Bastard. Fucking bastard.

Words did not exist that were strong enough to express how I felt. As I continued down the street past that fucking bastard's house, I got on the freeway at the next entrance and headed back up to my house.

My heart seized up and I did not breathe.

My body seized up and I had no idea how I was going to drive.

My mind seized up and I could not think.

I could not deal.

Those fucking blonde bitches were right. The fucking looks I got, the fucking warning. They were all correct.

I should not have trusted.

It hurt too much to trust.

The thing was, as I drove, after a while, I realized that I was not in my deep, dark depression place. I was fucking mad. I was hurt. I was pissed. I was sad. And I was heartbroken.

But I was not numb.

And in this place of strange, unbelievable hurt, I felt a sense of pride that I was not shutting down. I had learned something, and I was recovering.

It fucking hurt, but I was strong, and I was getting stronger.

The feeling I felt was not one of closing in on myself. I was not looking for a railroad track. Instead, it was hot, horribleness coursing through me, racing around, pumping through my veins.

And while it hurt, as I drove, I realized, with the training that my therapist had given me, that I was still breathing. I was still alive and I was going to make it.

I felt like I deserved a trophy for getting the fuck out of depression.

But I needed to get these feelings out of my body. I needed to scream, to yell, to cry, and to expel these demons.

What I needed was a pity party. I hit "call" on my phone.

"Marie, I need a pity party. How soon can you be over?"

"About an hour or two."

"Okay, here's the deal. We're having vegan cake, champagne, and we're watching Bridget Jones's Diary. I need medicinal Colin Firth and Hugh Grant."

"What happened with Ryan."

"I'll thank you to never mention that low-down, no-good, dirty, rat bastard to me again. Fucking asshole."

"I'll be there in an half hour and help you frost the cake."

"Deal."

#

So here's the thing. I throw pity parties literally. It's a party. There's drinks. There's cake. There's a celebration. I wallow in my pity. And then I move on.

So, a half hour after I got home, the cake was in the oven, I had had a shot or three of tequila, and Marie knocked on the door. She barged in as I opened the door, and said, "smells good, though you smell like a bar. Give me some."

I poured her a shot of tequila and myself another one and we clinked shot glasses. No salt or lime this time. Too many memories with that one.

"To all of the assholes who have ever hurt us. May they go away and suffer pain like they've never felt," I toasted. I felt a twinge of guilt because Ryan had never been an asshole to me. Just a cheating bastard. Fucker.

"To the assholes," said Marie. And we downed our shots.

She handed me a CD. "Here's a present for you. Well, just put the songs on your phone and then give it back to me."

"Wild Child?"

"It's a band out of Austin. They sound like Of Monsters and Men."

"Thanks, I'll check them out."

I turned the oven timer on for the cake, pulled out the champagne and the champagne glasses, and went over to my movies to put on Bridget Jones.

"What happened?" asked Marie.

"I saw Ryan with another woman."

"No!" Marie looked utterly shocked.

"Yep. Bastard. I fell for him, hook, line, and sucker."

"Don't you mean 'sinker'?"

"Nope. I'm a sucker. And I'm drunk. And he was really the player they said he was."

Marie was loyal but she was no fool. "Are you sure?"

"I saw him, Marie. I'm a fucking lawyer. I saw the evidence."

"What did you see?"

"Him with a blonde in his arms in front of his house."

"That's fucked up. But isn't it 'innocent until proven guilty'?"

"Nope. He's no criminal. This is a civil matter. The burden of proof is preponderance of the evidence." Tequila shots ingested, and on to the champagne. I must have been getting drunk if I was starting to talk law. I never talked law with civilians if I could help it.

"Fucking men. Who needs em?" said Marie with a glass in her hand. I knew there was a reason why I invited Marie. "But are you sure about Bridget Jones's Diary? You sure you want a love triangle?"

"Good point. Magic Mike XXL. Best plot ever."

"What plot? I thought the plot was road trip to stripper convention?"

"Exactly."

We settled in and watched Channing and Joe (and the rest of the six packs). At some point I took out the cake. Later, when it was still warm, we frosted it. We ate big pieces with gulps of champagne.

And we were drunk. It was a party.

At some point we called Marie a taxi and I went to bed.

Strangely, afterward, I felt better.

I didn't call Ryan. He didn't call me.

I didn't think about how I was going to restart my life, yet again.

#

Too early, Friday morning, my phone rang. It was Ryan.

Man, I was feeling hangover city from too much tequila and champagne. Damn. I didn't want to talk to him, but I felt like I should pick it up. I needed to tell him what a fucking bastard he was. "What, Ryan," I asked mullishly, and winced, since my head hurt.

An unfamiliar woman's voice, faint sounding, and wavering, asked "is this Amelia?" I was instantly on alert. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

"Yes."

"This is Jennifer Fielding, Ryan's sister. I found his cell phone and wanted to call you. He's at the hospital." I froze and stopped breathing. "He's unconscious. He had a bad accident at South Jetty while surfing early this morning, hit some rocks," she trailed off in a sob.

"Tell me where to come," I demanded.

"He's at Community Memorial Hospital. In the trauma unit. He's lost a lot of blood. I can't lose another one. After losing my mother and father, I can't lose my brother too," she sobbed.

Fucking hell.

I couldn't lose him either.

"Shh, shh, it's okay, I'll be there in less than an hour."

I caught a glance in the mirror. Holy hell, I looked like I had thrown a pity party last night. I piled my hair on the top of my head, slathered on some moisturizer, gulped a Gatorade, and puckered up to put on lipstick. I grabbed my purse, shoved my feet in some shoes, and headed out the door, driving like a maniac from Santa Barbara to Ventura.

I shoved the new Wild Child CD in the player to distract me from the drive.

It didn't work.

When it got to the second song, it was like I couldn't listen, but had to listen at the same time. Fuck, what a song.

No time to process.

I slid into the parking lot, barely remembered to lock my doors, and ran into the hospital.

"Ryan Fielding," I panted to the information desk.

"Are you family?"

"He's my boyfriend." Or was, at least.

The information desk checked on the computer. "He's in surgery on the fourth floor. You can wait for him in the waiting room up there, although I don't know if you will be able to see him."

I didn't care. I would find a way to see him. I ran-walked past the gift shop to the elevators. Once the elevator door opened, the car lumbered up. Could they make slower elevators?

It was not like getting there faster was going to make him better but still, I had to be there. I didn't have time to sort out all my feelings. I was just reacting.

I had never met his sister, never seen a picture of her, so I was not sure where to look for her.

The elevator opened and I walked into the waiting room.

She was there.

A beautiful blonde with long legs and long hair. Wearing short shorts and stacked sandals.

The blonde who was hugging Ryan.

She was crying and holding his phone.

His phone.

His green eyes.

His sister.

Shit.

I had made a mistake. A fucking mistake that belonged in a two-bit romance novel. I had jumped to conclusions, yet again, because I could not trust the good that was around me. I had assumed the worst of the best guy I had ever known.

I was glad that this assumption only lasted a night. And I was glad that he didn't know. Never again.

"Jennifer?" I asked.

She looked up at me. "Amelia. Ryan has told me so much about you." Her lip trembled.

"Shh, shh, it's okay," I soothed her, although I knew that I was the one who was going to need to be soothed.

What an asshole I was.

Again.

I assumed that Ryan was a surf bum. I assumed that he was a coffee shop manager. I assumed that he was insincere. I assumed that he cheated on me.

But he was just Ryan, man that I love.

And now he was hurt.

Fuck.