Only One Chance (Only One Series 2)

by Natasha Madison

  When I pull up in my driveway, I see that his car is gone. I walk in, feeling like I just got hit by a Mack truck. My whole body aches, and I take my phone, texting Brian about tomorrow. I tell him that I have a fever and that I don’t think I will be able to work. He answers right away that he will get someone to take my place and tells me to go to the doctor.

  I open the door of my house and look around, seeing that he left all the lights on. I turn off the lights and drag myself to my bedroom. I curl up into a ball in the middle of my bed, and I close my eyes.

  All I can see is the hurt on his face. All I can hear are the words he said. All I can do is pray that this is a nightmare and that tomorrow when I wake up, it’ll be in his arms. But sleep doesn’t come and take me. Instead, I get undressed and then slip on my sweats and his shirt. I climb back into bed, my body shivering, my teeth clattering.

  I finally sob out loud for him. I cry for the man who chased me for the past four years. I cry for the man who made me smile more than anyone in my whole like. I cry for the lost tomorrows.

  I cry for the man who I fell in love with but never got a chance to tell him.

  Chapter 30

  Miller

  “Get the fuck out of here,” I hiss at her. My heart shatters in my chest, the pain more than I’ve ever felt in my life. I want to hurt her as much as she hurt me. I want to roar out at anyone who gets in my way. My hands shake with the nerves that run through me.

  I’m the husband. The three words that ended it all. Three totally different words than what I was going to tell her this weekend. I stood there, stunned. My heart beats so hard in my chest, and my mouth is dry. My head’s spinning, not sure I understood. This man is her husband. The woman who I’ve fallen in love with is married.

  I slam the door behind me, my back collapsing on it. Seeing her there looking more beautiful than she has ever before. The tears streaming down her face while she said he was her ex-husband. My stomach lurches at the thought of her married to someone. The lone tear escaping from my eyes. I listen as the car door shuts, and I listen to her drive away. Driving away from me, away from us.

  Walking straight to the liquor cabinet, I grab the bottle of scotch. Unscrewing the cap, I don’t even bother with a glass. I take three long gulps. The burning of my throat spreads to my chest and then to my stomach. I put the bottle down and close my eyes, but it just makes it that much worse. All I can see is her face, her beautiful fucking face with tears running down the same cheeks I kissed four days ago. The same cheek I rub with my thumb when she sits next to me, and I want to touch her.

  I open my eyes again, and this time, I drink another three gulps. The burning is much less this time than the last. Grabbing the bottle, I make my way over to the window and walk outside. The sound of the pool fills the yard. I look up at the sky, wondering how this day started so good but ended up the worst day of my life.

  Closing my eyes again doesn’t help because all I can do is play the last month over and over again. The quiet nights with just the two of us. The nights spent out laughing at everything and nothing. Her face when she sleeps. Her face when she is happy. I drink more of the scotch, trying to erase all the memories. Trying to erase her from my heart.

  Walking back inside, I don’t even bother going to my bedroom, knowing it’ll be worse in the place where it still smells like her. Instead, I sit on the couch with the lights off. In the darkness, I drink until my eyes can’t stay open. I look down at the almost empty bottle and try getting up to get another one. But I fall back onto the couch, and the bottle slips out of my hand and crashes to the floor. I hear the shatter, but all I can do is lie down on my back. My hand’s on my chest, resting over my pounding heart, and I wonder how it can beat when it’s broken. “Why?” I ask the white ceiling that is now spinning. “Why?” No one answers me as my eyes slide shut.

  Nothing helps when my eyes close in a drunken stupor, and nothing helps when I hear her laughter in my head. Nothing helps when I hear her moan my name. Nothing helps when I hear her sob out as if she is right next to me. My eyes shoot open to find I’m still in the darkness. I’m still in my own living hell.

