by Sierra Hill
And when my appointment was done, Logan quickly ushered me out the front and went right back to work on other patients. If I didn’t know her better, and didn’t know she wanted me out of there without making a scene, I’d assume she was just in a rush to get to her next client.
But I know she was doing her best to avoid me, using a busy schedule as her escape tactic.
Which is fine for now. Just as she said, we need our space. I need to wrap my head around everything that’s happened this weekend. There’s been a confusing barrage of emotions that I don’t know how to handle. Being with Logan again; fucking her; spending time with her; figuring out what to do with the knowledge and whereabouts of our son. It’s almost too much. And laid on that, my upcoming draft – well, it’s a lot for one guy to manage.
And then come to find out she was dating someone – the dentist of all people – right before she spent the weekend with me. A streak of jealous anger I didn’t know I possessed spiked through my veins when I heard them talking earlier. It pissed me off and I acted like a prick.
I really need a drink.
If I was back in Phoenix, I could grab a six-pack from my fridge and hang with my boys. Here in Seattle, I have my old high school friends – but even Joel is different now. We all went in opposite directions. I guess that’s part of growing up – establishing new identities and lives that are influenced by our past, but no longer align.
I look down at my phone and notice it’s only a little after eleven a.m. Probably too early to head to a bar. Plus, my mouth is still numb and swollen. Anything I’d drink would just dribble down my chin.
I’ve got time to kill. It’s a nice summer morning – still cool and cloudy – so I decide to take a walk down by the waterfront. The streets have a fine sheen of dampness from the earlier drizzle, but the sun is making a valiant effort to peek out from the cloud cover.
It’s weird how much I miss the crisp, damp air of the city. After spending four years in the arid desert, I’d expect to miss the heat. The only thing I do seem to miss is my friends. The guys who were with me through thick and thin.
I pull out my phone and decide to call Lance. I know he’ll answer, even if he’s still in bed.
He answers on the third ring. That’s my boy.
“Yo, this better be the pizza delivery dude. I fucking called thirty minutes ago and I’m fucking starving.”
I chuckle because some things never change. Lance is always hungry. He has a hollow leg.
“I’m way better than any pizza delivery, bruh. And you know it. I also know you miss me.”
Lance snorts rudely. “Fuck man, you wish. But I do miss the extra female action you always seem to bring home with you. It’s just been me and my hand lately, and that’s just lame-ass boring.”
“Ah, poor guy. You too lazy to go find some action on your own? You need my sloppy seconds to get laid?”
“Fuck you,” he mumbles as I hear him open the door to the pizza delivery. He holds a brief conversation with the guy, seriously trying to broker a reduction in price because the guy was two minutes late over their thirty-minute promise. Yes, this is indeed one of my best friends, folks. And I couldn’t love him more.
Lance finishes up his transaction and returns to our conversation.
He’s already stuffing his face, chewing like a cow does on cud. Sloppy and disgusting. No wonder he’s still single.
I hold the phone away from my ear as I step around a homeless guy sitting on the sidewalk begging for change.
“Now, what the hell was I saying? Oh yeah, I can get laid on my own, thank you very much.”
“Sure,” I snort incredulously. “Like you tried to get Mica? I’m pretty sure you crashed and burned there, bruh.”
I know I hit a sore spot with that one.
Micaela Reyes, or Mica as she’s called, is Ainsley’s roommate. She’s this petite, five-foot-nothing Hispanic girl whom I’ve honestly never heard say a word. But Lance has had it bad for her since they first met earlier in the school year.
Unfortunately for our Romeo, his Juliet won’t go out with him and it frustrates Lance to no end. He relies heavily on his basketball status to get girls and can’t figure out what Mica doesn’t see in him.
From the sound of his annoyed growl, I know he’d punch me right now if I was there. I laugh out loud at the thought. Damn, I’m going to miss my college days. It feels like it was just yesterday when we all met each other at team orientation.
