More Than Hate You (More Than Words)

Because I was a stupid, selfish asshole. I’d give anything to go back to our wedding day, explain my once-forbidden feelings for Becca, and tell Evan that I’m stepping aside in his quest to take over Reservoir. Maybe I still would have lost Sloan in the end, but at least I would have had the comfort of knowing I did everything I could, rather than kicking myself for doing all the things I regret.

With a heavy sigh, I ease out of the corner and slink out the door, reaching for my car keys with one hand and my phone with the other, then dial Evan. It’s barely four a.m. in Maui. I’ll probably wake him up, but he deserves to know sooner rather than later that I utterly fucking failed.

“Bas?” he sounds groggy. “What’s up?”

“Hey, buddy. I’m sorry.” I shut my eyes and lean against my car. “I’ve got bad news…”

April 30

After Sloan delivers her triumphant news to Reservoir’s employees, I book a miserable flight back to Maui. As soon as I walk through my front door, I drop my suitcase, turn off my phone, and open a bottle.

The first of many.

Evan comes over. I think it’s Friday night. He tries prying me off the sofa to go somewhere with him. No clue why, and I’m way too drunk to care. Finally, he gives up and parks himself next to me. We watch a baseball game. I don’t remember who played, much less the outcome.

Saturday is another Cîroc-induced blur.

Nia pops by Sunday morning to check on me. But by the time she arrives, I’m deep in the midst of discovering that vodka does, in fact, mix with diet cola to make the breakfast of losers. Yeah, that visit is a hazy memory, except the part where she makes me breakfast and apologizes for putting her foot in her mouth with Sloan. At least I have the presence of mind to assure her it’s not her fault.

Despite all the vodka, I’m aware that it’s totally mine.

By Sunday evening, I stop drinking and sober up. My head pounds and my stomach rumbles, but those are minor problems. Without anything to dull the pain of losing Sloan, I think about every dirty, underhanded thing I’ve done since promising Evan I’d stop Reservoir from winning Wynam’s business. I think about everything Sloan has been through. Everything she said. What’s important to me. What I want out of life.

I end up with a shit-pile of regret but no obvious answers about how to make things right with my wife. One thing I realize I need to do? Be a better person.

I can start by being a better son.

After I grab a bottle of water and pop a couple of ibuprofen, I power my phone up. Messages from Evan, checking in on me. Messages from Nia, asking if I’m okay.

Nothing from Sloan. Damn it.

Digging my thumb and forefinger into the aching sockets of my eyes and shoving down grief, I dial my mom.

“Sebastian?”

As soon as I hear her groggy voice, I remember the time difference. It’s midnight back home.

“Sorry, Mom. I forgot how late it is there. Go back to sleep.”

“No, that’s okay. Tell me what’s going on.”

Of course she thinks I’m calling for a reason. My wedding to Sloan aside, I haven’t spoken to her in months, and now I’m reaching out a mere week later. “Just…checking in. How are you?”

“A lot better than you sound. Talk to me.”

“I’m fine. Just hung over.” I force a laugh to lighten the mood.

But just like when I was a teenager sneaking out on Saturday night to drink beer and play video games with my buddies, she sees right through me. “It sounds like more than that. What’s wrong? Where’s Sloan?”

I slam my eyes shut. Her questions force me to face what I’ve been trying to avoid with the vodka. “I…screwed up with her.”

My mother pauses for a long moment. “Is it too late to fix things?”

Maybe. Probably. “I don’t know how.”

She sighs. “Women are communicators. If you replay your last conversation or two, I’m sure she told you something useful.”

That I need to put her first. That I need to let her go.