Second time? That hadn’t been bullshit, what I’d said about wanting to make it good for her. She didn’t just deserve that—she needed it. We both did. The third and fourth times? Hell, I don’t know. That’s where the thought process would completely fall to shit, and I went right back to wondering what the hell happened. Those last two times…I had no excuse for. Couldn’t define a logical justification. But I wouldn’t have given them up for the world. Still wouldn’t. And the paradox was driving me insane.
“What the fuck’s the matter with you?”
I kept looking into my whisky, staring through it to the wood surface of the bar.
“Yo, bring me a double Balvenie Fourteen, neat,” Bobby shouted over the noise to the bartender as he settled himself on the stool next to mine. “You come to town, you don’t even call me? I have to find out from one of my agents that they saw you at the game tonight? Force me to come hunt your ass down? Thank God you’re such a fucking creature of habit.”
“Sorry, Bob.” I didn’t look up as I lifted the glass and took a drink.
“The hell you are. Because I know you were desperately trying to call me, but this piece of shit, so-called smart phone that my secretary—oh, excuse me, executive assistant—told me is the latest and greatest actually gets crappy reception in the city. Right?”
Bastard. Couldn’t help but smile. “When was the last time you actually pulled off naive, Bobby?”
Without missing a beat he replied, “I was sixteen. Convinced Sandy Schwartz I was a virgin too and it would be a beautiful thing if we could lose it together.”
“But of course you weren’t.”
He snorted. “Seduced at fourteen by my little sister’s fifteen-year-old babysitter.”
“Right.” Total bastard. But honest about it. “Seriously, I got in just before the game, went straight to the Garden, then came here. But I should’ve called.”
“Yeah, you should’ve. Thanks,” he said as the bartender placed his drink in front of him, adding, “Start me a tab and put whatever this asshole’s had on it, too.”
He let me have a couple of minutes while he did his agent’s survey of who was in the bar. Not far from Madison Square, it was a popular postgame hangout for players and those hoping to be noticed by said players. Bobby, always with an eye on the bottom line, was checking to see if any of his clients were here and if so, were they doing anything that would potentially land them in lawsuits? Or, more specifically, were they doing anything that might jeopardize his fifteen percent?
From the corner of my eye, I watched him scan the crowd—watching the groupies hitting on players, the players hitting back, the fans and sycophants clustered around, trying and failing to look unimpressed—his sharp gaze not missing a damn thing. So I was more or less ready when he shifted that gaze my way and casually drawled, “So, what the fuck’s the matter with you? And I don’t mean because you didn’t call tonight. You haven’t called for weeks.”
“Jesus, Bob, every time I see you, you sound more and more like my mother.”
“Speaking of which, you going to see the family while you’re in town?”
I shook my head and drained my glass. Waving to the bartender for another, I said, “Don’t have time. I’m renting a car tomorrow and going up to Vermont to check out some prospects, then to New Hampshire, and then I have to get home.”
Besides, if I went over to Jersey, I was afraid my mother would read some big, red “Sinner” across my chest and drag me by the ear to confession, berating me in two languages the entire way. No thanks. I’d even skipped seeing Tico last time I was in Miami, knowing he’d see for sure.
And by the purest of goddamn luck, good or bad, I’d missed seeing Libby by a day according to Nan. God knows I hadn’t heard from her directly in the three weeks since that night. Three weeks tonight and I knew that off the top of my head and I missed her more than I could even begin to express—and there was no way in hell I could call her. Even to check on her.
My hands tightened around the empty glass, itching with a near-uncontrollable impulse to fling it at the mirror behind the bar.
“How’s Kath?”
I shrugged—tried to prep myself to do the deflection routine, but Bob cut me off.
“And don’t try to bullshit me that things are okay and that’s why you’re even on this trip. You seriously look like hell, Nicky. What’s going on?”
For the first time I looked directly at Bobby whose rumpled, slouched-on-the-barstool posture belied the narrow stare he was laying on me. He’d always been an astute fucker, but I figured it was exclusive to business. I’d never really known him to make much use of the skill in terms of interpersonal relations, which was probably why he was on his third wife.
“Health-wise, she’s okay, I guess, for the moment. Stable, which means things aren’t getting worse at least.” Fuck it, it was Bobby. “The rest of it…” I drained my drink as soon as the bartender set it in front me and motioned that he could pour another before he even walked away. “The rest of it is kind of rough. She’s dealing with it her way, which amounts to shutting me out.”
“Pissing you off?”
“It did.” I rolled my filled glass between my palms but didn’t raise it. “Not anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Got tired of the fighting, Bobby. It wasn’t doing us any good.”
“Yeah, but Nicky, you’re forgetting, I know you.”
I kept rolling the glass back and forth, studying the play of light off the surface of the single malt. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means as long as I’ve known you, and that’s what—over fifteen years now?—you’ve never once backed off from anything, not even when you probably should have, until you were forced by circumstances beyond your control. Hell, we both know you should’ve retired after that first bout with pneumonia, but you’re a stubborn ass and kept going until the second go-round nearly killed you, you dumb prick. So whether or not the fighting was doing you any good, I’m not seeing that as a big factor.”