“Shut the fuck up, you twunt,” Lance’s made-up word has me rolling with laughter. “Mica will one day give in to me. I’m just wearing her down. She’ll realize soon enough that I’m quite the catch.”
“Good luck with that, dude. If you need any advice, just ask.”
I don’t know why I love getting under Lance’s skin so badly. Maybe we both need this banter – the easy comradery that reminds us we’re friends for life, even if we won’t live together or see each other every day.
Lance just grumbles and smacks his food louder over the phone.
“So, how’s it going up there, bro? You coming back before the draft? You still got all your shit here.”
That was the original plan. To head back down, pack up all my belongings and then get ready to jet as soon as the draft happens so I can get to wherever the hell I’m going. Now that I have a good plan in place, I’m confident where I might end up. So I could just call a moving company and have it done without even being present.
“Yeah, man. I’ll be back – probably later this week. I’ve got a thing to take care of up here before I leave.”
“Will you still be heading to LA for draft day?”
Typically, new recruits and NBA hopefuls will attend the live event in the ballroom where the televised event happens. This year it’s in LA. Now, with my change of plans, I may not be in attendance.
“Not sure yet. I’ll let you know.”
But before any of that happens, I need to take care of contacting the attorney and the adoption agency, to find out what rights Logan and I have regarding the adoption of our son, and then proceed from there.
It weighs like a heavy boulder on my heart. The whole process – learning about my son and his whereabouts – is a lot to consider. I’m at that pivotal fork-in-the-road in my life and I have no idea where either road will lead me.
Lance presses on, not realizing what can of worms he’s opened by asking.
“What’s so important there? I know it ain’t your family, ’cause that door’s been closed for years.”
My friends know my relationship with my dad is strained but they have no clue what caused the riff. I’ve never once mentioned anything about Logan or the baby to any of my friends. Or my dad’s interference in my life.
I’m literally standing at a corner in the road – overlooking the Puget Sound and Pike Place Market. People congregate on the sidewalks - next to me, in front of me and all around me. In fact, I’ve been bumped and shouldered by at least a half dozen passerby’s in the last minute while standing at this intersection. It’s symbolic of where I’m at in life. If I make a move in the wrong direction, I could get mowed over.
Clearing my throat, I decide to come clean with my friend. “About that...the door got kicked wide open this weekend when I reconnected with my former girlfriend.”
I hear something crash on the other end of the line and Lance sounds like he’s choking on his slice of pizza.
“Dude...did you just say girlfriend? Holy shit, man. Why the hell have you never mentioned a girlfriend before? What the fuck, bro? When were you going to tell me about this? The guy I know was the king of pussy and never would have had a girlfriend.”
I laugh over his confusion, but it lacks amusement.
“Hard to believe, I know. But it’s true. Her name is Logan. I met her when I was fifteen at summer camp. She uh...got pregnant right before I started college. Gave it up for adoption at the urging of my dad. And I didn’t know about it until well after it all happened.”
“Holy fuck, dude. That’s...crazy. Why didn’t you ever tell me you were a dad?”
Good question.
It seems so strange to be called a dad. Especially by Lance.
“I don’t know, man. The whole thing really fucked me in the head. So I tried to forget it ever happened.”
I continue retelling the story of Logan and me, as he peppers me with questions. When I finally get to the part about reconnecting with Logan and our current circumstances, he whistles, long and loud.
“Bro, the way I see it, there’s only one thing you can do,” he says, full of wisdom and sage advice that only a single guy can dish out.
“Oh yeah?” I ask with an amused smile. It feels good to talk this through with someone who isn’t directly involved. I know Lance has my back. “What’s that?”
He laughs like I’m stupid as fuck.
“Find your motherfucking kid, dude. Otherwise it’s gonna eat away at you and you’ll regret not doing it. And then one day in the future you’ll just be sitting there in a beat up recliner, fapping away at some porn streaming online, unable to keep it up. You’ll look down at the limp dick in your hand and realize you should’ve done something when you had the chance.”
