Ridge

by Adriane Leigh

  I grunted and swiped the bottles and headed to the balcony. I slipped out the door and plopped myself on the lounger, shirt off, wearing only dress pants, ankles crossed as I lit a smoke and opened the bottle.

  I watched the silent Fourth of July night around me. The slight breeze that rustled the leaves. The salty smell of Maine I loved so much. I sucked in long inhales and flicked the ashes over the ledge. As soon as one cigarette was gone, I lit another, pulling and drinking from the bottle of clear liquid.

  After I smoked through the whole pack and drained the small hotel bottles of liquor, I flicked the butt of the burnt-out cigarette off the balcony.

  Add litterbug to my list of accolades.

  I headed back into the room, more determined than ever to break it off with Amy first thing in the morning.

  Get it over with. Rip it off like a fucking Band-Aid. Maybe I was a little drunk, stumbling, voice rough from smoking so much.

  I watched her sleeping form and before, when I’d felt sympathy, anger now bubbled in my chest. I’d fucking told her, tried to push her away. What kind of girl stayed with a guy like that? A weak one? I didn’t do weak women. Weak women pissed me off.

  I clenched my fists at my sides, having half a mind to wake her up and end it now, if she was even really asleep, before I headed for the bathroom for a piss.

  I flicked on the light and stumbled to the toilet, unzipping my pants before pulling out my dick and relieving myself. My eyes squinted against the bright light, before they finally adjusted and took in my surroundings. Soft creamy walls, a tile shower, and matching sink.

  Bottles of aftershave and perfume. Makeup. Pregnancy test. Toothbrushes and toothpaste.

  “What the fuck?” My eyes landed on the stick perched perfectly on the counter “What the actual fuck?” I growled as I finished and tucked myself into my pants.

  “No, no, no, no.” I ran my hand through my hair and bent down over the counter.

  Two pink lines. Two glaring fucking pink lines. That sealed my fate. Tied Amy to me.

  “Fuck no.” I swiped the test, chucked it across the bathroom where it bounced off the tile wall and clattered to the floor.

  Dread knit together in my stomach, crawled up my throat, and threatened to choke me, cutting off my air supply. My eyes fluttered closed and throbbing started behind my eyes as I dropped to my knees, hunched over, threatening to heave out all the alcohol I’d just imbibed.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I groaned repeatedly as I pulled my hair through my fingers, kept pulling and tugging so tightly to feel the pain, to pull the hair straight out of my scalp, to remind myself I was still alive and not in hell, some hellish dream meant to punish me.

  A fucking kid.

  Amy was pregnant.

  Here I was, fucking another woman that I was madly in love with, drinking like a fish, smoking like a chimney—no kid deserved that. I was never meant to be a dad. I should never reproduce. The shit I’d seen, shit I'd done, what kind of fucked up fate would put me in charge of another human?

  A smoke. I needed a smoke. I dug through my pockets searching for my pack, before remembering that I’d smoked every last one I had minutes before on the balcony.

  If I’d only known then how desperately I’d need the nicotine just a few minutes later. When my entire world was tossed upside down by two ominous pink lines.

  “Ridge?”

  Mia’s sweet voice, floating and dancing on the wind. The scent of pine and salt as we lay in an endless green yard on the ocean.

  “Ridge?”

  Her skin, soft as silk, under my fingers. Her light tinkling laughter as I nipped beneath her earlobe.

  “Ridge?”

  The hum of a motor, a boat buzzing, interrupting me from our moment.

  “Ridge!”

  “Fuck,” I growled before my eyes opened and slowly adjusted to the bright light of day.

  “Hung over?”

  “Yeah. Fuck, I guess so.” I ran a hand through my hair before looking up at her, bathed in sunlight, highlighting the golden streaks in her hair, accentuating her small form.

  “Serves you right. Advil and water.” She handed me both, her eyes taking me in softly.