“Yeah, but this isn’t simply me we’re talking about here, Bobby. Didn’t you hear me say us? Which means Kath, too. And she’s the one who has to take precedence.”
“And you’re not hearing me, my friend. If you thought it was ultimately in her best interest to keep pushing, you would. The fighting would be inconsequential. You’d deal with the fallout later.”
Leave it to Bobby to ruthlessly dissect me in the space of a couple sentences. And be right about it. Bastard. The whisky burned as effectively the fourth time going down as it had the first. Turning my head away and closing my eyes, I rubbed at my lip—had been doing a lot of that lately. Amazing it wasn’t raw and bleeding. The clink of glass made me open my eyes, find that my whisky glass was gone, and in its place a pair of empty glasses with a bottle of Pellegrino between them. I lifted an eyebrow at Bobby who eyeballed me right back.
“You said you’re driving to Vermont. Sucks to face all that organic, wholesome, Ben and Jerry shit with a hangover.” Lifting the dark green bottle, he filled both glasses with the sparkling water. “Am I right in guessing some serious shit has gone down to take circumstances beyond your control?”
“You could say that.”
I turned on my stool to do the same survey of the bar that Bob had, but for different reasons. Jesus, but these people were pretty. The jocks, young and healthy, the wives and girlfriends and groupies beautiful in a shiny, uniform sort of way. How surreal. Everything about my life seemed surreal these days. And how fucking ironic was it that the most surreal situation of all was the one that had felt the most real to me? Probably why I couldn’t let it go—why I had to keep turning it over in my mind. It was a way of hanging on to how unbelievably real I’d felt those few hours in the dark.
“I’m not gonna ask what it is, Nicky. But if you ever need to talk—”
Bobby’s soft laugh cut through the chatter and music and sound of clinking bottles and glasses.
“Well… this is me we’re talking about, Nick.” He shrugged and lifted his glass of water. “Given my personal history, not to mention the business I’m in, no matter what it is that’s happened, I’m in no position to judge, you know? And I worry about you, you stubborn son of a bitch.”
I lifted my glass and tapped it against his. “Yeah, I know, Bobby. Thanks.”
• • •
“Nick?”
I looked up from the computer screen to find Kath hovering in the partially closed doorway to my office. Pretty rare occurrence these days that I saw her in here, but even I wasn’t dumb enough to make a big deal of it. So I kept my response to a fairly mild, “Hey, what’s up?” as I paused the game video I’d been studying. As I did, I noticed her gaze follow my movements, eyes narrowing as she took note of the camera attached to the computer. She still hadn’t forgiven me for that. Well, she could join the club—I still hadn’t either.
“Is everything all right?”
She fidgeted, playing with the doorknob, another thing that wasn’t like her. Generally, Kath’s style was of the direct-and-to-the-point variety. But again, not dumb enough to say anything, so I just sat back and waited.
“Yeah, everything’s okay, just, um, could you come help me with something?”
“Me?” Despite not wanting to make a big deal of it, my eyebrows felt like they were somewhere near the middle of my forehead as I stared at her.
“Yeah—if it's not too much trouble."
“Not at all.”
I followed her to the kitchen where, in the much brighter lighting, I could see her pale skin turning pink as she turned toward me, holding out a bottle of Dijon mustard. “Could you…open this for me?”
“Of course.” I took the jar, turning away slightly as I opened it. Didn’t want her to notice how little effort it took to open the jar she couldn’t. Handing it to her, I asked, “Where’s Rennie?”
“She had to go to the pharmacy—run some other errands.” Kath dipped a knife into the mustard and spread it over the toasted rye bread already on a plate. “She called a few minutes ago to say she’d been held up. Some accident on ninety-five has traffic snarled to hell and back, and she’s still half a mile away from the nearest exit.”
I smiled as I watched her squeeze mayo from a plastic jar and spread it over the mustard with precise, deliberate motions, the tip of her tongue sticking out. Which made me feel good. So little about my home life these days made me smile.
“Anyhow, I got hungry and even though she left me lunch, I just didn’t feel like bean soup. Feel like I’m going to turn into a goddamn legume if I eat more soup.”
Shades of the old Kath. “Ham and smoked Gouda?”
A crooked smile curved her mouth. “What else?”
Also felt good to be smiling back—not so worried that the next thing out of my mouth might be the wrong thing. “Nothing else it could be.” I watched her place shaved ham and sliced cheese on the bread with the same care and deliberation she gave everything.
“Was your trip okay? I heard you come in late last night.”
Wow. Another surprise. I honestly couldn’t remember the last time she’d asked about work. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
“You didn’t. I was still up.” She didn’t bother looking up, although one shoulder lifted.
Still up because she was probably too uncomfortable to sleep. Something to remember for Marco. “Uh…well, the trip was pretty good. Got a lot done in just a few days—left me with a lot of film to go over.” I took a step toward the door. Again, not stupid enough to think she honestly wanted me to go into any huge detail about my life. I’d done her a favor; my guess was she was being polite in return. But at this point, I’d take what I could get.
“Is there anything else you need?” I said it very cautiously and with no expectation of hearing anything other than a “no.”
