Rhett

“How are you holding up?” Damiana’s mother cups her hand against my cheek Sunday morning, peering at me with the same honey brown, almond-shaped eyes that made her daughter millions. “We’ve been worried about you.”

“You don’t need to worry about me. Coffee?” I point to the machine on the kitchen counter behind me, and Irena squints.

“No, thank you.”

Damiana’s father, George, is seated in the living room, his hands spread across the arms of an overstuffed chair. He stares ahead at a blank TV screen, not moving, not saying a word.

“Thank you for coming yesterday,” Irena says, placing her hand over mine.

“You don’t have to thank me for attending my fiancée’s funeral.”

“Well, given everything that came to light this week,” she pauses, bringing her fingers to her cross necklace and twisting the chain. “We’d have understood if you ...”

Her words trail to silence and her kind, bloodshot eyes search mine, and she’s probably wondering why the hell I seem so normal. She hasn’t slept in days, Damiana’s father hasn’t spoken more than a few words in days, and I’m standing here making coffee like it’s any other Sunday morning.

“We didn’t want to stay long,” Irena says, motioning for her husband to get up. “Just thought we’d check on you before we leave the city. Call us if you need anything, okay, Rhett?”

“Same. I’m here if you need me.” I walk them to the door, noting the elongated, catwalk stride Irena passed down to her daughter. If only she had passed down her unwavering loyalty and devotion, we wouldn’t be standing here having this conversation.

Irena wraps her lanky arms around my shoulders and kisses each of my cheeks before dabbing a tear from her eye and looping her arm into George’s. I lock the door behind them and return to my coffee.

I didn’t tell Irena, but I haven’t been sleeping either.

Besides, I’m sure she could see it on my face, the dark circles and the cloudy eyes. My mind won’t turn off, it just keeps playing an image of the two of them, fucking, over and over again. It’s on a loop that won’t stop. Every time I close my eyes, I see them.

Reaching for a mug from the cabinet with shaky, sleep-deprived hands, I grab it too quickly and it slips from my grip, shattering on the counter. Pulling the trash out from under the sink, I begin dropping chunks of broken ceramic on top of a fractured picture frame containing a photo of Damiana, Bryce, and myself from a Mets game last year.

She’s grinning in between us, both of our arms around her, and the irony of this photo lying amongst the shattered remnants of this picture frame isn’t lost on me.

I’m not sure how long Bryce and Damiana were fucking or if they ever planned on telling me, but not in my wildest dreams did I expect to get that phone call. I’d much rather have walked in on them, then I could’ve at least had the satisfaction of kicking his ass and kicking her ass to the curb.

My phone vibrates, skidding across the counter, and Shane’s name displays across the screen. The guys have been calling me all week, checking in and making sure I’m okay. They even attended Damiana’s funeral.

“Hey.” I cradle the phone on my shoulder, picking up the remaining splintered flecks of ceramic.

“Just seeing how you’re holding up.” Shane is tense and awkward, like the rest of the team lately. Everyone’s been walking on eggshells around me. I walk in the room, they stop talking. I walk by, they all stare. I don’t need to be handled with kid gloves. I’m not in a delicate state of mind.

Angry, yeah.

Pissed off to no end, absolutely.

Fragile, breakable? Hardly.

“Yeah, you know,” I say.

He doesn’t know.

No one knows what it feels like because this sort of thing doesn’t happen.

It was a freak accident involving a jackknifed semi and two cheating assholes who happened to be leaving their hotel suite in the middle of the night, presumably after an intense fuck session, to go grab pancakes.

“Did you go to Bryce’s ... ?” Shane asks.

“Nah.”

I wanted to go, but I couldn’t bring myself. Bryce was a brother to me. My best friend. The only son of a bitch who understood me because in many ways, he was me.

But he took away the only two things I’ve ever given a flying fuck about, and now I’d give anything to forget the bastard ever existed.

I left Damiana’s funeral yesterday morning and stood outside the church where Bryce’s service was being held for several minutes. Just standing there. On the front steps. Unmoving. Alone. Arguing with myself about whether or not I’d regret this someday. I finally decided that I would, and I made my way inside, stopping just before the sanctuary and listening to Coach drone on and on about what a standup guy Bryce was, how he’d do anything for anyone, and how he had a heart of gold. I believe he even used the words “Loyal to the end.”

I couldn’t listen to another minute of that bullshit, so I left.

People have a habit of glorifying the dead, forgetting all the shitty things they did and remembering them like they were some kind of saint. Bryce was far from a saint, in life and in death. I’ll be damned if I have to listen to someone giving him some posthumous knighthood.

“Some guys thought they saw you at Shotsky’s,” Shane says carefully.

“Yeah,” I don’t argue.

He’s quiet, and he’s probably wondering why I didn’t join them, but I don’t have the energy to explain it to him. I stopped in and took one last shot, toasting a fucking jackass who didn’t deserve it because I decided I should pay one last respect to that prick so I could move on with my life.

It was cathartic, really. I tossed back the shot of top shelf gin, remembering the good times for a sliver of a second, said a quiet, “Fuck you, asshole,” then got the hell out of there.

“You sure you’re okay, man?” Shane asks.

“Never better.”

Shane laughs, then he’s silent, like he wasn’t sure if I was cracking a joke or not. “All right then. See you at the meeting next Monday?”

“What meeting?”

“Coach called a team meeting. Ten o’clock at the rink. He sent an email.”

I haven’t checked my email in days. Fans are coming out of the woodwork sending all kinds of weird shit that I have no interest in reading, or so says my assistant. I haven’t looked. I’ll have her go through them eventually, but for the time being, they’re not a priority of any kind. And the crazies won’t be getting a response because fuck them.

“I’ll be there,” I say.

“Okay, cool.” Shane clears his throat. “All right, man. See you then.”

“Yep.”

“Oh, wait,” he says seconds before I’m about to end the call. “Did you meet Bryce’s sister the other night?”

“Bryce had a sister?” This has got to be some sick, twisted joke. Some delusional fan coming out of the woodwork in an attempt to swindle what remains in his massive bank account before some distant relative gets their hands on it.

“Apparently.”

“Nope. Didn’t meet her.” Have no interest in meeting her either.

“You sure, because she ...” his voice trails. “That’s weird then.”

“Why do you say that?”

“She said she wanted to meet you because we told her how you knew him better than any of us. I thought maybe she got a hold of you?”

“Sounds crazy.” I scratch my temple. “Don’t mean to sound like a dick, Shane, but I have no interest in spending a minute of my time with anyone remotely related to that asshat.”

“Understand, Rhett,” he says, exhaling into the receiver. He doesn’t understand, and he never will. “See you, man.”

“Yep.”