Curveball

by Teresa Michaels

  “I think I’ve fallen for him.” I blurt out my confession only to be met by a long silence. Mark and my father had been close. Maybe this was too much for him to hear.

  “I know.”

  We talk about my situation for half hour and by the end of our conversation I feel so much closer to my dad. I’m also convinced of what I need to do about Drew. It’s nearly 2:30 in the morning when I get the nerve to call. It’s late but if I wait I may lose my nerve and my chance. When he doesn’t answer I decide leaving a message is better than nothing. Here goes nothing, I think as I begin my heartfelt plea for forgiveness.

  Chapter Twenty

  Shattered

  Drew

  With my head leaning against the cold tile for stability, I zip up my fly and button my pants. Who knew taking a piss required so much effort? I press off from the wall and narrowly miss a collision with a patron exiting the restroom. Maybe that last shot wasn’t such a good idea.

  After I wash my hands I splash my face with cold water and then stumble over to the paper towel dispenser, but the thing is empty. Annoyed, I shake my hands out at my sides. I must shake harder than intended because my watch flies off and I hear the glass face shatter on the sink.

  “Are you kidding me?” I ask myself out loud.

  I pick up my watch, noticing all the tiny fissures and the missing pieces of the compass, and then shove it in my back pocket. At least something now matches my heart, or what’s left of it. If the watch didn’t have memories attached to Breanne I’d throw the damn thing away. On second thought, maybe I should. As I contemplate whether or not to keep it, the door to the restroom quickly opens and shuts. I glance in the mirror and watch a slender brunette in a fitted black dress that barely covers her ass, saunter towards me.

  “You’ve got the wrong room,” I tell her. “Women’s is on the other side of the bar.”

  “I think I’ll stay,” she says, continuing towards me. “You look like you could use some help.”

  I turn to face her and cock an eyebrow. “Not unless you’ve got a paper towel.”

  “Not exactly. I’d be happy to let you dry your hands on something else, though.” She bites her bottom lip and winks.

  My eyes widen. It’s only been a month and a half without exposure to this kind of woman and I somehow forgot how forward they are. She’s less annoying than the redhead who wouldn’t stop asking questions about the crash and investigation, but her forwardness is still unwelcome.

  “I’m all set, thanks.”

  “Are you sure? I’ve watched you toss back quite a few shots and beers over the last few hours. You must be on a mission to forget something.”

  “Perceptive.” I am on a mission; a desperate one with no hope in sight. I’ll do anything to ease the pain.

  She walks forward and begins unbuttoning her blouse. When she’s a few inches in front of me she takes my hand, raises it to her mouth and kisses my knuckles. She slowly drags my fist over her lips several times before using her tongue to guide my thumb into her mouth, where she begins sucking and biting. In my drunken stupor I find myself dumbstruck, and watch curiously as she gives head to my thumb. Eventually, she pulls it from her mouth and splays my hand across her bare breast. She’s not wearing a bra? Apparently I’m not the only one on a mission.

  She fists the collar of my shirt in her hand and leads me into a stall.

  “What are you doing?” I mutter.

  “I have the perfect way to make you forget your problems if that’s what you’re looking for.”

  I’m so far in the bag that by the time she finishes her sentence I can hardly remember how she got in the men’s bathroom with me, or even who she is. I don’t know her name and I don’t care. What I do know is she’s an attractive brunette with small breasts and no hips…the opposite of the person responsible for my pain. Maybe if I do this I’ll be able to experience an emotion other than misery. If I can’t have Breanne then I need to forget her completely. Starting now.

  The brunette’s long fingernails claw down my chest as she drops to her knees and begins unzipping my pants.

  “I hope you’re ready. You’ll want to remember this,” she assures me.

  “Another,” I slur, pounding the shot glass on the bar.

  Al, the bartender at The Corner, who I’ve known for years, walks over and puts another shot before me. He’s shaking his head in disapproval. “This is the last one, Drew. It’s almost 3:00AM. Last call was well over an hour ago.”

  I raise my glass to him and look around, realizing for the first time that the bar has cleared out.

  “You’re a good man, Al.”

  Al gives me a once over and presses his lips into a thin line. “You having survivors guilt, Drew? Maybe you should talk to someone instead of drowning your sorrows with liquor. You’ve been through a lot.”

  Why wouldn’t he think that’s what my problem is? It makes sense that I would be drinking because of the ordeal Breanne and I had been through. Over the last few weeks we have been interviewed a handful of times by the FBI and every other agency. We’ve been stalked by the media despite our pleas for privacy. Our story has been played over, and over and over again. I wish everyone would spend as much time searching for the fuckers who sabotaged the plane as they spend on us. We’ve had no updates. Have heard of no developments. Nothing except that they are ‘working on it’. The only thing that has made it bearable was the time I’d been able to spend with Breanne. Now I have nothing.

