by Jiffy Kate
Me: I’m waiting in a long-ass line. Entertain me.
Micah: As you wish . . .
Another minute goes by . . .
Micah: Last year on Father’s Day, I got a card in the mail congratulating me on being a dad, and it was signed by a girl I barely remembered being with. Stupid me opened it in front of my parents too, so to say I was shitting bricks was an understatement. I was freaking the fuck out! Sweating, chills, sick to my stomach . . . all that shit. That is, until I saw my precious brother standing behind my parents, doubled over, laughing his ass off.
Me: Damn! Remind me never to piss Deke off!
Micah: I’ve always used condoms, but it still scared the shit out of me. Fucking asshole.
Me: I thought you said you wanted a family.
Micah: I do, but not like that. I mean, I’d love my kid no matter the circumstances, but I’d rather wait until I was in a committed relationship, you know?
Me: Absolutely.
Why does the subject of Micah and kids turn my insides into jelly?
Micah: So, where are you waiting in a long-ass line?
Me: Pharmacy. I’m here getting Graham’s prescriptions, but I might need to get myself something while I’m here. I’m not feeling so swift.
Micah: Fuck the line and the pharmacy. If you’re not feeling well, you should get home. Do you think you have a virus or something?
Me: Simmer down.
I laugh, shaking my head. He’s adorable.
Me: I didn’t eat breakfast, so my head hurts and I feel kinda sick to my stomach. I’m sure I’ll be fine after I take some Tylenol and eat some lunch.
Micah: I’ll be texting you later to check on you. If you don’t respond within five minutes, I’ll call 911 on your behalf, so you better keep your phone close.
He is his mother’s child.
Me: Yes, Annie—I mean, Micah.
Micah: If you could see me right now, you’d know I’m giving you “the look”.
I laugh and pocket my phone, deciding to take Micah up on his suggestion. I’ll come back later when it’s not so busy. Excusing myself past the people behind me in line, I make my way out of the pharmacy.
I think about stopping for something to eat on my way back, but I really just want some of the leftover meatloaf I made yesterday. Once again, Graham didn’t eat any of it because “it’s gross”. Meatloaf isn’t gross. Meatloaf is awesome. And leftover meatloaf sandwiches are fantastic . . . and currently calling my name.
Several people are waiting for the elevator, so I decide to bypass the crowd and take the stairs. When I push open the door of my apartment, I almost make a beeline for the kitchen, but a loud bang back near the bathroom makes me jump.
“Graham!” I call out, moving toward the noise.
Another bang.
“Graham!” I say even louder, my worry building, fearing he may have fallen.
When I walk into my bedroom, my jaw drops to the floor . . . with my stomach . . . and my heart.
“Graham?”
Yeah, he’s fallen all right. Right onto his back. In my bed. With Kaitlyn.
My heart pounds faster, my breaths coming quickly, nostrils flaring. I close my eyes, trying to erase what I’ve just witnessed.
The headboard of my bed hits the wall one more time before Kaitlyn notices me standing in the doorway.
“Oh my God!”
“Yeah, baby. Let me hear you.”
“No, Graham!” she screams, slapping his chest as she tries to climb off him and hide herself at the same time.
“What?” he asks, sounding pissed off.
He lets go of Kaitlyn’s hips, allowing her to move off him. Then he opens his eyes and looks at her face, but she’s looking at me. His gaze follows hers and then our eyes meet. I can’t turn away. It’s like a car wreck. You know it’s bad and you know you don’t want to see it, but you look anyway.
“Dani?” he asks in disbelief.
I shake my head, still trying to process what’s happening while keeping myself from flipping the fuck out.
I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry, I chant over and over in my head while biting the inside of my cheek to keep the tears at bay.
“Dani, this isn’t what it looks like.” He shakes his head profusely, trying his damnedest to pull his pants up.
I press my lips together, pushing down the emotions threatening to spill over.