“No.”
Not as flat and hard as it could’ve been, but still a pretty definitive “no.” Well, then. I turned to leave but stopped at her quiet, “You want me to leave the stuff out for you?” Because it wasn’t just her favorite sandwich, it was mine too. Created years ago during a laughing, late-night rummage through the refrigerator, desperate for something to assuage those raging post-orgasm munchies.
Really, really didn’t need to be making a big deal of this. A thought that was followed almost right away by the realization that I really didn’t want to make a big deal of it. Just didn’t have the energy for anything potentially messy. Kath, as always, was going to do what Kath wanted and how she wanted. Maybe once upon a time I understood her motivations without needing to have them spelled out. These days, I was just grateful we were managing to coexist.
Glancing back over my shoulder, I shook my head. “No thanks, babe. I’m good.”
Back in my office, I took several deep breaths and leaned my head against the padded back of my chair. That was the closest to—I don’t know—herself—that she’d been in months. And even just a few weeks ago I might’ve taken her up on the sandwich offer, sat with her, taken it as an open invitation to go all eager beaver and start grilling her about every fucking thing that had been going on for the last six months.
And no doubt, would’ve pissed her right off and given her an excuse to rip me yet another new one for trying to take too much that she wasn’t ready to give. That maybe she wouldn’t ever be able to give.
Didn’t mean I didn’t want to. In spite of everything, I still did. I wanted to know what was going on in that head of hers.
But I’d learned my lesson. All I could do was what she wanted, even if that meant leaving her alone. What I really wished—and God I hated myself for being this selfish—was that I didn’t have to feel so alone.
• • •
I stood in the doorway watching her unpack her bag and arrange things on the bedside table. “Can I get you anything before I go?”
Without looking up she said, “No thanks. I’m fine. You can go.”
Of course.
“You’ll call?”
Now she spared a glance over her shoulder, expression and voice both slightly impatient as she said, “Yeah, Nick, of course. It’ll probably be day after tomorrow—like always. I’ll call when they’re ready to release me.”
So much for our informal white flag from a few days ago. Honest to God, I was shocked she was still letting me drive her down to Flagler for the treatments, but I think it was a line that even Kath couldn’t bring herself to cross—shutting me out to that extent. If she did…I didn’t even want to think about going down that road. What consequences it might yield.
As it was, she’d made it clear after my bout with the upper respiratory infection that she was just as relieved to have me stay away while she was getting her treatments. As to where I should go or what I should do with myself, she wasn’t quite so helpful. She probably just assumed I was going back home to Boca, going about my life as usual—that is, provided she even gave it any thought.
Maybe it would’ve been the easier choice, but thing was, I couldn’t just bail. What if something happened and I wasn’t easily accessible? You want unforgivable? Even if it’s probably what she wanted—to have me far enough away where I couldn’t interfere—that’s where I drew my own line. She’d have to tell me outright that’s what she wanted. And there wasn’t any sure bet I’d listen. I think she knew that.
So I’d stay just long enough to catch up with Nan and wait to get an update from Marco who was smart enough to know that things were utterly fucked between me and Kath without asking a lot of questions. He always just seemed to know when we checked in and made it a point to make a quick appearance.
“Looks like she’s responding well, m’ijo. The cell growth appears to have slowed considerably, and she seems to be feeling okay—” He raised his eyebrows over his half rims. A silent question to see what I knew.
“I…I guess.” I lifted a shoulder. “Sometim
es I hear her at night, pacing.” From the guest room next door where I’d be lying, rigid in bed, listening as she moved around in what had once been our bedroom, but now was hers alone. I'd hear her pacing, or moaning in her sleep, or the worst, getting sick—and couldn't do a damn thing about it.
Marco made a note on the chart he held. “I’ll make sure to ask about it—tactfully,” he added, his eyebrows going up again.
Thank God. I turned and headed back toward the waiting room, nodding at the new people with their lost expressions. People I couldn’t handle getting to know. Leaning down, I gave Nan a kiss goodbye.
“You’re not staying?”
“I’m going to the hotel—have a lot of work to do.” The universal excuse. Somehow, I figured Nan knew that’s just what it was, judging by her slow nod and the way her blue eyes studied my face.
“All right, bebe. If you happen to run into her, tell Libby I said hi. We seem to be missing each other a lot lately.”
“She’s here?”
“Came in this morning. But I don’t think she stayed long.” She sighed and looked away. “The worse it gets, the less Ethan wants her to see. It’s killing her.”
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I managed to make it to the walkway before I caved and pulled my phone out. The only other restraint I exhibited was that I sent a text instead of calling outright.
Hey.
By the time I reached the end of the walkway, my phone beeped.
Are you here?
I dialed her number—by the time I had the phone to my ear I could hear her
“Nick?”
“I’m at the hospital, on my way to the hotel. Are you all right?”
“I’m…I…I don’t know.” Her voice sounded small and young and scared shitless, urging me from walk to a run.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Okay.”
No sooner had I pulled from the parking space, my phone beeped its text signal again.
Hitting the brakes, I pulled it from my pocket and glanced down.
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