“You know, you really are dense, aren’t you?”
A man took the computer from Andrea and my heart rate spiked again when I realized who it was.
“Jake Napleton?”
His face was as cold as ice. “Listen buddy, I don’t know what the fuck you did to this girl. But Andrea called me, crying when she found her in the office. She thought Amy might be dead! Luckily we have the best doctors, and it turns out she probably just had low blood sugar mixed with the fact that she hasn’t been taking her anxiety medications lately, and her chemistry was off. But you, buddy, wow. You are really a piece of work. One Google search and the jig was up.”
I took deep breaths, trying to stay calm. I respected a fellow athlete, but I wasn’t about to let him walk all over me, either. I kept calm, reminding myself that his celebrity status didn’t matter. This was Amy’s best friend’s fiancé, and I couldn’t flip out.
“I’m not a big internet guy, but go ahead.”
“Ha! Not a big internet guy,” he said, getting angrier by the second. He pulled out his phone and scrolled on it. “Well, we were able to find a few Spanish news sites that gave us the rundown. Thank god for Google Page translate. Let’s see…here’s a gem.” He turned his phone towards me for a few seconds and I saw a picture of myself at La Vaca que Fuma. Amy was next to me but her back was turned. I had no clue anyone had even taken a picture, let alone eavesdropping on my conversations with Amy. Jake turned it back and read off it. “Article in the sports section of Spanish Slam Dunk: Who is the biggest ladies man on the team? Oh that’s easy. Chandler Spiros. Speaks Spanish like a native, looks like a Greek God, and basically has to fight them off with a stick. Last night, he was seen with a total hottie, who he called ‘Squirt’.” Jake stopped and glared at me. “Well, I think I’ll let you figure out the rest. They show a bunch of other pictures of you with a lot of other women—and I thought my party pictures were over the top.”
“Listen buddy, Squirt is the name I call Amy,” I said, panicking a little. “And that’s Amy in the shot! That wasn’t even a month ago!”
He arched an eyebrow. “What kind of nickname is ‘Squirt’ anyway?” He shook his head. “She’s never told us that story, if it’s even true.”
I gritted my teeth. “It’s just between us.”
“Likely story, but it’s clear you can’t be trusted.” Jake looked off. “Drea, you know anything about this story about a nickname Chandler gave her?”
“Never told me,” Andrea said, disdain evident in her voice.
“Listen, I don’t care what that, or any article says about me! That Spanish Slam Dunk?! That’s basically the equivalent of a TMZ in America. It’s a tabloid! They’ll print anything.”
“Maybe, but I found several other sites saying the same thing. All I had to do was search ‘Chandler Spiros’. There are like a dozen stories about you, man. They call you Casanova.”
I minimized the two of them, and actually cringed as I typed in my own name. I froze as I read the top three suggestions in Google.
Suggestion number one: Casanova.
Suggestion two: Womanizer
Suggestion three: Barcelona Basketball
“This is…come on!” I exclaimed. I gave Jake a long look. Out of anyone, he’d understand. “Jake, throw me a bone! You know what it’s like to be played with by the media, don’t you? So they’ve run a few ‘ladies man’ stories—k”
“All I know is that my fiancé’s best friend in the world could have died today if we hadn’t found her there, and here you are making excuses about what appears to be a shit-ton of stories about how you are a lady killer. I’m not asking, I’m telling you, stay the fuck away from Amy and do not cause her any more pain. Got it, buddy?”
My blood boiled and I clenched my fists. So the guy wanted a challenge? He had no fucking clue who he was dealing with.
My words cut like nails. “With due respect, Jake. Andrea. I appreciate the fact that you are looking out for your friend. But you are taking this a little too far. Don’t you think we should talk about this when she wakes up? Find out what the fuck happened?” I am in love with her, I wanted to scream but at this point, I knew that wouldn’t go over well. “The last thing I would do is cheat on the one person that I want to be with. Will you give me a chance?”
