Tell him that this would be okay.
That I’d help him quit.
That we could do this together.
The other part of me knew exactly how that would all work out.
How it always worked out.
Been there.
Done that.
Bought the ugly, painful, life-changing T-shirt.
And I didn’t need another one.
“I love you, Trey. I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you. But I can’t do this. Not even with you.”
He looked up to the ceiling, then back down at me. “There’s nothing to do. I don’t need the pills anymore.”
“Said every addict everywhere,” I added in. I looked him directly in the eyes. “Have a nice life, Trey. Send me the divorce papers when you have them ready.”
I pulled out of his grasp and started toward the door.
He called after me, “You’re overreacting, Lexi.”
Yeah.
Addicts said that, too.
As well as—“It’s not like I’m addicted to them or something!”
Wow.
I opened the door, careful not to let the puppy out.
I turned around one last time. “Thanks, Trey. The good times were really, really good. I want you to know that. And,” I yanked my suitcase out, “I wish you all the luck in the world.”
After I shut the door on him—and the puppy—and all the love, and promise we’d shared—I walked across the courtyard to my apartment, and opened the door.
Shut the door.
Sat down.
And cried.