Maybe Friday could just take a dump on me too …
“DID HE TELL YOU I’m crazy? Psycho? Nuts? Won’t stop until I have what I want?” Yup. That all just unraveled from my tongue.
“No,” he grumbles. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Well then, he should have warned you.” I need to stop. I don’t need to show off this side of me—this angry, hateful side that Rick forced me to be. It isn’t who I really am, who I was, or who I want to be.
Logan squeezes his hands around his head and presses his fingers into his eyebrows. “Hannah, I don’t have the energy to figure out what you’re talking about, but I do need to get moving.”
“No,” I snap. Easy, killer. Sounding a little desperate.
“I can’t stay, okay?”
“Fine, go,” I tell him. “I’ll just go ask Rick what was said.”
“Please don’t do that.” Logan rolls onto his side and clutches his stomach. “I think the room is spinning like one of those damn, carnival tilt-a-whirl rides. The room isn’t moving, right?”
“No, it’s not.”
Logan’s fingertips dig into the mattress as if he’s holding onto it for dear life. “What the hell is going on?”
I place my hand on his back and softly caress the length of his spine. “Hannah …”
“Do you want me to get you anything for the road? A trash bag and some water?”
“Hannah …”
“What is it?” I ask him.
“I’ve never wondered what it might be like to have a hard-on while feeling like I’m standing in the middle of an earthquake after drinking my weight in tequila. Do you know men have trouble getting it up when they are that intoxicated? The human body isn’t meant to handle so much action at once. Yet …”
Oh, I’m not sure what I’ve done to cause that. “‘Yet,’ what?”
“Can you stop stroking my back with your fingernails. It’s nice, but—”
“Oh. Oh! Sorry. I mean, I’m not sorry, but at this particular moment, I’m sorry.”
He rolls back to his original spot, possibly with a change of mind as it seems. Maybe he just realized there’s no way he’s able to drive at the moment. “If you need me to drive you home, I can.”
His focus struggles under his apparently heavy eyelids. “Can I ask you something?”
“Okay …”
“Is it true you’re a perfectionist?”
I can’t fathom how that could be a concern of his right now. “Why do you ask?”
“It’s something I need to know.”
He’s sick as a dog, asking me if I like things to be perfect. Is it a bad trait if I do? I don’t bother people with it.
“I don’t know—sometimes, I guess.”
“Sometimes, or like OCD—all the time.” My level of annoyance is growing alongside the pressuring questions, which strictly regard my personality—something I can’t control. I have two sick men in my house, neither of whom lives here, both expecting me to take care of them, yet they both seem to think this is the time to criticize me? What the hell?
“I like things in order. If something is broken, I like to fix it. I don’t think it’s an issue.”
“What if you can’t fix something?” Where the hell is he going with this?
“I don’t know. I would probably do what anyone might do and replace it?”
“Wrong answer,” he says with a clipped intonation.
“I don’t like mind games. I can tell you that.” That came out snippier than I intended, but what the hell?
He drops the back of his arm across his forehead. “Do I feel hot to you?” I’m so frustrated with the interruption. I want to know what this is all about.
Instead, I lean forward and place the back of my hand over the lower part of his forehead, then his cheek, like I do with Cora. “Yes, you’re warm.” I hand him the glass of water with a straw. “I’ll go grab you some Advil, okay?”
He groans, then sighs, softly. “Do you have any of that liquid stuff. If I try to swallow anything solid right now, I’ll probably upchuck.”
I inhale slowly before responding, needing a moment to maintain my composure and brace myself for this continuing situation I’m in. “Logan, this is making me crazy. Why do I feel like we’re on two different playing fields? Does that make any sense to you? It seems like you have some kind of advantage or insight into my life and yet, I’m totally in the dark about yours.” I already know I’m not getting anywhere with my questions, but I have a right to know what kind of person he has me pegged as. “Plus, five minutes ago, you were hell-bent on leaving, and now you’re drilling me about perfectionism one-second, and then needing child’s cold medicine—enough to fill a man’s grown body—the next. Give me something to go on here, will you? Maybe a reason to put up with this shit? When I was sick, and you were taking care of me, I don’t think I returned the favor by acting rude and ungrateful.”