  “Thanks.” The memories of last night flashed before my brain. The hot, sticky air on my skin. Mia’s body pressed to mine against the tree as I thrust inside of her, watching the elegant lines of her neck thrown back in ecstasy.

  Her walking away from me.

  Walking home. Drinking. Smoking. Pissing. Pregnancy test. Blackness.

  And just like that, my mind slammed back to reality.

  “Fuck.” I slid one hand over my face and tried to rub away the sleep and the impossibility of my current situation.

  “You saw the test.” She said it so plainly.

  I swallowed the knot in my throat and shook my head.

  “I was going to tell you last night. But then you came home and . . . it just wasn't the right time.”

  I licked my lips and nodded. I couldn’t avoid this. I didn’t have the energy to. I didn’t have the energy to run or fight. All I could do was take it. Whatever she had planned, whatever she had to say, I was rooted right here, unable to move if I wanted to.

  “We should talk.” She sat on the lounger across from me, her knees facing mine, her hands between her legs, wrung together. My eyes flicked over her, watching her nervous habits, the ones that told me she was worried about what I would think.

  “What’s to say?” I murmured.

  “A lot,” she countered softly. That was Amy, always trying to defuse.

  “Are you going to keep it?” My eyes trained on the horizon line. Sunday morning and people were shuffling along the sidewalks, enjoying the sunny summer morning.

  “Are we going to keep it? Yes. I’ve always wanted . . . I could never . . .”

  She’d always wanted a kid. Of course she had. I thought about asking her how this had happened, but I knew. I knew condoms at best were only eighty-five percent effective. I’d known there’d always been the risk.

  But I did know for sure that I'd always used one.

  Always.

  I think.

  Fuck, all the drinking I’d done the last few months, I wasn’t sure anymore. Jesus, this was my fault.

  “I’d suspected I was, but I didn’t want to know. I was afraid to know. After Kat and Lane announced last night that she was having a baby . . . I had to know. I stopped at the pharmacy on the way back to the hotel. I took more. I took three and they all were positive.” She seemed equal parts sad and happy. An odd mix, until I realized she wasn't sure how I’d react. That was undoubtedly the reason for her apprehension, because everything else about her screamed that she was happy.

  I finally looked over at her, the mother of my unborn child, and took in her flushed cheeks, skin that seemed to glow, hair that glinted in the light, eyes soft and dancing as she watched me watching her.

  She was beautiful. She just wasn’t for me. But she’d have to be. I was a lot of things, always an asshole, but I wasn’t a deadbeat dad, so if I did nothing else in my life right, I would do this. I’d always been willing to fuck up my own life, but an innocent kid's? Even I wasn’t that heartless.

  I stretched my arms over my head and blinked my eyes toward the bright sun, soaking up the warm rays as I resigned myself to my new future.

  “Tell me about this one?” Her fingers dusted along my inner bicep, tracing numbers I had inked on my body.

  43°59'52.5"N

  68°59'27.3"W

  “Coordinates of my dad’s last known location on the radar.” She knew my dad had passed, been lost at sea when I was a kid.

  “That’s beautiful,” she murmured as she trailed her fingers along the flesh, causing goose bumps to race across my skin.

  “Come here.” I smiled and pulled her to me. She curled herself around me, arms locked behind my neck, legs tossed over my lap. “Sorry about last night.” I wrapped my arms around her and shoved my nose in her
hair.

  “Me too.”

  “You didn't do anything. I should have come straight back.”

  “I didn't mean what I said, what I accused you of. I think the pregnancy hormones have me out of whack.”

  Knife in my chest.

  “You’re going to be a great mom.”

  Tears pricked her eyelids when she looked up at me. “You’re going to be a great dad.” She pulled away and ran one palm along my cheek, searching my face before landing on my eyes. “You will be, baby. I promise.”

  I held her eyes, searching for truth, honesty, reassurance—something to tell me this was all going to be okay. That I would be able to put Mia behind me and move forward.

  I didn’t find any of it.

  And I didn’t know what that meant. For me. For Mia. For Amy. And especially for our baby.