“I don’t know man,” Jake said, frowning and then he looked off then looked back at me. “Maybe. Listen, we have to go. Nurse is here.”
With that, he shut the laptop and the signal went dead. I ground my teeth and stared at the ended Skype call.
I wanted to blame Jake fucking Napleton for being a hardass. I wanted to blame Andrea. And Amy? Where the hell did she get the idea that I was cheating on her?
But, in the end, I couldn’t blame any of them. Past behavior was the best indicator of future behavior. I’d always judged people not by their words but by their actions. I’d honestly never thought about my reputation or that the media would actually take an interest in me. Athletes in Europe didn’t get the kind of celebrity attention and press that athletes in the States received so I’d never really had to protect myself that vigilantly. Or so I’d thought. And I could plead with my words all I wanted, but my actions said something else entirely: that I was not a one-girl kind of guy.
My rage built until I couldn’t take it. I closed my laptop in a fury and slammed it against the wall, breaking into the drywall.
“Fuuuuuuuck!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. I wanted to fuck somebody up. I wanted to punch a wall. I wanted to get back on the court and terrorize my opponent.
I took a deep breath. Yelling wouldn’t do any good. I grabbed my jacket, packed a light bag, texted a quick note to Maria asking her to take care of Jess, and headed to the airport to catch the next flight to Chicago.
Before I left, I stuffed the envelope Amy had given me in my coat. Something told me I might need it.
Twenty-Nine
Chandler
When my flight touched town to O’Hare airport the next day, I realized a few things.
One, last minute flights are pricey as hell.
Two, I actually missed having the majority of people around me speaking in my native English language.
And three, I had absolutely no idea where Amy lived aside from the fact that she was hopefully still at Illinois Masonic Hospital, a place I’d had to Google. She hadn't answered any of my texts or calls in the past day since I'd booked my flight. I couldn't be sure if this was a result of her being in the hospital, or maybe she was seeing my messages and constantly ignoring them. I did not like either option.
I still had the envelope Amy had given me inside my coat pocket. I’d been carrying it around with me for the last week, but I hadn’t felt the need to open it.
Amy thought it would be good for me to know my father, but I wasn’t so sure.
Once I had picked up my modest black suitcase from the baggage claim, I walked straight outside and hailed the nearest cab. The man rolled down the window.
"How fast can you get me to Illinois Masonic Hospital, and how much is it?"
He punched it in on his GPS. "Says forty five minutes. It's a sixty dollar flat fee."
"I've got a hundred for you if we make it there under a half hour."
His eyes widened a little. "Well, what are you waiting for? Get the fuck in, buddy."
As promised, we pulled up in front of Illinois Masonic, which was on the north side of Chicago, in twenty-five minutes. I handed over the hundred-dollar bill, said my thanks and grabbed my suitcase.
I ran into the front desk, trying to mask my nervousness. The fifty-something guy behind the counter seemed indifferent to me as he sat in front of his computer screen.
“Hello sir.”
“Hello,” he dryly replied without looking up.
“I’m here to visit someone. Do you happen to have her room number for Amy Kershaw?”
It seemed like it took everything he had to move his eyes to look up at me. “You a relative?�
��
“Yes,” I lied.
He examined my face as if he was considering the truthfulness of what I’d said to him. “What’s your relation?”
Shit. “Fiancé,” I blurted out.
He assessed my panicky face and then nodded. “Okay,” he said, typing on his keyboard for a second. “Room two-twenty eight.”
I thanked him and walked briskly to the elevator, past a few nurses carting people around.
Finally I arrived at room two-twenty eight. The door to the room was closed. I set my suitcase by the door and knocked gently a couple of times. There was no answer, so I decided to open it, but then the door opened and I saw a girl.
“Hi,” I said, examining her face. She stepped outside of the door and shut it behind her, her expression not at all welcoming. “You must be Andrea.”
“Good eye. You’re Chandler.”