  At night when I’m not with her, the nightmares come. I see the faces of the people that died. I watch the pilot get shot and sometimes he grabs my ankle and drags me with him as he’s being pulled back into the cockpit. I always wake up in a sweat. But then I look at Breanne’s picture next to my bed and I relax. She’s alright and she’s in my life. Was in my life.

  “What I should do is have another drink,” I say. When I don’t get a response I look up at Al who is staring at me like a concerned parent.

  “You’ve had enough for tonight. I’m cutting you off.”

  “Awe, come on,” I say, but he shakes his head and I know he’s serious.

  “Are those two going to take you home, or do I need to call you a cab?” Al gestures towards my security detail.

  Poor guys. After I left Breanne at the airport I went ballistic, which is totally out of character for me. I went to the batting cage. When that didn’t make me feel better, I went home and punched the wall. I took whatever was in arms reach and smashed it against the floor. Agents O’Connor and Everett stormed into my place probably expecting to find an intruder. Instead, they got me flipping out.

  As if my elbow injury wasn’t enough, I can only imagine what my physical therapist will say about my hand, which has been wrapped in ice all night to help with swelling. As for the pain, I’ve been numbing that with shots and stiff drinks since I walked in here around 11:00PM. I’ve never been this worked up over a woman, or anything really. I can’t fucking believe this is happening. I can’t fucking believe the things she said to me. I’m counting on the fact that I’m so drunk that soon I won’t remember what caused my pain in the first place. Yup, any minute now it will all be erased…any minute…or not.

  “C’mon Al. I can’t go home.” I chuckle despite not finding anything about my situation funny.

  “And why’s that?” Al asks, cleaning off the bar.

  “Because of her,” I mutter as if he knows what I’m talking about.

  “Her, who?” he asks.

  The love of my life, the woman I’ve dreamt of marrying, the woman who has shattered my fucking heart. I can’t sleep in a bed where she was just a few days ago. I tried. But her smell is everywhere and it makes me think of her. At first it was comforting. I thought she’d be back. Now it’s just a horrible reminder of how bad I want her, how much I love her. None of that matters though. I can’t go back there. Plus there’s goddamn broken glass everywhere.

  “Doesn’t matter. I love her and she hates that she loves
me.”

  I’m certain that she lied about not loving me. I felt the inner turmoil she was fighting when she claimed she wanted me out of her life. I sensed the longing in her kiss. I could see the regret in her eyes. She didn’t mean a word she spoke, except maybe that she didn’t want to hurt me. The turning point, though, wasn’t what she said; it’s what she meant. She’s moved on but she’s choosing to throw away what we have. She knows I’d do anything for her yet she doesn’t trust me. She loves me but she doesn’t want to. I’ll never stop loving her no matter how much it hurts, even though it means giving up on us just to ease her pain.

  “Sorry to hear that, Drew, whoever she is. I’m sure that brunette who followed you into the bathroom was happy to take your mind off your troubles,” Al almost coughs his deep, raspy laugh that reveals he’s smoked too much, and drank too hard, for too many years.

  She certainly tried and I almost let her. In retrospect I should have stopped her the minute she started taking off her clothes. Being that close to another woman felt wrong, but I wanted to want someone else. I wanted someone to distract me and to make me forget what I’ve lost. I wanted to prove to myself that I could get over Breanne. In some way I probably wanted to hurt her too…not that she’d ever know.

  None of those thoughts lasted very long, though. I didn’t really want anyone else touching me. I knew immediately that it was too soon…although I’m confident that no amount of time will change anything. When I glanced down to see someone other than Breanne undoing my pants I thought I was going to be sick. It may have hurt Breanne if she found out something had happened with that woman, but it would have killed me.

  It pisses me off. Breanne is so sure she has me figured out. There is nothing remotely as tempting as her. I tried to politely let the woman know that I wasn’t going to go through with it. Judging by my sore jaw it’s obvious I somehow fucked that up, although I don’t recall how. Not that it matters. Nothing matters now and I imagine it never will.

  I rest my elbows on the bar for leverage. The spins have started, which isn’t surprising given the amount I’ve had to drink. My best efforts to focus still result in two images of Al in front of me.

  “Do you have any idea how many women have wanted more from me, Al? And I didn’t want any of them,” I practically spit, slashing my hand in the air. The motion is enough to make me lose my seating and I fall onto the floor. I lay there laughing at how the tables have turned.