  I roll to my side, and as soon as my feet hit the floor, I hear the sound of crunching glass. “Fuck.” I get up, not sure if I can actually walk. I stumble on the way to the closet that holds the vacuum, and only when I can’t pull it out do I give up. Instead, I go over to grab another bottle of scotch, and this time, I walk on the other side of the couch. My phone beeps from my pocket, and I take it out and see I have missed calls. My eyes only focus on the word gorgeous.

  My finger rolls over the name, and I open it and block her number. My stomach roils, and I think I’m going to be sick. I close off the phone and then open it again only to see the picture of us staring at the camera laughing. The pain in my heart is so strong that I look down to see if I have blood seeping out of my chest.

  I do another thing I shouldn’t, especially with a whole bottle of scotch in my system. I look through my pictures. Most of them of her. Most of them taken without her knowing. Most of them with her smiling at something. Then I look at the one I took four days ago. Her in my bed, her hair on the pillow like a fan as she looks over at me with sleep in her eyes. It was then I almost told her that I loved her. It was then it finally dawned on me that I love this woman with everything I have.

  “She doesn’t love you,” I say to myself.

  Putting my head back, I open the other bottle of scotch and take a swig. Swig after swig, the night haunts me. Every single time my eyes close, it’s my own living hell. I try to force my eyes open, but nothing helps.

  When I finally open my eyes the next day, the sun is streaming into the house. My mouth is dry, and my tongue feels like a cotton swab, not allowing me to swallow. I get up, and now the pounding in my head has me hissing. I walk over to the kitchen to grab a glass of water and two painkillers. I look over at the clock and see it’s almost fucking noon. I also see the vacuum in the middle of the hallway.

  I walk over to the spare bedroom, starting the shower and undressing. I get in and put my hands on the wall, letting the water cascade around me. I wonder if she feels hurt. I wonder if she is laughing at me. The poor fucking idiot who she strung along like a love-sick puppy.

  Turning off the shower, I walk to my bedroom with the towel around my waist, ignoring the bed that she fixed before she left. I also ignore the note that I know she left on the bed. It was something she started doing so I could read it when I got home. I slip on my basketball shorts and walk back into the kitchen, grabbing two more painkillers. My head pounds like a jackhammer is inside it. I start the coffee, walking to the door where I dumped my bag. I slip on my sneakers, then walk back to the vacuum, and I clean up the shattered bottle.

  The sound of the little pieces of glass clanking into the vacuum cleaner makes my headache even worse. The doorbell rings as soon as I shut off the vacuum, and I look over, waiting to see if the bell rings again.

  When it does, I walk back over to the front door. My heart speeds up in my chest, wondering if it’s her, but I know she wouldn’t come back here. Not after the way I spoke with her yesterday. Not after throwing her words in her face. I unlock the door, and I stand here now shocked when I see her standing there. Her eyes are red from crying, or maybe she didn’t sleep last night. Her hair is piled on her head, the big sweater she is wearing looks like it’s swallowing her.

  “Hi,” she says, and I see that she is wringing her hands together. “I know that you don’t want to see me,” she says, and I almost slam the door in her face. “I just.” Her voice hitches. “I’d like for you to give me five minutes of your time, and then you never have to talk to me again.” She swallows now, and my stomach sinks.

  “You have five minutes.” I move out of the way and give her room to come inside.

  “Thank you,” she says softly and comes in and waits for me to walk into the house. She acts like she hasn’t been in this house before. I see that sh
e looks down, and from the side of my eyes, I can see her wiping a tear away.

  She stops walking when she sees the half empty bottle of scotch and then looks over at me. “You drank?”

  “Is that what you came over here to talk to me about? My drinking.” I fold my arms over my chest.

  “No,” she says, looking back down again as if she’s afraid of me. As though she can’t stomach to look at me. “Can I sit down?” she asks, and I see that her hands are shaking now when she isn’t holding them together.

  “Did you drive here?” I ask, suddenly worried that she could have gotten hurt. But then I remember it doesn’t matter. It isn’t my problem. “Forget it. I don’t care,” I say, and I see her nod her head and swallow.

