Not without Winnie.
It rings again, and I know that persistent fucker won’t stop. He’s like a gnat that keeps swarming around your head you keep swatting at, but it never goes away. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a great guy, my best friend since college, but he’s really starting to grate on my nerves with all this, go out and find someone new bullshit. Snatching my phone from the couch cushion beside me, I swipe the screen. “What?” I ask, annoyed.
He laughs. “I knew I would wear you down eventually. Let’s go grab some drinks.”
“Nah, not feeling it.”
“Here we go again.” He sighs heavily into the phone. “Harrison, come on. You can’t mope. I refuse to let you.”
“I’m not moping,” I lie. “It’s been one hell of a week, and I just want to stay in. I’m not good company tonight. Trust me on this.” That part is not a complete lie. I buried myself in work this week to fill the ache, to fill this void that knowing we’re divorced brings me.
“So, you’re saying you’re not up for being my wingman?” I can hear the humor in his voice. He knows damn good and well I’m not up for it. Not tonight or any night in the future. “I need backup.”
“Afraid not, you’re flying solo on this one.”
“Fine,” he grumbles. “I can tell by your tone that I’m not going to get you out of that apartment.”
He’s right. Nothing is going to get me from this recliner, my only piece of furniture in the living room, well, unless you count the TV and the TV tray I bought to eat my takeout on. I can’t seem to find it in me, to try and make this place home. It’s not home and will never be. It’s a constant reminder that I fucked up and lost my wife. Maybe I should look into moving to a new place, one that I pick out with plans of long-term? Yeah, not ready for that either. I always thought when we moved into a bigger place, it would be because we were growing our family.
“You take the ring off yet?” he asks.
“Don’t,” I warn.
“Jesus, Harrison.”
“Don’t,” I say again, not wanting to hear anything he has to say about it. I know it makes me a pussy. I get that. I know that it’s over, that the ink has long since dried on our divorce papers, but damn it, I can’t seem to make myself accept it. Taking off my wedding band is a part of that. My eyes dart to my left hand, where my ring still sits on the fourth digit. Then there’s the W tattoo. Both reminders of what I’ve lost. I’m going to take it off, but I was hoping that I would run into her and she would notice. This town isn’t that big, yet we’ve managed to avoid the awkward run-in.
“So what, you’re just going to sit around and do nothing?”
“There’s a John Wayne marathon on,” I tell him.
“Hold me back,” he jokes. “Seriously, this is the last time, man. I’m not going to let you sit and mope your life away. What happened to fighting for her?”
“She won’t reply to me,” I grumble, already over this conversation.
“Make her.”
“Right, and how do you suppose I do that?”
“Go to her, make her listen, do something. Staying holed up in your apartment all the time is not the answer.”
Again, he’s right, not that I’m going to tell him that. “Drinks next weekend. None of this wingman shit, got it? Drinks, but I’m not ready for all that other shit.” I don’t know if I ever will be.
“Fine,” he concedes. “Call me if you change your mind.”
“Sure,” I say, ending the call. I have no plans to change my mind. He can try all he wants, but I’m not leaving this apartment until Monday morning. I need some time to get my head together, figure out a plan. I’m going to fight for her, and I just need to decide how I’m going to do it.
I debate on whether I should drive over there. Just to see if she’s home, but then I remember it’s her birthday and if she’s there, so is her entire family. I’m not going to show up and make a scene and make this day hard for her. We lost our way, and let things get too far out of hand. She might have signed those divorce papers, but she still loves me.
I know she does.
I can feel it.
Starting tomorrow, I’m upping my game. I’m going to fight for her with everything I have, with everything inside me. I’ll do whatever it takes to prove to her she’s more important than the gym. Hell, than anything. She is all that matters. I knew it the day I met her, then again the day I married her, and I sure as fuck knew it the day I divorced her. We got lost. Now it’s time to find our way back. I just wish there was some kind of sign, or even a reply from her to let me know where I stand. This silence is killing me.
Grabbing the remote, I’m just about to turn the volume up on the television when my phone rings again. This time it’s a number I don’t recognize, so I let it ring until the voice mail picks up. Immediately it rings again, the same number. I’m ready to let it go to voice mail again, but something in my gut tells me I need to answer it. After the fifth ring, I swipe the screen and place the phone next to my ear. “Hello.”
“Hi, is this Mr. Drake?”
“Yes. Who’s this?” I ask skeptically. I wouldn’t put it past Chase to have a random woman calling me trying to persuade me to come out with them.
“My name is Lori. I’m an Emergency Room nurse at County General. Your wife was brought in about twenty minutes ago.”
My heart stops, then stutters to life with a rapid beat pounding in my chest. My grip on the remote is so tight I can feel the plastic start to give. Dropping it to the floor, I sit up in my chair. “What? What happened?” There is a heavy thump, thump, thump ringing in my ears. My mind races with all the possibilities—why is she there? Is she okay? Please let her be okay.
“She was in an car accident.”
Shit. “How is she? Is she all right?” I ask over the lump that’s already formed in the back of my throat. Where was she going? Was she alone on her birthday? Questions I don’t have time to get the answers to flash in my mind.
“She’s doing okay. She’s very lucky. We found your information under the emergency contact in her cell phone. The doctor is going in to see her now.”
“She’s okay?” I ask for clarification. I think I heard her right, but this is Winnie we’re talking about. I need to be certain.
“Yes. She’s going to be just fine,” the nurse whose name I can’t remember assures me.
I’m already up and grabbing my keys. “I’m on my way. Can you please,” I fight back the emotion clogging my throat, “tell her I’m on my way?”
“Absolutely, Mr. Drake. Drive safe,” she says, ending the call. After slamming my apartment door, I bypass taking the elevator and opt for the stairs. I take them as fast as I can, bursting through the lobby door, and sprinting out to my truck. Tossing my phone in the cup holder, I shakily place the keys in the ignition and peel out of the lot. I break more traffic laws than I care to admit on my way, but that’s the least of my worries. They can give me a ticket, but I’m not stopping this truck.
Not until I get to her.
Luck happens to be on my side. As I squeal—tires turning—into the ER parking lot, no cops are in sight. Taking the first spot I see, I jerk the keys out of the ignition, grab my phone, and jog inside. I don’t stop until I reach the reception desk. “My wife, Wi-Gwendolyn Drake, they called me, a nurse, she called me and said that she was brought here,” I ramble as I suck in a deep breath. I won’t do either of us any good if I’m a hyperventilating mess.