  I couldn’t help but feel I would fail pitifully as a dad, just like I did in all things. Amy had no idea how epically I would fail.

  Week one, Amy went to the doctor. I went with her. Held her hand. Played the part I was expected to play.

  I fidgeted and averted my eyes the entire time.

  Pregnancy confirmed; five weeks along.

  We'd only been a couple for a few short months and she was five weeks pregnant.

  A heartbeat filled the small office.

  I nearly puked.

  But I forced a smile. Amy squeezed my hand and searched out my eyes, her smile wide and beautiful.

  I swallowed the lump in my throat and smiled back for her.

  She deserved to have someone to love, to help her through this, to love her as much as she loved everyone else.

  I took her to lunch after. Amy sipped sparkling water while I had Scotch.

  While Amy paid and went to the bathroom, I smoked two and a half cigarettes.

  I was no longer allowed to smoke around her. Of course not. For the baby.

  We held hands as we walked back to my place and she chattered on about names. I nodded as I kicked rocks.

  She mentioned living arrangements, how my place was bigger and better able to accommodate a nursery.

  I nearly bent over and heaved at the word.

  Cribs.

  Bottles.

  Diapers.

  I couldn’t handle it.

  Amy left that evening and I sat on the balcony until three in the morning, smoking and drinking.

  I did that every night for the rest of the week.

  Week two, and I was sipping Scotch.

  In between calls, I was pouring a drink.

  I told myself it was all very Don Draper in 1960s Manhattan. In reality, I needed something to help me forget.

  Something to help clear the oppressive darkness that hung over me; had been present since I’d left her, but was now impossibly darker since Amy had gotten pregnant.

  Amy had already bought a onesie. The poor girl was so fucking excited, rambling on about nursery colors and maternity clothes. She’d called her sister and they’d gushed in excitement. She introduced me to her parents.

  Mom and Dad, meet the prick who knocked me up; he drinks too much, smokes like a fucking fiend, and cusses like a sailor. Oh, and fucks me against the window so hard I nearly cry.

  I was an asshole. I couldn’t escape it.

  Week three, and Amy was all but moved in. Her lease was up in just a few months. Lucky for us, she said. Fate was on our side, she said.

  For her, I thought.

  Not for me.

  Or that baby.

  I drank more.

  I woke up and got a drink.

  I showered and dressed with a drink.

  I went to work, passed most of the important tasks off to my secretary, and drank.

  I walked home smoking, and bought a bottle on the way.

  Every night.

  Because throughout the course of the day, I was polishing off whole bottles of Scotch and bourbon.

  And yet still, the darkness pervaded.

  When I wasn’t too drunk to focus, I went downstairs and pounded a few miles out on the treadmill.

  I sweated alcohol from every pore and immediately walked outside for a cigarette after.

  I watched people walk by the windows of the first floor gym; kids with ice cream cones, holding their moms’ and dads’ hands, and it made me ill.

  And I thought of her every day.

  I refused to say her name.

  But my mind ran over that night in Rock Island outside her parents' house.

  The scent of her skin.

  The sound of her moans.

  The way her back arched and her nails dug into my flesh.

  My head and dick pounded when I thought of her. My heart ached and twisted, as if I were dying a slow, painful death.

  And all the while Amy stuck with me.

  Should I have told her I’d cheated on her? I wasn’t even sure. I couldn’t work it out in my head.

  Too fucking drunk, I imagine.

  But she stayed. She smiled. She hummed as she brought in more baby clothes.

  I didn’t fight with her.

  I didn’t say anything.

  I didn’t feel like myself; I didn’t feel like anyone. I felt lost. Dead inside. And I deserved every minute of it.

  Week four, and Amy was eight weeks along. Glowing and happy while I suffocated.

  I hadn’t been sleeping. I was up all night, thoughts racing. Worry ate at me. I couldn’t think straight, couldn’t operate throughout the day. I was leaving work early. I explained it away as a stomach bug, and I think they believed me. They hadn’t seen this “me” before. The “me” that was an addict.

