Wasted Love with You (Wasted Love 1)

Heading to the dining room, I search for two-week hotel stays in the next county and anxiously watch the clock.

I’m crossing Hiltons off my list when midnight finally strikes. At one o’clock, every Marriott in a fifty-mile radius has smacked me with an “unavailable” greeting.

By two, I’m refreshing my screen for the umpteenth page of Airbnb options. And at three, I have a small list of options, but still no sign of Nate.

There’s no ice cream or convenience store still open at this hour, and although I’d briefly forgotten about the potential for after-parties, he’s never come home this late.

I pull out my phone and send him a text.

Me: Are you still at work? Getting pretty late…

No response.

I can see that he’s ‘read’ my words, that he even started typing a response, but his excuse never comes through.

I send him another message.

Me: Nate, I can tell that you’ve read my text. Are you headed home? We need to talk ASAP.

Nate: I’m busy, Autumn. Whatever it is, we’ll talk later. Sleep well, love you.

What the hell? I immediately call him.

It rings once.

It rings twice.

Then he hits ignore and sends me straight to voicemail.

Seconds later, he sends me another text.

Nate: We’ll talk later. Don’t call me again.

I seethe as I stare at his words.

I weigh the pros and cons of leaving via a final note on the table or waiting to say goodbye in person, but the sound of our doorbell ringing interrupts me mid-thought.

Confused, I walk over and glance through the peephole.

Ricky? He’s one of Nate’s assistants.

“Um… Hey.” I open the door. “May I help you with something?”

“I’m sorry, I thought you were expecting me.” He holds up a brown bag.

“What’s this?”

“Pralines ’N Cream. Mr. Taylor told me to get you a super carton since he’s working after hours, so…” He avoids looking into my eyes as if he’s well aware that he’s speaking the language of bullshit.

“Thank you very much, Ricky.” I take the bag from his hands, resisting the urge to ask him any further questions. “Drive safe on your way home.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Taylor.”

“It’s Miss Jane,” I say. “Don’t ever call me that other name again.”

His eyes widen, and he rushes away.

I wait until his headlights hit the street before opening the bag. Sure enough, there’s a “super carton” of ice cream and a huge pink spoon.

Under that is the golden picture frame from Nate’s desk at work, one of us kissing on the beach a few months into our relationship. The morning after I gave him my virginity.

A post-it note that’s taped on its edge bears his messy handwriting:

Think of me touching you while you sleep tonight.

Love you,

Nate

“Fuck you, Nate.” I toss the frame against the wall, cracking it in half.

Disappointed with the unsatisfying way that it snapped, I step on it until the glass is completely crushed. Then I storm into our living room and stare at the honeymoon pictures that line our mantle.

Picking up the fire poker, I swing and hit the frames one by one—shattering them to pieces as they meet the floor.

I knock our “Mr. & Mrs. Taylor” wedding album from its high seat on the bookshelf, stomping all over its shards before taking my destruction party to the next room. Then the next.

By the time I’ve destroyed all the photographic evidence of our “happy” memories, the sun is peeking its head through the blinds.

And Nate still hasn’t come home.

End of Episode 5

Episode 6

Autumn

That afternoon

I’m clearing the kitchen table to draft a new version of a “farewell, fuck you” letter when Nate suddenly walks through the garage entry door.

Carrying a white catering bag from O’Malley’s, he smiles at me as if he’s just won the lottery.

“This will never count as a formal dinner reservation,” he says, “but I hope this will make up for your birthday.”

Am I in the Twilight Zone? I blink a few times, pinching myself to make sure I’m not imagining this.

He really stayed out with the other woman all night, all day.

Humming our wedding song to himself like a psychopath, he sets the bag on the table and ceremoniously takes out our best porcelain plates from the cabinet. The way he moves with such ease and finesse makes me remember how he held that other woman in his arms.

How he kissed her lips and devoured her mouth in front of everyone.

I lean back in the chair and cross my arms, waiting for him to notice the glass disaster zone in our living room, but he keeps his gaze focused on me and the catering.

“I meant to call you earlier,” he says. “Things got busy at work, though. You know how it is.”

“Yes. I know exactly how it is.”

He slides me a plate of freshly-cut steak and vegetables, then he takes a seat directly across from me.

“How was your day today?” he asks, attempting to lure me back into our usual charade. “Better yet, how long have you been writing this afternoon?”