Logan stares past me toward the window with a hazy look in his eyes like he’s pondering the meaning of life, or possibly just trying to ward off another round of nausea.
“Let’s just say, I’m not perfect.”
“And?” That doesn’t clarify anything. “What’s that have to do with the way you’re acting?” These riddles and clues aren’t bringing me to any logical or decent explanations. It’s something south of the border. That’s about all I can figure.
“Never mind.”
“Okay, let’s start with something easier.” I sit down on the edge of the bed and place my hand gently on his chest. “Why did you want to leave after I told you Rick was downstairs?”
Still no effort to make eye contact, but he looks like he’s about to say something, I think.
His arm lowers to his stomach and his lip curls. “I’m going to die, aren’t I?”
“Nope. No, Logan, you’re not going to die.”
“Mom, I need you!” Cora is shouting for me from downstairs. I can only imagine what’s going on down there now.
“Don’t leave,” Logan says pleadingly.
“Oh my gosh, I can’t handle two sick men at once. What is it? Spit it out.”
Why did I say that? At a time like this, no one in their right mind would say spit it out to a sick person who’s lying on freshly cleaned sheets.
He certainly spits it out, though. All over those clean sheets.
“I’m so sorry,” he mutters.
I pull the blanket off and roll it into a ball before tossing it to the ground. “He said he doesn’t want me anywhere near you,” Logan confesses as I’m grabbing a spare blanket from the closet.
“Rick said that?” I’m not surprised. He didn’t want the divorce. He just wanted to cheat on me. I think it’s called having your cake and eating it too. Yeah, Rick thought the too was spelled two. Being an asshole is one thing. Sleeping with another woman is a no-no in my book. Rick did everything in his power to stop the divorce proceedings, so it took an extra-long time, making everything harder than necessary. Then he moved next door in hopes of making me feel jealous and crazy as he moved Tiana in with him. It hurt like hell—that’s the worst part. Even when he was an asshole, I still loved him. I loved him, but I’m not stupid. “He hurt me every single day for years, and he still thinks there’s a chance for us. I told him it will never happen. It’s the truth, Logan.”
“I have no right getting involved,” he says. “We just met, and you have a history with him and a little girl.”
“And you don’t have any history or baggage?” I counter.
“Oh, I do, but my ex-wife doesn’t live next door to me. She lives in another state now.”
“I can’t control the fact that Rick moved in next door to me. What am I supposed to do, Logan? Uproot my daughter so I can secure a second chance at love? She’s the most important thing to me, and everyone else will always come second. It’s a fact of my life—a fact anyone will have to deal with if they’re with me. We did just meet, so I won’t be offended if whatever interest you had in me has vanished. It happens.” I offer a smile because what else can I do? This is my life. I made my bed, and I will lie in it … just not right now.
He nods his head and wipes at his mouth, making sure it’s clean from the latest spewing episode. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have brought up any of that. It’s none of my business, and you’re right about Cora.”
“I’m sorry we couldn’t have a chance, even if I am your boss, and it’s totally inappropriate.”
“What do you mean?” he asks, as lines furrow deep within his forehead.
“I’m not going to hold any of this against you. You’re a single man making a move—a bold one—with your new boss. I’m flattered, but you’re out of my league by a long shot, and this life I’m living isn’t one you need to bear the weight of.” I laugh because it’s true. He’s so far out of my league, I can’t believe I’m lucky enough to say Logan Grier puked in my bed.
“That’s not what I mean,” he says. “Rick can go screw himself if that’s how you truly feel. I just didn’t want to chance stepping into the middle of a family reconciliation. That’s what he was going on about, that and some other things …”
“Wow. Nope, there is definitely no family reconciliation in our future. None.” I’m honestly taken aback. “So—”
“I’ll take my pants off next time, then.” He smirks and groans as he rolls onto his back.
