Chapter Text
It had been a week since Amanda had left him. Michael couldn't place his feelings, as he was unsure if he was glad to have alone time with no bickering, or if it had made him so upset that his emotions became completely cut off. Either way, there was no getting his wife or kids back. They all hated him; he didn't even blame them. His life was a mess. Surely all of Los Santos knew.
The days seemed to blend into each other, and Michael struggled to find him things to occupy his time. Trevor moved back up to Sandy Shores after some unfortunate fallout with Wade's cousin, so he rarely made the trip down to the city unless it was for a job. Franklin got himself a nice house up in Vinewood Hills, and he spent most of his days travelling the back roads with his dog, Chop. Michael's life was empty. He found no interest in anything other than drinking an ice cold glass of whiskey every day. He'd wander around the vacant home, hearing nothing but the faint echo of the radio coming from his bedroom and the cars driving by outside.
Michael knew he had jobs to fall back on if he really wanted it, but he already had all the money he could need. Lester, an old friend, would always hook him up with something, or Trevor would drag him into some mess he managed to get himself involved with. But Michael didn't want crime. He wanted substance. He wanted nights sitting on the patio with a cold beer in his hand, he wanted laughter, and, as cheesy as it sounded, he wanted long walks on the beach with someone who made him happy.
Around 9:30 every Saturday night, Michael would drive himself down to his usual bar, where all the customers were regulars. Here, he'd take a seat at the bar and slowly down a glass of whiskey. He anticipated this day to come all week, every week. And finally, when Saturday rolled around, he found himself sitting at the bar - but this time, a woman he had never seen before sauntered in and took a seat right next to him.