  “Guess I deserve it,” I yell incoherently as I’m helped off of the ground by Agents O’Connor and Everett. “How am I supposed to forget about her when you two follow me everywhere?” I holler at them.

  When I’m somewhat steady on my feet I hold my hands up for them to back off. I sense their disapproval of my behavior. If I weren’t so drunk I’d be annoyed too. But I am drunk. And I don’t give a fuck. Since standing is trouble enough I hand Everett my wallet and hold onto a bar stool while he pays my tab. Everett gives me back my wallet and takes one of my arms over his shoulder. O’Connor does the same to the other side and the three of us walk to the car. Actually, they carry me.

  “Bet you guys wish you got assigned to Breanne.” I laugh, but the ache in my chest from just saying her name makes me stop.

  They get me in the car and I remember telling them where to take me but not actually getting there. After that, it’s a complete blur.

  When I wake up my head is pounding and my watch claims it’s after noon. I am lying on a tile floor between a sink and a toilet, covered in my own vomit. I drank way too much last night and now I am definitely paying the price.

  “Ah!” I groan in disgust and pain.

  “Mr. Scott! Let me help you up,” Agent Everett startles me. I let him because I’m partially in shock that he’s here. Where the hell did he come from? He helps me get to a sitting position closer to the shower. “Do you think you can stand?” he asks, turning on the faucet.

  I nod my head. It hurts, though not nearly as bad as the pain from losing Breanne.

  “While you clean up I’ll make a call to housekeeping about the mess,” he informs me. I’m glad to know that although he’s had to babysit me, cleaning up puke isn’t part of his job description.

  After I shower and dress I walk out to the main room of the suite and find Agent O’Connor sitting at the far side of the table typing on his laptop. Everett is letting in housekeeping and they’ve apparently already ordered room service. At the end of the table opposite from O’Connor is a spread of food. In front of the head chair is a drink of some kind and two pills. I raise my eyebrows at Everett and walk over to the table.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s for your head,” Everett replies, “and your hand.”

  I lift my hand and look at my swollen knuckles. I flex my hand and remember in excruciating detail the mess I made at my place.

  “Sorry about last night,” I apologize.

  Everett smiles. He can’t be too much older than me; maybe he understands what I’m going through.

  “How did you guys get in here?” I wonder if they stayed up all night and how they got a key, but they are the FBI and likely have keys to many places.

  “We got adjoining rooms,” Everett replies.

  “When do you guys sleep?” I ask, making my way over to the pancakes.

  “We take turns,” he states. “One of us has to be alert at all times, and in your condition we thought it would be wise for one of us to stay in your suite.”

  “In my drunken state, you mean?” I laugh, half embarrassed.

  “What he means is you were drunk and emotional. Part of our job is to minimize publicity, aside from keeping you alive. We weren’t sure if you were done breaking things or if you’d hurt yourself, so we stayed in here,” O’Conner informs me, never looking up from his laptop.

  O’Conner is older and brusque. Picking up after a drunken professional athlete probably isn’t high on his list of ideal jobs. He’s a straight shooter, though. I’ll give him that.

  I look back at Everett, who I actually think I like. “Emotional, huh?”

  Everett purses his lips and nods as if he’s embarrassed by the question even though it’s about me, not him.

  “What does that even mean?” I ask Everett.

  “You sobbed like a baby. I felt like less of a man just being in the same room as you,” O’Conner says.

  Seriously? Well, that ‘s a first. What the hell has happened to me? I don’t even recognize myself.

  I shake my head and walk over to the window while I take a bite of bacon. I love this view. I haven’t been here since the morning I got on that plane –the day I first met Breanne. In all the times I’ve stayed here, this is the first I’ve ever stayed alone. Well, maybe not alone, I think glancing at my security detail, but without a female companion.

  Staring out the window I have the urge to get away. If I stay in Boston it’ll be impossible to stay away from Breanne and I can’t take more rejection right now. Change is what I need. I toss this idea around for a few hours and by three o’clock I’ve made my decision.

  Picking up my phone I see I missed a call from Breanne at 2:38AM. There’s a voicemail too. I stare at her number, unsure if I should listen to the message or call her back. Maybe she’s changed her mind and does want to be with me. Could I do that after how she freaked out? Of course I could. That’s all I want. I’m not stupid, though. It’s likely some drawn out explanation of why she can’t be with me, begging for me to let her go. My finger hovers over the delete button and I try to convince myself that I don’t want to know what she’s said, but I can’t. I’m in no shape to make any decisions that have anything to do with her. Instead of listening to her voicemail, I place a call.

  “Hey man, how are you?” Brett answers.