When I Was Yours

Tragic, right? Yeah, well, tragic is my middle fucking name.

Two years after rehab, I did fall off the wagon once when I thought I saw Evie.

I was in San Francisco. My studio was shooting a movie there, and they were having problems on the set. Basically, the director was threatening to walk out on the movie because the lead actress was being a mega bitch. That mega-bitch actress was my mother. So, I had to go there to handle her because no one else could.

When I was driving through the city, heading to the set, I swore to God, I saw Evie walking down the street.

By the time I pulled over and went to look for her, I saw no sign of her.

I was sure it was her.

Looking back, it was probably just another look-alike. I was always good at finding them.

Even still, I was so convinced that it was Evie that I got back in touch with my PI and had him look into it.

Yet again, he came to me a few days later with nothing.

That night, I got drunk off my ass and fucked an extra from the set who had long blonde hair and a tight ass. She looked like Evie from behind. And, yes, I kept her faced away from me the whole time I was screwing her.

Pathetic, I know.

That was when I figured it was time to get myself another therapist.

And I got a damn good one, and he helped me stay Evie-look-alike free.

Until last night.

What triggered last night’s occurrence, I have no clue.

A few days ago would have been my and Evie’s wedding anniversary, if we had made it that far. But these last three years, I’d gotten through those missed anniversaries without slipping.

So, aside from that, nothing else happened to set me off—except for a lot of alcohol, which wasn’t a rare occurrence when I went out drinking with Max. We usually got drunk and then got laid.

I’m not celibate. I did abstain for a time as part of my therapy. But that was a while ago.

Now, my goal is to just avoid having sex with Evie look-alikes.

I have tried to date in the past, but I could never get it to work. Trust is a big issue for me. Basically, I don’t trust anyone with a vagina. I think that, essentially, all women are untrustworthy cold bitches.

My therapist is still working on that one.

Apparently, that comes from mommy issues as well as my ex-wife issues.

As you can see, I’m not a good candidate for a relationship.

But I am a guy, one who works hard and likes to fuck harder. So, I still have one-night stands but just in a healthier manner. I have sex with brunettes or those with black, pink, blue, purple, or red hair. Any color goes, except for blonde. Taller chicks are better, as Evie was tiny. I avoid any temptation I can. Skin color doesn’t matter. I don’t discriminate. I screw anyone I find attractive, but for my own sanity’s sake, I avoid small blondes who remotely resemble my ex-wife.

Or should I say, I did until last night when my drunken self thought it would be a good time to fall off the wagon.

My therapist will be so proud. Guess I’m going to have to call him.

I scrub my hands over my face, letting out a long tired breath.

I’m really not looking forward to facing the look-alike, and I need to get to work. I have back-to-back meetings all day.

Grabbing my cell, I check the time. Seven thirty. Among the emails and messages filling my screen, I see a couple of texts from Max from late last night.

Just for the record, I tried to talk you out of taking the Evie look-alike home. I all but threw my brunette at you. THAT is how good of a friend I am. And it had nothing to do with the fact that the blonde told us she was a gymnast, and I wanted to screw her.

So, tell me, was she as bendy as she looked?

Fucker. Laughing, I shake my head.

Max is my oldest and best friend. We’ve known each other since high school and come from the same background. We both have crappy parents, so we jelled immediately. He knows all about my problem. Max went through the whole Evie thing with me from start to finish. There are only two people I trust in this shitty world, and Max is one of them.

I hear the shower turn off, so I quickly text him back.

Good to know that you wanted to screw someone who looked like my ex-wife, fuckface.

I get an instant response.

Hey, fucker! Good morning to you, too. And I never said I wanted to screw her because she looked like Evie. I said I wanted to screw her because she was a fucking GYMNAST!

I let out another laugh as I type a reply.

You’re a sick man, Max.

Then, I finish off the message.

And, yes, she was as bendy as she looked.

Dropping my cell on the bed, I glance longingly at the swimming pool right outside my door. I don’t even have time for my morning swim. My mornings always feel off if I haven’t been in the water. And this morning definitely feels off. Surfing would be my ideal way to start the day, but that will have to wait until the weekend, like always, when I can get to my beach house.

God, I fucking hate the corporate life.

On a sigh, I get up and pull on last night’s boxer shorts. I don’t want to have the uncomfortable morning-after conversation with the look-alike with my junk hanging out.

I’ve just covered my goods when the look-alike, whose name has evaded me, comes wandering into the bedroom, wrapped in a towel.

I inhale sharply as I see the reason why I fell off the wagon.

Fuck. She really does look like Evie.

A hell of a lot more than I expected. That, combined with last night’s consumption of alcohol, explains my current predicament.

I really went all out last night.

The look-alike smiles at me, biting the corner of her lip. Her hand is gripping the top of the towel, holding it in place.

I can’t do anything but stare at her. I feel like my insides are twisting in all the wrong directions, and I have the sick urge to fuck her again.

Jesus Christ.

I close my eyes to break the connection.

“Is this as awkward for you as it is for me?” she asks softly.

I open my eyes and stare over her shoulder. “Yeah.” More than you’ll ever know.

She lets out a laugh, squeaky and high-pitched. It’s nothing like Evie’s soul-touching soft laugh.

Fuck.

She needs to go—now.

“Look”—I scratch the back of my neck as I take a step toward my bathroom—“I’ve gotta jump in the shower and get ready for work. I’m running late already. You okay to let yourself out?”

“Oh…yeah, sure.”

I hear the disappointment in her voice loud and clear.

Instead of feeling like shit, I just feel relieved that she’ll be getting the hell out of here, and I can pretend that last night didn’t happen.

“Cool.” I tap a hand on the doorframe and disappear into the bathroom before she can say anything more.

Pulling my boxer shorts off, I turn the shower on hot and step inside. I put my head under the spray and close my eyes. But all I can see behind my lids is Evie’s face.

“Fuck!” I hiss, punching my fist against the tiled wall.

After ten years, I’m not over her, and I’m still pulling this same shit.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

God, I hate myself. And I hate Evie.

I hate her for living her life without me.

And I hate that I haven’t been able to live without her.

Because, really, all I have done for the last decade is exist inside the haze of my memories of her.