“There will be a next time?” I scratch my fingers gently down the length of his arm, playing along with his words.
“I guess we’ll see where the flu takes us,” he says with a humming sigh. Logan crosses his arms behind his head, revealing a whole lot of vomit beside the pillow.
“You should start with taking a shower,” I tell him. “I have to clean the sheets.”
“Yeah.” He looks down, disgusted at the mess he’s lying in. “Oh, man.”
Logan carefully drags himself up and out of the bed. Oy. He’s wearing the vomit like it’s another layer of clothes. “Uh, I should wash everything,” which will leave him naked up here in my bedroom.
He looks down, and his cheeks turn pale. “The sight of this is making me feel sick again.”
“Okay, let’s get you into the shower.” If only he weren’t sick while I’m telling him to get into my shower, I might be a whole lot happier.
I wrap my hand around Logan’s bicep—his rock hard, holy-shit-is-that-bone-or-steel bicep—and guide him toward the bathroom. I’d like to think I’m helping hold up a portion of his weight, but I don’t think it’s possible. He’s a rock.
Once I get him into the bathroom, he falls against the sink, holding himself up with his elbows as he stares at his reflection with an expression that looks like he’s about to start a fight with himself.
I reach into the shower and turn the knob, then test the temperature of the water in the palm of my hand. “Okay, all set. Can I have your clothes?”
“I—I’ll take care of that and hand them to you in a minute. Do you mind waiting in the bedroom?”
“Oh, okay, sure. Are you going to be okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”
I know this is wrong and completely inappropriate considering how sick he is, but I kind of need to know what the big deal is in his pants. His cock is fine. Like—definitely—fine, but there’s something I’m obviously missing.
I leave the bathroom and wait outside the door, listening to groans as Logan’s clothes fall to the floor. Another minute passes before a hand shoots out from a small cracked opening in the doorway, and his clothes are dropped in a ball at my feet. I want to bust in there right now and just find out what he’s hiding, but that’s low. Low, low, low—and I know I can’t do that.
I take the soiled clothes and bedding downstairs to the laundry room off to the back side of the kitchen. “Babe?” Rick calls out.
I laugh. He didn’t just refer to me as “Babe,” did he? He couldn’t possibly be delirious or delusional enough to say something stupid like that.
With a stiff breath, I let the comment pass by and move on to the laundry. Once the soap is in and the button has been pressed, I feel an urge to lock myself in this tiny room and take a nap. I’m still not feeling great, and it’s sort of like I was only allowed one day to be sick with the flu. Next time I get sick, I’m somehow checking myself into a hotel and not leaving until I’ve made a full recovery. I should probably consider scheduling that time into a calendar too.
Reluctantly, I reopen the door to the infirmary and head for the family room, where Rick is still whining about something.
Cora is seated at the edge of the pull-out, watching some YouTube chick play with Play-doh. What is this crap?
“Did you need something?” I made sure not to leave out any snark. “I can call Tiana if you miss the boob. Is that what it is? You need a bubba?”
“No, mommy. Tiana said she can’t just make milk appear like other women can—from her—.” Cora points to my chest. “Those things.” Think, then speak, Hannah. I have tried my hardest to stop talking shit about Rick or Tiana in front of Cora, but with the current extenuating circumstances, I just can’t stop it. I’m an awful mother sometimes … awful. Yet, I can’t stop laughing until I realize what Cora just asked me.
“Wait, wait, wait. Did Tiana tell Cora—our five-year-old—that she can’t make milk … you know like a mother does? Please say it’s not true, Rick. Please.”
Rick presses his fingers into the sides of his head. “Gawd, Hannah, she was listening outside the door. What do you want from me?”
“Are you planning to have another child with her?”
“I don’t know,” he groans. “It doesn’t concern you, though.”
“Oh, it doesn’t? Hmm. So, how exactly does it concern you that Logan is upstairs? You obviously felt the need to insert yourself into that topic.”
