When I Was Yours

By: Samantha Towle

The shower’s running.

Not a good sign when you live alone. It can mean only one thing. I brought a hook-up back to the bungalow.

Fuck.

Fighting my eyes open against the morning light streaming into my bedroom, snapshot memories of last night begin to dance around my pounding head.

Max turned up at my office. Talked me into going out and drinking with him.

Shots. Way too many shots.

Then, two women came over to join us.

One was blonde, a natural, with long wavy hair. Petite body. She even had hazel eyes. Her face was pretty, not beautiful like Evie’s but pretty enough. Because of that, I couldn’t help myself. I had to have her. Not because she was hot—which, of course, she was—and not because I just wanted to get laid. No, it was none of those things.

I fucked the blonde because she looked exactly like Evie, my ex-wife.

I can’t believe I did it again. Jesus, I really am a sick fuck.

Trust me, what I’ve done is like an alcoholic falling off the wagon.

I don’t have a sex addiction—even though I do like sex a lot. No, I have an addiction to fucking women who look like my ex-wife.

Sick, right?

Well, I had an addiction, which apparently has kicked back into play.

Fuck!

I haven’t pulled this crap in a really long time. Up until last night, for five years—barring a slip-up three years ago—I’d successfully avoided having sex with any women who reminded me of Evie.

Three fucking years down the drain.

I’d actually thought I was cured. Guess not.

For a long time, after Evie had left me, all I did was screw random Evies. All they had to be was petite with long blonde hair, and I would let my imagination do the rest.

According to my therapist, screwing Evie’s look-alikes was my way of dealing with her abandoning me. Supposedly, I was trying to re-create the one time in my fucked-up life when I had felt truly happy—before it all went to shit.

Funny because, even though my life had sucked before Evie, ultimately, she was the sole reason it went down the path straight to hell.

I should’ve known from the moment I met her that, eventually, she’d be my downfall. I mean, I am Adam, and she’s my fucking Eve. It had been written in the cards.

My therapist said I was mourning the loss of her, like she’d died or something. Maybe if she had, it would have been easier. At least I’d have known why she’d left me.

But no, all I got—after a year together and one week of marriage—was Evie disappearing without a word.

I mean, we had been fine, happy even. Or so I’d thought. I had gone out on my one-week-late bachelor party, kissing her good-bye before leaving, and when I got home, waiting on the coffee table for me were annulment papers with her signature on the dotted line, a note beside it saying, Sorry, and her wedding ring sitting on top of it.

And that was it.

I haven’t seen or spoken to her since. That wasn’t for my lack of trying. Of course, I repeatedly rang her cell. I left her panicked, then angry, and then just plain old desperate voice mails. And I kept calling until her mailbox was full.

A few days later, her number was disconnected.

Even then, I still refused to believe she’d just left me.

So, like the sad fuck I was, I tried to find her. I hired the best PI in California to look for her.

But after a few weeks of trying, he came up dry. It was like she’d fallen off the face of the planet.

I didn’t want him to give up though. I offered him a shitload more money to keep trying, but he told me there was no point. He said the reason he couldn’t find Evie was because she didn’t want to be found.

And there it was. I had my answer.

She’d really left me.

She was gone, and I was never going to see her again.

Up until that point, I’d held things together with the hope that he’d find her, and I could bring her back home.

But that was never going to happen.

That was when I fell apart. I couldn’t breathe, like I was suffocating from the pain. It was the worst kind of agony.

I just needed to forget—forget everything, forget her.

So, the first thing I did after leaving the PI’s office was go and score some coke, which was easy enough to do in my world. I had used coke in the past, pre-Evie, for recreational use. That was the norm in my so-called privileged world.

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