“Don’t,” I say, holding up my hand to silence him as I try to keep my voice even but firm. I don’t want to hear his excuses. There aren’t any good enough.
“Sheridan. Baby.”
“I am not . . .” I pause, closing my eyes and willing myself to stay in control. “I’m not your baby. Don’t . . . don’t say that. I want you to get out.” I hear myself talking, but I feel like I’m watching from somewhere high above. “Get your fucking shit, and get out.”
“Sheridan!” he yells, sounding desperate, but I don’t want to hear it.
I turn around and bolt for the front door, throwing it open. I need out. I need air.
Somebody give me some fucking air!
“Sheridan!” Graham yells in the distance as I quickly make my way down the stairs, not even stopping to shut the door.
My feet take each step so fast, I nearly fall on my face when I get to the bottom. I run out the front door, shoulder checking some guy who won’t move out of my way fast enough. I push my way down the street and continue through the next intersection. I keep going until my throat and lungs feel like they’re on fire. When I feel like I’m about to pass out, I lean up against the side of a building and I cry.
What the fuck just happened?
I sob.
People stare.
I slide down the concrete wall and sit on the ground.
I cry some more.
People walk by like I’m not even here.
And I feel alone. Really and truly alone.
For the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m walking the planet all by myself, even though I’m surrounded by millions of people.
I read in a book somewhere you don’t really know who you can count on until your world is turned upside down . . . until you’re at your very lowest point. The people who are there for you at that time are the people who will be around for the long haul. I thought the day my grandmother died was the lowest point in my life. My world literally shifted on its axis.
I remember crying when my mom died. I was five. I remember wearing a pale pink dress that day. I had been with my grandmother, where I was on most days. Now, looking back, I think I cried because my grandmother was crying. I didn’t know how final death was. I didn’t feel the grief because my grandmother was there to cushion my fall. I always thought if I had her, I could handle anything.
When my grandmother died, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. It was a little easier to swallow because I knew she had lived a good, full life, but it didn’t make it hurt less. She was all I had ever known. But Piper and Graham were there for me. They picked me up, dusted me off, and helped me keep going when I didn’t want to.
Then, my dad died.
But I wasn’t a stranger to grief. The day I found out, I remember thinking if I could survive my mother and my granny’s deaths, I could survive anything. His death didn’t feel personal, because I didn’t even know him. The only thing he’d ever done for me in my life was donate some sperm when my mom was eighteen. When I went to his funeral, I felt like I was attending a friend of a friend of a friend’s funeral.
A month later, when I was walking to one of my classes on campus, I saw a mother and father with their little girl. It was so simple, so normal, but in those three seconds, as they held her hands and swung her between them, I realized I was alone—an orphan. I had no one. That’s when I finally cried over my dad, or maybe just over the idea that there wasn’t anybody left on this earth genetically linked to me. Sure, I have some aunts and uncles somewhere, but I’m not close to them. That’s what happens when you’re
the only child of an only child. But Graham was there for me. He came, found me on a bench, and held me, told me he’d always be there for me, that I’d never be alone.
But he lied.
And here I sit on a disgusting sidewalk in New York City with my best friend a thousand miles away and the only other person who’s been there for me is seventeen blocks behind me . . . fucking the physical therapist.
A semi-psychotic laugh erupts out of my chest, along with more tears. I want to scream. I want to run back to my apartment and break Graham’s other leg. I want to get on a plane and lie in my best friend’s bed while she feeds me Ben and Jerry’s.
The only other person I want to talk to right now is Micah, but I’m not ready to talk to anyone yet.
I want a drink.
One thing I know for sure is I cannot go back to that apartment.
Pulling myself up off the sidewalk, I stand in the middle of the street, holding my hand up for a taxi. When one pulls over, I quickly get inside.
“Where to?”
Where to? I hadn’t thought that far.
“Uh . . .”
Shit.
“Where to?” he asks again in his thick foreign accent.
Fuck. He’s going to kick me out of his taxi if I can’t come up with an address.