Ah, Christ. This is how a serious conversation with Lance can turn sideways.
At very least, he gets me to laugh. And he actually makes sense, putting it into perspective the way only friends can do.
Chapter 23
Logan
I’ve heard nothing from Carver in two weeks, since the morning he left the dental office. It’s the best thing for both of us. I know this but it still hurts.
It hurts that he can leave without looking back. Without at least saying goodbye. Without following through on his promise to help find out about our son.
Maybe I expected too much. I’d pinned my hopes on this man; on the memories we’d made together and the moments we’d shared. Apparently, that wasn’t enough for him.
Outside of waiting to hear anything from Carver, my life went back to normal. Work, work and more work.
The only change was the level of hatred spewing from my co-worker Bethany’s mouth. She was no longer subtle in her hostility toward me. It didn’t bother me, and I never responded, except today, when a patient overheard her unkind words.
Mrs. Kline nearly stumbled and lost her footing when she overheard Bethany remark how if she knew what a slut I was, she wouldn’t want me working around her mouth, in fear of what STD she might contract.
I have no idea why Bethany came to despise me so much and with such venom, but this time, it was also overheard by Dr. Connell, who fired her on the spot this morning. Good riddance.
As I finish cleaning my dinner plate, I plop down on the couch with a glass of Pinot and turn on the TV. This is the first evening I’ve had to myself in weeks, as Ali’s scheduled changed and she’s working more day shifts now. Tonight she’s at the bar – which makes no sense as to why she’d spend her off-time back at the bar. She just said it was a special event that she and Troy were invited to attend.
Propping my feet up on the edge of the coffee table, I mindlessly flip through the stations before I resign myself to watching one of the shows on the DVR. Just as I’m about to hit the button, I land on a sports network. It’s broadcasting the NBA draft.
The remote shakes in my hand, as I hesitate with indecision. I leave the channel there. Excitement over the possibility of seeing Carver on TV tingles in my belly, like the taste of champagne on the tip of my tongue. Of course, I’m curious as to where he’ll be drafted. He may have disappeared on me, but I still care for him.
Then the thought strikes me. He’s moved on with his life. I was just a momentary blip in his soon-to-be celebrity life. Our weekend together meant nothing to him and now he’s moved on to bigger and better things.
I thought I could handle it, but I was lying to myself. The pain of his loss is staggering. Maybe it’s best that I don’t know where he ends up. I take a quick peek, anyway, and see that they are on number five in the first round, but my attention is snapped away when I hear the text alert on my phone.
Ali: Come on down to Cal’s. This event is off-the-hook.
Me: I’m in my pj’s already. Not feeling it.
Ali: Don’t be an old lady. Drinks are on me. And everyone wants to see you.
Me: How many drinks?
Ali: On the house. Now get your ass down here.
Me: Gee, you’re so bossy.
Ali: I know. But you love me.
Me: Whatever. I’ll see you in twenty.
I give one last look at the TV before I shuffle into my bedroom to change. I don’t know anything about the televised event, but it looks like it’s being held in some big ballroom – probably in New York or LA - with an announcer on the stage reading from a teleprompter each team’s picks to an audience of suited men and women.
I wonder if Carver is there or if he’s down in Phoenix surrounded by his friends – and girls. It makes me crazy wondering why he left things the way he did. He seemed genuinely jealous and upset when he found out I had dated Jeff, but obviously not enough, making it easy for him to leave me high and dry.
Maybe he just had a lot on his mind when he returned to Phoenix and hasn’t had time to contact me. I suppose preparing for the draft could have taken much of his time and energy of the last few weeks. I’m sure it’s been stressful on him.
It’s stupid of me to think that our weekend reunion meant anything meaningful to Carver; I suppose I asked for it when I hurried him out the clinic after his procedure. Carver had just looked at me with soulful eyes as I shuttled him out the door. I practically slammed it on his way out.