  I walked out the door, a new pack of Dunhills in my hand, and looked at the setting sun.

  Oranges and pinks streaked the sky, playing peekaboo between the red brick buildings that made up Portland's streets. I walked a few blocks and headed to the harbor. I just needed to walk. To escape.

  I thought of picking up and leaving. Heading north, or south. Boston would be a good fit; a Pier 49 restaurant would excel there.

  I needed out.

  I was staying here with Amy for our baby, but would this baby be better off if I left?

  The realization slammed into me and I stopped dead in my tracks.

  A horn blared and an SUV swerved. I’d stopped right in the middle of the street.

  I looked up and caught the street signs. Lexington and Ninth, where I used to score.

  I used to have a friend right around the corner . . .

  I swallowed as I thought about the high. The bite of the needle as it pierced my skin, the chemical racing up my arm, into my bloodstream. I craved it. Craved the escape it provided.

  Because that’s what it had always been for me. My escape. I shoved my hands in my pockets as I looked around, trying to determine if I saw anything going on, any indication that I could score, right here, right now.

  My fingers fidgeted with my phone.

  The craving was strong; my mouth watered and invisible bugs seemed to crawl underneath my skin. I swallowed as I tried to think of anything else, anything at all to satisfy this craving, a substitute. And there’d only ever been one.

  Mia.

  My Mia.

  I pulled my phone out of my pocket and scrolled through the contacts. My thumb hovered over her name.

  Push. Don’t push. I love you. I hate you.

  I turned off the phone and walked another block into the first bar I could find.

  A hole-in-the-wall dive that stunk like sweat and smoke. A combination that had my stomach turning, but I didn’t care. I gave zero fucks.

  I was hanging by a thread and I needed something to forget.

  I sat at the bar and ordered a shot of their top-shelf whiskey.

  And then three more in succession. And then a beer, because I recognized I needed to cool it. I stepped outside for a smoke.

  An old guy next to me asked for a light.

  I nodded and passed him my lighter. I sucked in a long inhale.<
br />
  “I know that look.”

  “Excuse me?” I turned, my eyes narrowed, as I leaned against the wall to support my weight.

  “That far-off look in your eyes. You’re about to do something you battle every day to not do.”

  “Fuck off,” I slurred and turned away from him.

  “Love’s the only thing that’ll fuck with a guy like that. Love or drugs.”

  Or both.

  “You’re too young to be living in a world that dark. I hope you find the light.” He nodded as he walked past me, passing me my lighter.

  I watched him go, bile rising in my throat.

  I needed another drink.

  I flicked my cigarette, headed back into the bar, and ordered another row of shots.

  Fuck her. Fuck this. This was . . . too much. All too much. Wasn’t right. Wasn't worth it. Being driven to the darkness.

  I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my list of contacts again. I stumbled out of the bar and brought my phone to my ear.

  “Ridge?”

  “Hey.” My world snapped into focus at the sound of her voice.

  The sigh over the phone was her only reply.

  “Hey, My.” I slurred the words as I plopped down on a bench overlooking the water.

  “You sound like shit.” I heard the worry in her voice. Good.

  “I’ve had a few drinks.”

  “Where are you? Do you need help home?”

  “So good to hear your voice.” I leaned over my knees and pressed a hand to my eyes.

  “Ridge. Where are you?”

  “Mmm, I dunno.” My eyes closed as my brain started to shut off. “I almost scored tonight.”

  Mia knew my history, knew everything.

  “Ridge, where are you? Tell me.” Her voice was frantic.

  “On a bench.”

  “Jesus. Where? Look around, what do you see?”

  “Boats.”

  “Fuck, it’s Maine; there’s always boats. Where, Ridge?”

  “Harbor,” I murmured as blackness fogged my brain.

  “Stay right there. I’m coming. Promise me you’ll stay right there.”

  “Promise.” I held the phone to my ear long after she’d hung up.