Looking up, I see the sleek glass building in front of us. “I need to go there,” I say, pointing toward the building. “The, uh . . . Trump Hotel, I think.”
“Trump?”
“Yeah.”
I don’t know why I say it. It’s way over my budget, but I decide I’ll find a way to make Graham foot the bill. I still have access to all of his accounts and credit cards. I even know his passcodes.
Digging in my bag for a tissue and some money to pay the driver, I see Graham’s credit card and his driver’s license from when I went to pick up his prescriptions earlier.
Yeah, that cheating bastard is totally paying.
As I walk up to the desk, I take in a deep breath. I should be ashamed of what I’m about to do, but I’m not. I’m just nervous because I’m about to lie my ass off.
“Welcome to the Trump,” a lady with light blonde hair says, smiling. “Do you have a reservation?”
“Um, no,” I say sweetly, tilting my head and scrunching my nose. “My husband is here on business and his meeting is running late, so he sent me to see about getting a room for the night.”
“I can help you with that, Mrs . . .”
“Harrison,” I say, swallowing down the bile forcing its way up my throat.
A few minutes later, I have two keys to a room on the fourteenth floor. That was way easier than it should’ve been. I lamented to her how bare my hand felt without my rings and how I couldn’t wait to get them back from the jewelers after they were properly soldered together. She even bought my story that we were “kinda on our honeymoon”, which was how I explained away the fact that my name and address had yet to be changed. She sympathized with me on having to follow him around while he jetted the country on business, but I told her when you’re in love, you’ll do whatever it takes, to which she literally sighed . . . out loud.
It was all I could do not to throw up in the plant next to the elevator.
I am such a lying liar who lies.
I’m going to hell.
No, Graham is.
And Kaitlyn.
I should have punched him.
Or her.
Or both of them.
Before I even get my card in the slot, tears are pouring down my face again. I open the door and gently close it behind me, sliding down the back while the betrayal and disappointment set in anew.
I sit there on the floor, leaning against the door, for what could be minutes or hours. The ridiculously loud growl from my stomach is what finally pulls me out of my trance. I think about cleaning my face and walking downstairs to find something to eat or calling room service, but nothing sounds particularly good.
Walking over by the bed, I begin opening cabinets and drawers. A place this nice is bound to have a mini bar, right?
Bingo.
Tiny bottles and packages of snack foods line the shelves. I peruse my options: tequila, vodka, rum, spiced rum, wine . . . yuck . . . beer . . . not my brand.
“Hello, old friend,” I say, twisting the cap off the bottle of Jose Cuervo.
The name on the label makes me think of the big black Labrador living on an expanse of land in Louisiana, which makes me think of said black Lab’s owner.
I think about texting him, but how would I even start that conversation? Remember my boyfriend? Yeah, he fucked the therapist.
And I am not calling Piper. No way. I’m not ready for her “I told you so”. Not that she ever told me Graham was going to cheat on me. Actually, she’s probably going to be shocked about that. And had she thought he would cheat on me, she’d have cut his balls off before he had the chance. However, she’s never been his biggest fan. They got along pretty well during college, but since we’ve been together, not so much. She saw the changes in him long before I ever did.
“I should’ve listened,” I whisper to the tiny bottle in my hand. “I’m probably going to regret this at some point, but here goes nothing.” I empty the bottle into my mouth, wincing at the distinct burn as it coats my throat.
I really should eat something. Gathering the contents of the mini fridge, I carry the items to the bed, dump them in the middle, and settle on a can of Pringles and a package of almonds. It’s a unique combination, but it does the trick of shutting up the bear in my stomach.
The chips and almonds make me thirsty, so I reach for something else to drink. “Hey, Jack. Long time, no see,” I say as I hold up another bottle. “How about you treat me a little smoother than Jose? Although, I guess neither of you have fucked me over as hard as Graham.” I down the second bottle and sigh. My throat doesn’t burn nearly as badly as with the first, so I go for a third. I’ve never taken a shot of rum, but what the heck? There’s a first for everything, including your boyfriend fucking his therapist.