  “I guess we can talk here,” I say to her, looking at the couch, and she walks over and sits down. Usually, she would sit with her feet curled under her. Usually, I would sit beside her with my arm over her legs.

  But now she sits almost on the edge of the couch with her hands in her lap. I sit down on the other couch, facing her. “Before I start, I want to say I’m sorry that you found out that way.”

  “What are you exactly sorry for?” I ask her. “Is it because I found out?” I glare at her, and she shakes her head.

  “I shouldn’t have come,” she says, getting up now.

  “You owe me the truth,” I tell her, saying words that hurt me more than her. “After today, we never have to talk to each other.”

  Chapter 31

  Layla

  I shouldn’t have come here, my inner voice is screaming at me. Why would you do this to yourself?

  I shake my head. It’s not about me; it’s about Miller. It’s about him right now. I sit on the edge of the couch that I used to sit on right next to him. The same couch he made love to me on five days ago, the same couch that we binge-watched TV shows together. The same couch where I lay on his chest and fell asleep. I look around the house, feeling like a stranger, which is weird because, for the past month, I spent more time here than at my actual house. The half-empty bottle of scotch on the counter means he drank last night. That what I did pushed him to do things he doesn’t do. That he wanted to wash away the hurt I brought onto him with alcohol.

  I spent the whole night in bed, my body shivering. I just couldn’t get the chill out of my body. I also spent the whole night silently crying. I didn’t expect him to open the door, so I was shocked. Just seeing him made me feel just a touch better, knowing I could see him if only for five minutes. “I am sorry that I wasn’t the one who told you.” I answer his question and see the redness in his eyes. I want to ask him if he’s hurting like I am. I want to ask him if he missed me as much as I missed him. I want to ask him if his heart hurts as much as mine does. I want to ask him to hold me. I want to ask him to give me one more kiss that I can savor. One more kiss to remember him by. One more touch, one more kiss, one more night, one more chance. I want to beg him to forgive me, but that is the selfish part of me. That part is not thinking about his pain or making his pain a priority. The whole night I put myself in his shoes, the whole night I imagined finding out he was married. I would be just as shattered as he was. I look at him sitting there, and it hurts, even more, knowing how it feels to be in his arms, knowing how much he completes me.

  “So you still aren’t sorry you lied to me,” he says. “Because by you not telling me, you lied to me.” I listen to the way his voice is tight and hurt.

  I take a deep breath and start the speech that I practiced in the car on the way here. Over and over again, I tried to do it without the tears coming. “I was nineteen when I met Richard,” I tell him, and I see that he just looks at me. “He was twenty-two and in town for a golfing event.”

  “Wait a second,” he says, holding up his hand. “Was that Richard Chambers?” I nod. “The number two seated golfer in the whole world.”

  “That would be him,” I say, taking a deep breath. “Obviously, he wasn’t number two when we met.” I have never told anyone this story, not even Grandma Nancy. It was for me and only me. My mistake that made me so cautious with my heart. The mistake that caused me to keep everyone at bay. The mistake that I never allowed myself to live, really.

  “We met when my college newspaper sent me to cover the golf game. I was in charge of asking a couple of them questions. I asked him some basic golf questions, and he laughed at me when I had no idea what a par or a birdie was. He asked me out that night, and we dated for two years.” I swallow. “In secret, of course. He was an up-and-coming golfer. His manager had this whole persona he was creating. He was a charmer, and he was friendly to everyone. He had to keep his single lifestyle going to get the girls running. We got married in secret also. His manager was the only one there and actually got me to sign an NDA about it.” I laugh now, blinking away the tears. “God, it was so stupid. But I thought I loved him, and I thought he loved me. We would go out together often, but never once did he hold my hand, never with his arm around me, and when we did go out, the girls would flock all over him.” I don’t have to tell him like they were with him.

