“Bet me, Falls.”
The shock of him addressing me that way increases when he grasps my shoulders in his large hands.
“W-what?”
“Bet. Me.”
I heard him the first time, it just doesn’t make any sense. The numbing qualities of the morphine might be wearing off, but this brain fog just won’t quit. Either that or he really is still drunk, even hours later, and rambling incoherently like he did in his living room.
“You said my life’s in the toilet, right? That I have no business telling you what to do when I’m not doing it myself?” he clarifies, tightening his hold on me. “Bet me it can’t get worse. I promise you it can. This is me, holding back. Holding on…by a very slim thread.”
“Holding on?” I shake free from his grip, realizing too late I don’t have much freedom to pace while attached to the IV. Why would he possibly want to bet me things can’t get worse? “Holding onto what?”
He doesn’t bother to grace me with an answer as I lose my mind further. I can’t keep up with all the different personalities he’s thrown at me since I arrived at his condo—drunken, angry lunatic, concerned friend, and now…now.
Manipulator.
I whirl to face him and nearly fall over.
Dammit, now is not the time to seem like a damsel in distress. I can’t let him know that I know what he’s doing.
This could be my only shot to get him the help he needs, to show him he has too much potential to live his life the way he has been for the past year. Even if it means sucking it up and proving to him fighting is always worth it.
A change in tactic might be in order to ensure this goes where I want it to, though. Losing my temper will only make him defensive. I have to play the game. One last time. “Tell me how it could be worse.”
His panicked expression almost makes me let go of the small thread of self-control I’m clinging to. “I…could be doing drugs.”
“You’re probably still legally drunk. In the afternoon. Alcohol is a drug. A depressant, in fact.”
He shrugs, unfazed by my accusation. “Most NFL players are drunk or partying it up in February. We’ve had a long season, and don’t get much time off. That’s not a big deal.”
Oh, it’s a very big deal when your father is a known alcoholic, but I keep that to myself. I can’t help him by pushing him away this time. “Your apartment is destroyed, Rob. Annihilated.”
“Number one, it’s a condo, not an apartment. Number two, not anymore. You cleaned it all up.”
A seething anger bubbles beneath the surface of my skin. He’s clearly trying to push my buttons, to get a reaction out of me. Fine. Two can play this game. “You might have a horrible, horrible disease.”
Confusion descends on his expression. It’s not a good look for him. He’s too smart for that. “Um, I might have had tequila for breakfast, but I think the morphine they gave you is clouding your brain. You have a horrible, horrible disease, not me.”
“I meant an STI.”
He narrows his eyes, barely controlled anger flushing his face. Good. “I’m pretty sure I don’t.”
“How do you know?” On second thought, this was a terrible idea. I don’t want any details.
The muscles in his jaw work as he grinds his teeth. “Because I got tested when I moved here. I’m clean.”
“What about the steady stream of pussy you’ve had since moving to Sacramento?” I would make air quotes if I had both arms available.
His eyes widen. He sort of chokes on nothing at all. “I…what?”
“That’s what you told me when I arrived. That you were living the dream and following my suggestions. A change of location and a steady stream of pussy were your exact words.”
He grips his hair and begins pacing in a way I wish I was free to do. “I said that? To you?”
I nod, but there’s no gratification in the gesture. Only white-hot jealousy that sears my body. “You don’t remember?”
“No,” he whispers.
“You were so drunk this morning at ten, you could barely stand upright. You don’t remember me arriving; don’t remember anything you said to me. You’ve been suspended from team activities during the offseason and for the first three games next year. Not to mention fined sixty thousand dollars. All because you lost your temper and decked a reporter after your last game. You’re damn lucky no assault charges were pressed.” I pause to catch my breath, a heady concoction of guilt and fear over his downward spiral strangling my throat. “The media vilifies you every chance they get. As far as I know, you’re not speaking to any of your friends. And you’ve cut off your family, your mother who would do anything for you. So, I’ll ask you again. Please explain to me how it could get any worse.”
He faces me, his shoulders slumped, his face deadpan. “I could be dead.”
Panic sneaks down my limbs, making them tremble beyond control. “You wouldn’t.”
“Why not?” He shrugs, but his expression never wavers. “You just gave me an accurate list I can’t argue. I don’t have much to live for.”
But, but, but…Pops. Rob would never commit suicide. He understands the impact.
“Don’t, Rob. Don’t even think it. You have so much to live for.”
He approaches me with a measured step, then another and another until we’re toe to toe, his chin dropped to meet my upturned gaze. “If you can do it, then why can’t I?”
