’d changed his mind.

Whiskey had made me promise I’d wait, and then he’d never come, stringing me along knowing my addiction was too strong for me to let him go. I’d fallen from the highest high to the lowest low, and now here I was, crumpled in a ball on the floor. I curled in on myself, rocking slightly, and let the tears come freely down my face.

I’d hit all the stages of grief before that night, touching on everything from denial to anger to depression. Now, I was rounding that base, heading home to acceptance. And I knew what had to happen once my feet hit the plate.

I let myself be broken for nearly another month before I started on my own twelve-step program. Step one was admitting that I was powerless over Whiskey — that my life had become unmanageable. He’d completely taken over, and maybe he’d had that hold on me for longer than I’d realized. Every time I thought I was okay without him, he’d show me I wasn’t, and every time I thought I’d be better with him, he proved me wrong. It was a dangerous roller coaster ride and I was done. I wanted off. I wanted solid ground.

So I redefined everything about myself.

I’d checked into rehab once before, but it was a half-assed attempt. My heart hadn’t been in it, I hadn’t wanted to let him go. This time, I did. This time, I had a plan. This time, I’d given myself an intervention.

I was ready to grow up, tired of the games Jamie and I played. I wanted a real love, a real life, and I had to paint the way to get there. It killed me to let him go, and if I’m being honest — I knew I would never let him go completely. A part of him would always live in me, but I wanted that part of me subdued, buried beneath a brighter version of myself who could move on and live her life.

I looked back on all the damage we’d done — to ourselves, to those around us — and I mourned the time I’d lost fighting for someone who would never be mine. I’d been a fool, and now I was standing in the rubble of the life I’d wasted, drowning in both sorrow and a drive to build a new one.

I’d waited too long for Whiskey, and I refused to let him hold that power over me any longer.

And you know what? It actually
worked
. For the first time in my life, and with more pain and time than I’d hoped or even thought I could survive, I finally let him go. I deleted him off every social media network, wiped his number from my phone, packed all our pictures and memories away and started over fresh. I was
clean.
I’d moved on. I was happy. I was
free.

Then, after almost two years without calling, Jamie just showed up.

TAYLOR SWIFT BLASTED THROUGH
my apartment as I pranced around, hair tied up in a messy bun and half a bottle of wine already consumed. I sang the lyrics at the top of my lungs, sliding into the kitchen in my tube socks with packing tape in hand. The box I’d just packed full with dishes was padded and ready, so I closed the flaps and taped them shut, biting the cap of my Sharpie between my teeth as I scrawled
kitchen
across the cardboard. I smiled then, belting out a high note with the Sharpie as my microphone before dropping it back to the counter and tackling the next empty box.