  “His game was the best it had ever been, and he was riding the wave. His endorsements were coming in hand over fist. When he won his first-ever big title, I was standing there while he celebrated with a random girl who walked up to him while he was walking off the course. He let her fawn all over him. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he held her around her waist. If you asked anyone, they would have thought they were a couple.” My hands start to shake. “I told him it bothered me. He made it seem like I was asking to sacrifice his game by admitting we were married. On our wedding anniversary, I found a reservation that he made at this posh hotel. I showed up, thinking I was surprising him. I did my hair and makeup and made sure to wear his favorite dress. Only to walk in with him and the same girl who he celebrated with.” I wipe the tear away.

  “He tried to tell me it meant nothing. He tried to say it was the first time and that I was making a big deal about nothing. I called Grandma Nancy that day, and she came to get me.” I look up for the first time to see him, and he just looks at me. I can’t tell if he cares or not, but I want him to know it all. No matter what happens, I want him to know the little piece of me no one else knows. “She gave zero fucks about the NDA I signed and got a lawyer who hired a private investigator, and we found out that he had sixteen women scattered all across America who he would meet up with while he was ‘on tour.’” I swallow now, wishing I had water. “Grandma wouldn’t cave and made sure he paid through the ass. He dragged his feet during the divorce because he thought I would take him back when I just wanted to be done with him. Every five years, he has to pay me a portion of what he makes, which is why he showed up. He hand delivers the check.”

  “He’s the reason you could afford the twenty-five thousand?” he asks me, his jaw tight.

  “Yes,” I answer, and I see him fist his hand.

  “That’s why you didn’t like women coming up to me?” he asks me. “So I had to pay for his mistakes.” He laughs out. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

  “Tell you what?” I look at him. “Tell you that I’m divorced. The night you spoke to me about getting married, my heart literally sank in my chest. How could I tell you that I was divorced when you would only get married once. Meanwhile, here I was, married and divorced. I couldn’t muster up the courage, at least not then.” I look at down at my hands. “But I was going to.”

  “Yeah, I can imagine when.” His voice comes out harshly. “I mean, it’s not like we had the time or anything.”

  “I guess you’re right,” I say, getting up. My body starts to get a chill, and I know that if I don’t leave now, he’ll be witness to the complete breakdown that I’m going to have. “Thank you for giving me a chance to explain.” I turn around and start to walk out.

  “Thank you,” he says, his voice soft, and I turn around. “For showing me what type of man I want to be.” He stares at me, and the tears form in my eyes so
much I can’t see. I nod at him and start to walk out.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, and I stop in my tracks, letting the tears fall before I turn around. “For what I said yesterday about you not being worth it.” Whatever is left of my heart is now shattered. It’s broken and shot to shit. I look at him and know that I will never love a man like I love him. I know that after everything is said and done, he is going to be the love that got away.

  “I hope you find someone,” I say the words, trying not to let my voice tremble. “I hope you find the love you deserve.” I don’t say anything else. I take one more look at him and walk out of the house. The door slamming behind me is symbolic to the relationship ending. To my heart shutting down, my body shutting down.

  I practically run to my car, getting in, and I somehow hope that he comes running after me. I sit in the driver’s seat and count to ten to see if maybe he’ll forgive me. Seeing if maybe, just maybe I am worthy of his love. But the door stays shut. I have to give him what he wants, and he’s made it clear he doesn’t want me.

  “Goodbye, Miller,” I say to him and pull out of his driveway. I look back through the rearview mirror one last time, but all it does is show me that I’m driving farther and farther away from him.

  Chapter 32

  Miller

  The door closes behind her, and for the second time, I let her go. My heart screams to go after her, my head telling me that she doesn’t want me. If she wanted you, she wouldn’t have walked out. I get up, making myself coffee, my head spinning with her story. The pain that she was in while she told me her story killed me. Each word was like a kick in the stomach. Her hands shook so hard in her lap that I’m worried she’ll get into an accident. Shaking my head, I walk over to my bedroom and grab a T-shirt, and then I walk out of the house. I have to make sure she makes it home okay.