Delaney James was wearing Chanel the night her husband told her he didn't love her anymore.
In an instant, her picture-perfect Manhattan life-complete with a brownstone on the Upper East Side, a blossoming career as a fashion journalist, and a devas...
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I thought I was spiraling before, but I was wrong. Now it's a constant heaviness, like I'm walking under a storm cloud I can't shake.
I still can't sleep. Most nights I lie awake crying, wondering if Will misses me, if he regrets it, if he thinks about me at all. On the rare nights I do drift off, the nightmares wake me—cold sweat, wet cheeks, my hand reaching for him before I remember he's gone. Then comes another round of self-loathing until I cry myself back to sleep.
My appetite's gone. I force down bites when my parents are watching, but once they leave, the food goes in the trash. Most days I live on coffee, water, whiskey, and the occasional meal that doesn't turn my stomach.
I have no energy. No will to do anything but lie in bed. I halfheartedly search for journalism jobs in Manhattan, but I don't care if I ever work again. I barely shower. I can't remember the last time I washed my hair. I wear the same clothes for days—Will's New York Yankees T-shirt and old black sweats—and sometimes skip work entirely.
Yesterday I promised my mom I'd go in. Instead, I went to the beach. I sat in the sand for hours, staring at the ocean, wondering how long I'd have to stay under before I lost consciousness and if it would hurt. I don't want to die. I just want the thoughts to stop. I just want the pain quiet for a while.
Will's words play on a loop in my head like a bad campaign ad. You're selfish. Negligent. You made me feel unimportant. You didn't support me. I don't love you anymore. I haven't for a long time.
Was I so wrapped up in my own life that I didn't see my husband falling out of love with me? Is that why it was so easy for him to leave?
I changed who I was for him. And it still wasn't enough.
I'm not enough.
_____
I'm half-watching reruns of Friend's when a knock rattles my bedroom door. My first instinct is to ignore it – if I stay quiet, they'll assume I'm asleep and leave. The shadow of feet under the door disappears, and I think I'm in the clear – until another knock echoes through the room.
"Go away," I mumble. "I'm asleep."
The door swings open and Jo steps in, glaring. "If you're asleep, how are you answering me?"
"Your incessant knocking woke me up."
"You know what I think?" She shuts the door and crosses the room, arms folded tight. "I think you're avoiding. You don't answer calls. You don't text back. I haven't seen you in Hannah's classroom. So, what's going on?"
She peels back my comforter, slides in beside me, and immediately wrinkles her nose. "Blondie, I love you, but you stink."
I tug the collar of Will's Yankees t-shirt over my nose and inhale. She's right. I really do stink.
"I've been busy," I say.
"Busy?" Her eyebrows shoot up. "Busy lying in bed in the same clothes for days? Busy bingeing shows you've already seen a hundred times? Busy hiding out in your teenage bedroom?" She gives my messy ponytail a playful tug. "And a Yankees T-shirt, Del? Really? That's borderline sacrilegious considering who your ex is."
