I stare at the phone screen until it blurs, my thumb hovering over the contact. She looks nothing like this old picture anymore.
I should call.
And say what?
Sorry I was a fucking ass to you at the game. It ate me alive to see you in his jersey, not mine. Come home now. I’ll make it up to you.
Sure. Just like I can make up for being unfaithful.
Sorry about that, baby. Let’s take a trip to Tahiti and I’ll make you forget all about it.
Insane laughter loud enough to scare the cats spills out of my mouth. I can’t even touch her, so I’m not sure how I’m supposed to make her forget anything.
I take another swig of champagne straight from the bottle. This stuff tastes like shit. Why it’s the gold standard for celebrating is beyond me.
The kitchen is cold and dark. Not a single meal has been prepared in this place. No aroma of Greek spices hangs in the air. Special cookies will probably never be baked in the ovens. The coffee maker laughs at me. I don’t fucking drink coffee. I haven’t made breakfast to serve in bed even once.
My workout clothes lay in stinking piles all over the floor, stripped off whenever and wherever I felt like it. There’s no one to clean up for. No one who cares if this place is immaculate or a pig sty.
The thing that eats away at me the most is the untouched bed in the master suite. The one she asked for the night I won the Heisman. It’s made up, the sheets never slept in, the comforter never turned down. If it isn’t used, no one can ever tell me if the five-million-count Egyptian cotton was worth the price. I don’t know anything about sheets. The lady at the store said they were the best, so I bought the best.
While the shower stall in the en suite bathroom is lined with dank towels from the few nights I needed ice to douse the fire in my veins, the bathtub hasn’t ever been filled. The bottles of shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and bubbles are still full.
Her special lotion is on the nightstand. In high school, I would have slathered that shit all over myself and jerked off until my dick was raw. I can’t even bring myself to sniff the stuff now.
I could close the door. Shut it all out. I never close that fucking door.
Why?
Patch hops up onto the couch and uses my leg for a scratching post, causing me to spit champagne all over my chest, where Evie’s name serves as a permanent reminder of my biggest failures.
“God fucking dammit!”
The bottle explodes against the wall right next to the bedroom door.
Patch and Felix run for cover.
That’s the last straw. How could I ever be a good father if I can’t even fucking manage not to scare my pets?
The television is the first casualty. I don’t want to watch that footage of her even one more time.
She caused all this.
Not me. Her.
Fuck this stupid kitchen. I don’t need it. I can’t even cook anything other than eggs.
The bathroom is next. All the stupid, girly smelling stuff I’ll never use gets dumped down the drain. This shit has an expiration date, right? It can’t be good anymore.
When the last drop is emptied, I tear into the closet, ripping out the pile of blankets and pillows. What the hell was I thinking? She probably doesn’t sleep in closets anymore. Another man likely keeps her safe at night.
My chest heaving, and all the problems taken care of, I turn to the bed.
The perfect, all white, never-slept-in bed.
I’m sick of seeing Julie’s face in my dreams. No one will ever sleep in this bed.
And then I remember.
I still have another bottle of champagne.
It’s not midnight yet, so I pop the cork. The sound of it ricocheting off the wall and glass shattering in its wake barely registers.
But, the pounding at my door is kind of hard to ignore.
I’m not that drunk…yet.
“Falls, you dickhead! Open up!”
Huh. Shawn’s here.
Why is Shawn here?
He wasn’t invited.
His face is fifty shades of red, a vein pulsing in his forehead when I let him in.
It’s almost comical the way his expression changes from rage to shock as he looks around the place. Not funny enough for me to ask him to stay.
“Go away. I’m busy.”
“Yeah, I can see that. I wasn’t aware trashing your condo was on your schedule for the day. You know what was, though? Practice.”
“I gave myself the day off.” I shrug. “It’s a special occasion.”
He shoves me aside, closing the door behind him as he stalks into the living room. “I don’t know if I’d call it special, but losing your fucking mind is definitely an occasion.”
“It’s my anniversary.” I take another swig from the bottle. Champagne must be like cheap frat-house beer. It gets better the more of it you drink.
“The anniversary of what?” Shawn’s holding his phone.
I’m not sure who he thinks he’s going to call, but I’ll fight him for it if he thinks what I think he’s thinking.
Shit. Maybe I’m more drunk than I realized.
“It’s November fourth. You know. Special.”
Shawn shakes his head, staring at me like I’m insane.
Hell, he might be right.
“Oh, shit, Falls.” Again, funny the way he goes from scared to sad looking. “I didn’t realize…”
“No one does. But, you see why I can’t ask you to stay. I’m busy.”
He strides toward me, not stopping until we’re nearly chest to chest. The way he looks at me should phase me more than it does. I’m pretty sure he’s disgusted.
“You’re being fined fifteen thousand dollars for skipping out and fucking over your team. I’ll let them know you were puking your brains out and couldn’t leave your place. That might buy you some leeway. If any of the neighbors call the front desk with noise complaints, I’ll tell them…the cats got into their stash of catnip and went a little crazy.”
“I don’t really care.” I shrug again. “I hate football, and I hate this place.”
“You hate football?” Shawn studies me, that initial rage returning to his eyes. “Do you know how many high school quarterbacks would give their whole dicks to be where you are right now? Do you even get that no matter how hard they work, they’ll never be as good as you could be?”
Oh, so that’s what this is about. “Is that what happened to you? You weren’t good enough for the big leagues, so you decided to be an agent instead?”
“Yeah,” he spits out. “Because I love the sport. Even if I can’t play it at the professional level, I can’t imagine my life without it.”
“You’d be surprised what you learn to live without when you don’t have a choice.”
He maneuvers around me to the door, but doesn’t look over his shoulder as he opens it. “Get your fucking shit together, Falls. If this is the kind of man she married, I can see why she left you.”
As soon as he leaves, the bottle of champagne in my hand joins the other one on the floor across the room in a kaleidoscope of sparkling glass and bubbly.
Yeah.
I have one hell of a throwing arm.
I’ve been told I have one hell of a dick, too.
Neither of them have gotten me what I wanted.