After bottle number four, I rummage through my pile, looking for something else to eat. I grab a bag of cheese crisps, which I’ve never heard of before, but they look tasty.
I could really go for that meatloaf about now.
Fucking Graham. Fucking ruining my chances for a meatloaf sandwich. Fucking ruining my life.
The cheese crisps make me thirsty again, so I down another tiny bottle. Spiced rum. Much tastier than the first bottle of rum. It probably would’ve tasted even better mixed with the can of Coke lying there, but who has time for that?
My options on tiny bottles are dwindling. I saved the gin for last, because fuck me, I hate gin.
Half an hour later, I’m still sitting in the middle of the gigantic bed with half empty packages of pretzels and nuts, and one, two, three, four, five, six . . . seven tiny empty bottles.
Lying back on the bed, I try to focus on the ceiling, using it as my point of reference, because the room feels a little shifty.
“Oh, Dani, Dani, Dani . . . what have you gotten yourself into?” I ask the empty room.
When I turn my head to look at the clock, I see it’s only 6:00 PM. But at least it’s past 5:30. Because I’m drunk. And I think there’s some unwritten rule that says you’re not supposed to be drunk before 5:30. Or was it 5:00?
My phone buzzes on the nightstand and I glare at it, the sound offending. If it’s Graham, I swear I’ll throw that fucking phone out this fourteenth floor window.
Thinking of Graham pisses me off, fueled even more by the liquor coursing through my body. I almost hope it is Graham. I have a few things to say to him, and it’d be a lot easier to get them out in my current state of mind.
Pulling my phone to my face—entirely too close to my face—I try to focus on the screen.
Micah.
Micah: Sheridan Reed, you have two minutes to tell me you’re not passed out in some back alley in New York, or I’m calling the cop
s.
“Well, aren’t you Bossy McBossypants.” I try hard to type that into a message, but after fucking autocorrect is finished with it, it’s more like: “Well sent you nosy mc postpone.”
I hit send anyway. My arms feel like jelly and I don’t feel like retyping it.
Micah: Are you okay?
Me: drunk
I go for simple, one-word responses. Those, I seem to be able to do.
Micah: Are you serious? It’s 5:00 in the afternoon.
Me: 6
Micah: Okay. 6:00. Why are you drunk?
Me: ducking hrshm
When the phone rings, it scares the shit out of me. Micah’s picture shows up on the screen and I stare at it for so long, the call goes to voicemail. Luckily, he calls back.
“Hellooo?”
“Dani?”
I pull the phone to my forehead and press it against it. The coolness feels good; almost as good as his voice feels in my ear. This is the first time I’ve heard his voice in two months. It makes my heart ache and my throat tighten.
“Dani?” I hear his voice, but it’s too far away. Where did he go? I pull the phone off my forehead staring at it for a minute before bringing it back to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Are you okay?”
“Um, yes . . . no . . . I don’t know,” I say, drawing out my words as my voice weakens with each response.
“What’s wrong?” There’s so much caring and concern in the way he’s asking, it makes me feel like crying. I try holding it back, but it makes my throat hurt so I let out a small sob, releasing some of the pressure.
“Dani, you’re scaring me. Please, tell me what’s wrong. Are you hurt?”
“Graham . . .” I barely get it out past the gasps and tears.
“Did Graham do something?”
I nod my head.
“Dani, did Graham hurt you?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“What did he do?” he bites out, anger replacing the caring and concern. Controlled anger, but anger, nonetheless.
“He fucked the physical therapist.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“Nope,” I say, the scene playing back in my mind. “I saw them. In my bed. I walked into the apartment, and I heard a loud bang, and . . . and I thought Graham might be hurt,” I say, breaking into a loud sob. “S-so, I yelled for him, but didn’t get an answer. It sounded like it was coming from the bathroom, so I went back there and . . . they were in my bed.”