The Muse's Undoing

“Oh, sure. They were friends first. They say that always leads to the best marriages.”

A confused look crosses his pretty face. “Right. I think that might be your ride.”

I look out at the street and sure enough—silver Kia. Chris is kind enough to see me into the backseat safely. He wishes me a good night, and I want to thank him for distracting me for three minutes, but I tip him instead.

On the way to the Bronx, a headache threatens, and I wish I had more water. I should have taken some Motrin before I left, but if I managed to forget my cane in my rush to get to Matthew, I don’t know how I would have remembered to prepare for a hangover.

I’m extremely anxious to see him, but the closer I get, the less noise there is in my head about whether this is a good move or not. It’s the only move.

The rest of my life begins and ends with him. I’m lost without him, existence has no meaning, and all that cliché shit. He’s an infection I can’t shake. Or, perhaps more accurately, he’s the stake through my heart that can’t be removed without causing my instant death.

He’s killing me, and I need him.

It’s a slow, painful walk up the stairs to his loft. My leg doesn’t hurt, but my head is pounding. I have no clue what time it is except for late. After midnight maybe. Fuck, I’m not even sure what day of the week it is.

Finally, I get to his door and knock.

He’s practically naked, the asshole. Fresh from the shower in black boxer briefs and nothing else. His chest, arms, and hair are damp and slick. I can’t bring myself to look to the left where the tree used to be. I nearly start crying again on the spot because I’d wanted so badly for him to sell that piece. Now it only exists as shards and cuts all over his upper body.

I lean on the doorframe, not in a sexy way. More like I’m leaning into it with the front of my shoulder to keep myself from falling over. “My head is fucking killing me,” I blurt out instead of hi or I miss you or you’re so fucking beautiful, please drug me and chain me to your bed so I never leave again.

“Where’s your cane?”

“Forgot it,” I say.

“You’re making this complicated,” he tells me, frowning and conflicted.

“Making what complicated how?”

“You weren’t supposed to show up here looking like you needed me.”

“Why the hell else would I be here?”

“To break up with me like a man for once.”

I shake my head, but that’s a terrible idea. I palm my forehead and groan. “I need to sit.”

He grabs me by the arm, pulls me inside, and leads me to the couch.“Let me get you some water and pills,” he says once I’m safely seated.

I reach for him, but he’s already walking away. I slump to the side and am forced to come to terms with the fact that I’m still somewhat drunk.

When he gets back to me, he’s got all of what he promised, but he’s also wearing a t-shirt and sweats. “Message received,” I mutter.

“I’m sorry?”

Jesus, I need to shut up. I avoid the question, taking the three tablets he hands me and the glass of water. I down it all and sit back, closing my eyes, and rubbing my temples. I inhale the enticing aroma of him after a shower. It’s soothing. After a week of upheaval and fear and listening to the people who claim to care about me tell me what they really think about me, I finally relax.

“So, you said you needed to see me,” he says after what I’m guessing was too long of a silence while I soaked up the vibe.

“Yeah, but maybe I should have waited.”

“No shit,” he says.

“I’m drunk.”

“I can see that.”

“I’ve been drunk a lot.”