She can't be what you need if she's seventeen
He threw another one back, tilting his chin up all the way before feeling the burn the alcohol left on his throat. He took a deep breath before shouting out and throwing the glass across the room, watching it shatter down beneath his feet.
He knew the tears were coming and he didn't stop them.
Pain had a way of taking everything that ever believed in and crushing it into little bits beneath his feet.
He saw the picture on the screen through his blurred vision and he nearly laughed, out of anger, out of spite, and he slapped his cell phone down on the table and collapsed down to the bed beside him.
Head in his hands, he relived the conversation that ended it all, the one that took his hopes and plans and dreams and drove a knife right through his heart.
He smiled to himself as he put dinner in the oven, hoping to surprise her with his cooking, after all she had done for him as he had slaved over his novel, determined to finish it. She wasn't to be home for an hour or so still, so it caught him off guard as he heard the front door open and then shut.
Her back was turned to him, so he ran up and grabbed her face, kissing her with as much enthusiasm he could muster, but stopped, as it wasn't returned. He took a step back and watched her collapse in tears on the floor, and his heart sunk.
"I did something bad. And you're going to hate me forever." He had heard her say, and his stomach dropped to a place he didn't even know existed, as he dreaded whatever was to come next.
He stumbled over his words. "What are you trying to say, Zo?"
He barely heard what came out of her mouth after, as his entire body went numb. He couldn't believe that Zoey, his Zoey Brooks, his high school sweetheart and now wife, had cheated on him. He wouldn't believe it.
But something inside of him made him run, cower away. He lost control of his actions. He barely felt himself pack up his few possessions, sloppily throw his clothing in a suitcase, and run for the door. He knew he had yelled at her and he knew he had thrown his ring down, but he just needed to get out.
It had finally hit, after two nights alone, what had happened, and it was like part of him had died inside. Life had hit. The honeymoon phase was long, long gone. Life was a bitch sometimes.
He left the shattered glass there, on the ground, because he saw the symbolism in it. Like that glass, he was broke.
Several weeks went by, but he wasn't keeping track. He devoted most of his time to writing and trying to rebuild his life. Many friends reached out to him, and he spent many of his nights on different couches trying to regain what little sanity he might have. Coffee became his best friend and his worst enemy; making the days a little clearer and the nights a little longer.
She had called him, 27 times over thirteen days, each call becoming more and more difficult to avoid, but he did. He'd listen to the voicemails and find himself wanting to go back, but catching himself. He was weak, and he couldn't let her know that what she did hurt him so badly.
But he did.
They warned him, they told him he'd get hurt again, but somehow, someway, he found himself back in his old house, the one they bought together, and he felt the pain numb, just a little.