“That’s me. I came here to see Amy.”
She put her hands on her hips. Her eyes were kind, but her figure was tall and a little imposing. “Let me get this straight. You came all the way from Barcelona to see Amy?”
“That’s right. Are you going to let me in?”
Her expression was soft and feminine but stern at the same time. She didn’t move and kept glaring at me.
“Listen, Amy mentioned that you were a great friend of hers. And I don’t know what’s happened to her exactly. But if you could just let me in to talk to her, I can explain things and whatever it is—we can work it out.”
She crossed her arms, still standing between me and the door. “Look, I don’t know you. I don’t know the full history between you and Amy. But what I do know is that she ended up in the hospital because of something you did,” she said, her voice hard. “She’s fallen into another depressed state, and she’s being evaluated for a couple of days. The doctors say she shouldn’t take visitors aside from close friends and family.”
Despite her soft and pretty appearance, this girl knew how to play hardball.
“Andrea, please. I know this might not look great from your viewpoint. But you have no idea what’s going on between Amy and me. I love her.” Fuck, did I just say that? Why couldn’t I say that to Amy? “And I need to see her and figure out why she thinks I cheated on her. I would never do that. Just wouldn’t. Not to her.”
“If I let you in, she’s going to get all riled up,” she said, still being a hardass. “Her parents and brother just left ten minutes ago and got her all calmed down—she’s finally resting. You’re going to upset her all over again.”
“Please,” I said, and there was a hint of pleading in my voice, which was foreign to me. “I’m begging you to let me see her. Please. Just one minute.”
Maybe she heard the desperation in my voice, because she finally opened the door and let me through.
Amy was hooked up to an I.V., and certainly looked weaker than she had in Barcelona.
“Squirt! What happened?” I ran to her side and took her hand in mine.
“Chandler,” she smiled softly for a moment, then yanked her hand away.
“Help me understand what’s going on.” I furrowed my brow.
“You butt dialed me yesterday night. I heard everything. I know about your secret hijo, and your relationship with another woman. It’s over. No more lies, Chandler.”
My heart suddenly kicked into high gear. I racked my brain. What the fuck could she be talking about? “A butt dial? Let’s see. Last night…last night I was with…Doña Maria! She’s had a baby! Mateo. I was with her. She was probably talking about her son! Maybe that’s what you heard?”
“I told you he’d say something like that,” Andrea said over my shoulder.
I turned to look at Andrea, angry. “Oh, you’re the truth and lies expert now?” I asked, sarcastically.
“Unfortunately, I am. Being with a sociopath ex-boyfriend for a year will do that to you.”
My body stiffened and I tried not to get distracted from the task at hand, which was regaining Amy’s trust. “Amy, you’ve got to believe me. I came all the way here from goddamn Europe to clear up this misunderstanding. I’m missing basketball practice and games this week.”
All four eyes of the women were on me, searing into me.
“We had a fun week and a half, Chandler,” Amy finally said, breaking the silence. “I really want to believe you. But I’ve been hurt by this sort of thing so many times…I’m just tired of being betrayed.”
I stopped breathing momentarily at that ugly word. Betrayed.
“It’s over, Chandler,” she said, in that quiet way I’d learned was her deciding something. For good. She was stubborn enough to live by that decision, too. Her expression was set, resolute and she was in no mood to hear me out. I could beg and promise her the moon and she’d just look right through me like I wasn’t even there.
“So that’s it?” I asked, the wind knocked out of me. “You don’t want to see me any more? The future I’ve made for us in my head, was I just a fucking idiot to think we could be anything more than amigovios?”
“Please,” she said, and a tear rolled down her cheek. “Just go.”
A cocktail of helplessness, anger, and confusion welled up inside me. I could keep pleading my case, but this seemed like a battle I wouldn’t win.
I looked at both of the women, nodded in acceptance of their verdict, and walked out of the room.