But dammit, he could have called me later. Texted me. Stopped by. But he did none of those things. Instead, he left without saying goodbye. Like I’m just another notch in his belt.
Why did I let Ali sucker me into going out tonight? I have no energy or interest in hanging with Ali’s friends, yet here I am, wiggling my ass into a tight pair of jeans. My mind goes blank as I stare into my closet looking for a top to wear, but my attention is drawn to the sounds of the TV from the other room. I run out of my bedroom, skidding to a stop in front of the couch, wearing only my jeans and a bra.
The camera is centered on the bald announcer, as he broadcasts the news.
“With the thirty-fourth pick in the NBA draft, the LA Clippers select Carver Edwards, from Arizona State University.”
The tickertape at the bottom of the screen displays Carver’s name and the camera pans out into the audience, but finds nothing. No sign of Carver. Then another faceless announcer from the network chimes in on the conversation.
“Carver Edwards is a leader and a winner. That’s a good selection for the Clippers, who are in need of some fresh blood in their organization.” There’s a pause, and then another male voice joins in.
“That’s right, Don. Coach Thorn and GM Malcolm Harrold will be looking to use Carver’s leadership skills and his fantastic passing abilities as they rebuild their team.”
I flip off the TV and struggle not to cry.
Carver’s going to play in Los Angeles. My phone buzzes in the other room, jarring me from my stupor. I find myself back in my bedroom, pulling a tank on over my head and yanking a flannel from my closet to cover my bare arms. The phone pings again with a text message. I expect it’s from Ali wondering where the hell I am.
But it’s from Carver.
Carver: I have good news.
Carver: At least, I hope you think it’s good news.
Carver: I was drafted #34. I’m pretty stoked.
Carver: I’m celebrating down at Cal’s.
Carver: Come down and join the party.
I scroll through the series of texts, trying to comprehend what it means. It’s the first time in over ten days that he’s reached out to me. He’s back in town – and not in LA – and is sharing this newsworthy information with me as if nothing has changed between us.
My thumbs work overtime as I quickly type out my response.
Me: Congrats. I’m proud of you. You’ve achieved your dream.
Carver: It’s only a dream if I can share it with you.
Carver: I’ve missed you.
The words blur in front of me. I feel dizzy.
Carver: Are you coming down to Cal’s?
I catch myself with my hand before falling over the side of the bed as I slide my foot in my shoes. Carver is at Cal’s? He’s in town? What the hell is he doing there? And why didn’t he tell me before now?
This pisses me off because Ali must’ve known he was there, too. Some friend she is.
Stomping around my room like a two-year-old having a temper tantrum, I grab my keys and wallet from the bureau and head out the door, slamming it behind me for emphasis. I’m mad at Carver...but I don’t know why exactly.
Oh, wait. Yes, I do. Because he failed to tell me he was in town. Forgot to invite me out to his draft party. Hasn’t spoken to me in two freaking weeks. Is going to be moving to LA. You name it – it all makes me frenzied with righteous indignation.
By the time I reach the front door of Cal’s, my blood boils even hotter, and then I hear a chorus of shouts and cheers from the back room.
“Carver! Carver! Carver!”
People are chanting his name in celebration. Cheering for the man-of-the-hour; their hometown hero who has made them all proud.
From a distance, I see Ali jumping up and down with a drink in her hand, hoisted over her head. And then, as if there’s a parting of the Red Sea, the crowd opens and Carver stands in the center of the room with a bright smile on his face.
His gaze finds mine and he begins a swaggered walk toward me, working his way through the throngs of well-wishers, to meet me in the quiet part of the bar. I tip my chin up to get a good look at him as he stands in front of me, his head tilted downward.
I can’t explain why I do what I do, but my hand acts on its own volition when it smacks Carver’s smiling face with the force of a whip. All my anger, hurt, humiliation, shame – everything I’ve felt comes screaming out when my hand connects with his jaw.