First message
I’m sitting on my patio rolling a cigarette between my thumb and index finger, the din of music and chatter inside distant. My slice of River Oaks is always quiet at night. The trees blanketing my property swallow up any sound pollution. I paid ten million for this peace.
I hate it.
That’s why every weekend I throw cocktail parties. I invite employees, friends, even strangers I meet on the sidewalk. For at least six hours, I can be certain my own thoughts won’t drag me down.
Or so I tell myself. It’s never enough.
My employee introduced me to his partner tonight, showed off the engagement ring. He did it like I wouldn’t know that smile anywhere, like the way you cried when I left doesn’t haunt me. You were my first love. First heartbreak, too. I try to quarantine my regrets about us to my dreams. That only works if you stay gone.
The sliding door squeaks behind me. I turn around. Of course it’s you. Even now, you can tell when I’m thinking too hard.
Hey, Honeybee. The old pet name slips out. I ignore how you wince. Told you I’d get rich. My tone is joking, amicable, but my eyes burn.
I know why I broke up with you. It was the right choice. We were immature, toxic, and disparaged each other’s dreams in fits of insecurity. But now you’re standing in front of me like a ghost, and all I can think of is every stupid thing I could do about that, like tell you I missed you—
I’m real happy for you. Hope he treats you right.
I’m lying through my teeth.