***
Fuck this, I thought. I needed a better plan. Let Amy realize I wasn’t going anywhere and come back later. But with a better plan, better words, something that would convince her to give me another chance. All the ideas I’d come up with, including all the fantasies of her just being happy to see me, went out the door.
I checked into a hotel nearby and dropped off my suitcase. Restless, I immediately left, needing to clear my head. That afternoon, I wandered through the streets of Chicago for hours. The early February weather was well below freezing, and my jacket was light, but I sadistically enjoyed the cold blowing through me. The more physical pain I felt, the better. It would help take my mind off my depressive mental state, which was getting worse by the minute.
On one hand, this didn’t make too much sense. She thought I had a secret son? What on earth was Amy talking about? She surely heard the conversation with Doña Maria and took it out of context. I tried to put myself in her shoes. If she felt I was lying, she had a right to be pissed off and cut me out. She made no secret of her trust issues with her lying boyfriends through the years. Though I hadn’t ever cheated on a girl, I’d been an asshole to many, and it seemed almost like poetic justice that my years of womanizing would come back and get me in trouble with the one girl I really wanted a deeper relationship with.
She was the girl I loved, although I hadn’t been able to totally verbalize it to her.
The winter sun was setting and the temperature dropping as I saw a plain, honest sign poking out on the sidewalk that said Charlie’s Bar. It was black with white letters, and the sign called out to me. It seemed like just the place for what I needed right now: a drink. Or maybe five.
I opened the door and was greeted with a gush of warm air. The place was mostly empty inside except for a group of four playing darts, and a blonde woman sitting at the far end of the bar in a dark red dress.
I sidled up on the opposite end of the bar, and a white bearded man with glasses and kind eyes approached me.
“What’ll ya have, son?”
“Whiskey neat. Make it a double if you can.”
The man turned and grabbed a bottle of Maker’s Mark from behind the bar and put it into a glass.
“Tough day,” he said, speaking in a deep voice, saying it more as half a question, half a statement.
I nodded as he set the drink in front of me and took my twenty-dollar bill.
“Women,” I said gruffly as I took a pull of the drink. It burned all the way down. “Well, to be exact, a woman.”
“Usually that’s the case.”
The woman at the end
of the bar signaled to the bartender, taking his attention away from me. He moseyed down and got her a drink, leaving me alone with my thoughts for the moment.
I stared at myself in the mirror behind the bar. I looked fucking miserable, my hair messy, and dark circles under my eyes. I tried to smile, but I couldn’t. I took out the envelope Amy had given me. She thought confronting my father and my past would help me in some way. Despite all the ways she’d helped me open up, this was the one avenue I’d been hesitant to fully explore.
I stared at the envelope while I took another swig of whiskey, enjoying the sting of the liquid on my throat. I felt so low right now. How bad could it be?
I worked my finger into it and ripped it open. Inside were just a few pages of articles she’d found on the internet, but it was enough to send a chill through my body. In one, my mom, age eighteen, with an older man at her high school prom. The guy looked shockingly like me. Holy mother fucking shit. I finished off my double and my chest pounded.
“Another?” the bartender asked. I hadn’t even heard him creep up. I was in a total fog.
“Yes,” I croaked, setting the papers down.
He filled my glass up halfway, then paused. “Dear fucking God. What the hell are you doing with that picture?” he asked, shock on his face. He twisted his neck a little to see the high school photo I was looking at. I spun the photo around for him.
“My mom and her prom date, circa nineteen ninety-one,” I said. I’d never once looked at her high school pictures. Because we’d never been that close, I’d never invested in learning her past—my past. And all right there, if I’d just looked. “She was eighteen, god knows how old the guy was.”
The bartender stroked his beard and finished my pour. “He’s twenty-three.”
I stared at him. “How the hell do you know that?” I asked. “And why are you so curious?” My heart was beating a mile a minute with this strange, bearded man holding my dad’s photo. It made no sense. He flashed his eyes back up my way.
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