It's not like her to give up so quickly. She's been different since the accident. She's always withdrawn and moody these days, but deep inside she is still the same Sarah. Never in her life has she given up without a fight. We can argue for hours over pizza toppings, so her just hanging up, worries me. I flip on my lights and speed home. Grossly abusing my resources as an officer of the law, but something isn't right.
I arrive at the house five minutes later. Parking my car in the driveway, I rush inside to find her tucked into the couch crying. I'm relieved that she's okay. Then saddened when I realize this is what "okay" looks like for Sarah these days. She's curled into a ball, knees pulled to her chest with her arms wrapped around them. She looks so lost, and it kills me that I can't help her. I want to be her rock and help her recover from this, but she won't let me. I need to be able to fix this for her. For me. I miss my wife, even though she is sitting directly in front of me. I can't reach out and hold her like I so badly long to. She won't even let me touch her anymore.
Before the accident, Sarah used to hate being alone. Now, she stays locked away in her own head for days at a time. By the look on her face, I can tell that's where she's at right now. Instead of trying to force a conversation that I know will lead nowhere, I decide to give her some space. Maybe in a little while she'll have calmed down enough to talk. I won't hold my breath though.
Disheartened, I walk past her, heading to the bathroom for a shower. As I enter the bathroom door, I freeze at the scene I find in front of me. Littered across the floor is every pill bottle we had in the house. Each one open. Lids thrown haphazardly across the room. All empty.
"SARAH!" I scream running from the bathroom to find her no longer sitting on the couch. The front door is wide open with warm air blowing in. I frantically rush outside expecting to have to chase her down. When I jump off the front porch, not even bothering with the steps, I catch sight of her lying face down in the grass.
"Sarah!" I scream, hoping for a response. My legs won’t carry me fast enough to what I fear is her lifeless body. It feels like it's taken me an hour just to travel the ten steps over to her. I quickly scoop her into my arms, and sink down onto the grass with her limp body in my lap.
"Sweetheart, wake up. I need you to talk to me. Please, Sarah!" I shake her, trying to rouse her back to consciousness.
"Let me go," she softly mumbles. I breathe out a sigh of relief that it's not too late. I still have a chance to fight to save her life, even if she won’t do it for herself.
"Did you take them all?” I ask, pulling my phone out of my inside jacket pocket.
"I don't want to feel like this anymore. Let me go, Brett," she murmurs before closing her eyes, and dropping her head to my chest.
"Never baby. Never," I whisper, kissing her on the forehead.
"Yes, this is Detective Brett Sharp, I need an ambulance at my house immediately. 1921 Hunters Court. My wife just overdosed."
"GOT IT!" I hear Jess say while digging through my drawer-o-menus.
I walk over, wrapping her in my arms needing her to help me forget all over again.
"Your hair smells good." I breathe in a rich floral scent, and rest my chin on the top of her head. The image of innocent Jesse Addison bathing in flowers pops into my head. Although my mental picture is more American Beauty than a G-rated fabric softener commercial.
"I bet it smells more like a stinky bowling alley right now."
"Yeah, you're right. You should really try a shower sometime," I joke as she pinches my stomach.
"Did you decide on a place?"
"Mmmhmm," she nods.
"Good. Just order me whatever and I'll grab some beers out of the fridge."
"I can't order you food!" she shouts.
"Um, why not?" I ask confused by her sudden freak out.
"I don't even know what you like to eat."
"Jess, you make me breakfast almost every morning."
"Yes, but I doubt the Chinese restaurant carries fruit and yogurt."
"I eat at that restaurant three times a week. There is not a dish on that menu that I won't eat."
"You eat take out three times a week?" she asks my back, as I walk into the kitchen to grab our drinks.
"No. I eat take out seven nights a week. I don't cook."
"Wow, that's just sad. Maybe I can cook you dinner one night this week-" she abruptly stops, and her cheeks heat to pink when she realizes that she just asked me on another date.
"I'd love that." I smile, twisting off the top and handing her a beer. She rushes a relieved sigh as she lifts the bottle to her mouth taking a large sip.
I'm not sure if it's still the alcohol, but the idea of a date with Jesse doesn't scare me anymore. That's unusual because the very idea of dating usually sends me into some sort of panic mode. But after spending the day with her, I like the idea of seeing her again. I'm nowhere near ready to jump into a relationship, so I need to be very careful here. Jesse doesn't strike me as the type of girl that can stand casually dating. The last thing I want to do is lead her on, and eventually break her heart when I can't be what she needs.