“I have no intention of killing myself.” Even through my darkest nights, the unending reigns of terror, the horrible pain, I’ve never considered it.
“That’s what you just asked for. You asked a doctor to end your life for you.”
Rage replaces fear. “Having a hysterectomy won’t kill me. It will preserve me. I won’t be able to have kids. So, what? That is not the same as death. Many women can’t have children; many women choose not to. Why doesn’t anyone understand it’s our right?”
Rob steps back, nods his head slowly, but never averts his nearly lifeless gaze. “A hysterectomy might not end your life, but it will end your hope for something you always wanted for your life. Same difference.”
All the fight drains out of me with his broken words. “I have no hope. It won’t make a difference.”
Something in his currently deep blue eyes softens. He appears almost…like the old Rob. “So, you’ll what? Have the surgery? Go through early menopause, and all the symptoms and complications that come with that at your age? Be free of the pain, but be a living shell of your former self?”
“If you can do it, then why can’t I?” I throw back at him.
“Because I don’t want that for you, just like you don’t want this life for me. Because I think that’s what really brought you to my door after all this time. You hate what I’ve become, too.”
I pull my lip between my teeth, working away at the skin. There’s no other outlet for my emotions. “So, you admit you hate me?”
He jerks his head back. “When did I ever say that?”
“At the game in Albany. Pretty much every word out of your mouth was proof enough.” I knew going to that game was a mistake. I’ll never forget the look of rage in his eyes when he saw me on the sidelines.
He seems to think before responding. “I did at that point. I hated you for what you did to me, to us. It’s a battle I’ve been fighting for the past year. Hating you versus hating myself. Hating myself won out.”
His answer shouldn’t shock me as much as it does. Rob’s always had a guilty conscience. It’s something he’s been living with since my attack. I haven’t freed him from the weight of it, after all. “You have to let go of that guilt. It’s killing you. You’re not responsible for what happened to me in high school; you’re not responsible for our relationship falling apart; you’re not responsible for my decision now.”
“Yes. I am.” He stands before me again, but makes no move to bridge the physical rift between us. “Hating myself won out because hating you has never been an option.”
“Why?” Of all the questions pinging through my brain, that one trumps all the others. “Why don’t you hate me?”
He should. If he knew everything, he would.
“It’s impossible for me to hate you. Believe me, I tried. I thought blaming you, reviling you for the way you lied to me would make the consequences of us parting ways easier to live with. Turns out, I’ve just gotten really good at lying to myself.”
I’m all too familiar with that. The depressed tone of his words causes my shoulders to slump under their weight, even as his admission makes my heart race. “Don’t go down the path of lying to yourself, Rob. It’s almost impossible to come back from it. Once you lose yourself completely, you’ll never be able to find your way out. You’ll get so good at convincing yourself of the truth you want, you’ll lose sight of the truth that is.”
He heaves a deep breath. “You know that better than most, don’t you?”
I don’t bother denying it. “Yes. Now you see why having the hysterectomy now won’t change anything. I’m already too far gone.”
“I don’t believe that.” His voice is the softest caress, almost as if he reached out in that familiar way with his fingers against my cheek. “You wouldn’t have flown all the way across the country, cleaned up the mess I made, and asked me to stay with you for the past several hours if you really thought I was too far gone, either.”
“I…hoped you weren’t.” Admitting that aloud piles more pain on my gut, but if I’m going to help him now, he needs someone to believe in him.
His lips curl with a sly expression gleaming in his blue-green eyes. “See? I knew you still had some hope left in you.”
So mesmerized by the sight of something resembling a smile on his face, I almost forget to be angry at what he’s trying to do. “I have hope for you, Rob. Not me.”
His gaze shutters. “Then, it seems we’re at another impasse.”
“I guess we are.” As much as I’m trying to help him, I can’t work miracles.
Miracles don’t exist.
“Unless…”
“Unless what?” How can he still infuriate me so easily? And bait me in the same breath.
“Give me a year.”
That damn hope he spoke of sparks in my chest. I don’t want to feel it, but I can’t help myself.
“You’ll clean up your act? By this time next year, you’ll be the talented quarterback you are?” He’s got my attention. And also, my suspicion. I’m old enough to know everything has a price.
He nods, folding his muscular arms over his chest, staring me down with what, on anyone else, might be a formidable glare. “I will. If you’ll agree to give the doctors a year to help you. If nothing they try works, then you’re free to do as you wish.”
“What’s the catch?” If it were this easy to get him to agree to pull his life together, I wouldn’t be here at all.
Rob fixes me with a serious stare. “No more lying to yourself. No more lying to me.”
That shouldn’t be too hard. There aren’t any reasons to lie anymore.