Rick shudders with laughter. “You’re kidding me, right?”
I grit my teeth and nod. “No, Rick, I’m not kidding you.”
“Do you even know who Logan Grier is?” he asks.
“Yes, he played baseball in the major leagues. I’m sure it’s a big deal to you.”
His laughter grows a little louder, and it’s becoming infuriating. “Let’s try this again. Do you know who Logan Grier was, and still is?”
I’m not playing into this with him. I know what he’s up to now, and Rick Pierce will stop at nothing to win a point or competition. “Yeah, I do. Now drop it.”
“So, you’re okay with that whole … situation?”
I almost ask. Almost, but I refrain. “Sure am.”
“Interesting,” he says with a curious grimace as he scratches at his chin.
“I just thought you wanted something different.”
It’s taking everything I have not to bite the bait. “It’s none of your business.”
Rick holds his hands up in defense. “You’re right.”
“I know,” I argue. Like a child.
“Well, in case you’re just saying you know, but you really don’t, and I sort of have an inkling that you don’t, you might want to watch ESPN Zone on demand and search Logan’s name. Not sure how his whole situation works, but I think it’s safe to assume you don’t know Logan’s whole story, even if you think you do. Let’s just say, Logan is single and good-looking for a reason, Hannah.”
My nausea is slowly returning, with a side of a racing pulse. Shit. What am I getting myself into?
“I know everything, so stop interfering with my life and go get back to yours with your girlfriend who will stick by your side through sickness and in health—oh wait, scratch that first part.” I point to the door. I’ve had it. I don’t care how sick he is. He’s too much to deal with, and he is not my problem anymore.
“Hannah, come on,” he whines. “Can’t I just have some soup first? Tiana can’t cook, and you know soup is the only thing that makes me feel better.”
Wow. There was honestly a time when this childish whining made me feel wanted and needed. I would drive to the ends of the earth to make him feel better when he wanted to act like a man-child. Now, these sounds are like nails on a chalkboard. After the way he’s treated me throughout the last few days, he wants me to make him soup. Unbelievable.
“Your fever must have spiked because you’re out of your goddamn mind.”
“Mommy, don’t use God’s name in vain. It’s just soup. I can make it for him.”
In moments like these, I experience an internal battle with myself about why didn’t I know Rick for who he truly was before I married him and had Cora. Then, the other part reminds me I wouldn’t have Cora if it weren’t for this bastard. What the hell is wrong with my bumpy-as-shit life path? It’s like the universe hiccuped when it was creating a line for me to follow.
“Cora, go to your room, please.”
“But Daddy said he needs me.”
“Daddy needs to grow a pair—never mind, go upstairs right now. It’s not up for debate.”
“Daddy needs to grow a pair—” Rick laughs. “You’re funny, Han.”
“Get out of my house, now.”
“Just one cup of soup?” He places his hands together and pleads silently.
“Go call your girlfriend, from your house, and tell her you want some goddamn soup. I’m not your wife. I’m not your anything, and don’t mistake me for someone who wants to ever fill that role again.”
For years, I couldn’t stand up for myself. I let him mentally abuse me in ways I didn’t realize. He broke me down, made me feel like nothing, and he thinks that with just a charming smile and wink of his eye, he can weasel his way back into my life when his sexy little girlfriend can’t figure out how to turn on a stove.
“I’m sorry, Hannah,” he says, turning onto his side.
Sorry, that’s funny. This man does not know the meaning of an apology. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Come here,” he says, waving me over.
I know this move too. This is where he butters me up, puts his arm around me, and asks me what’s really bothering me … as if it’s not him.
“No, get out.”
I don’t feel a thing this time—not like last time I had to say this to him. Not like when I found him and Tiana in our bedroom while Cora was eating breakfast alone downstairs. When a business trip ends a day early, and you want to surprise your husband, call first, especially if you’re married to someone like Rick. That’s what I learned. That’s what he’s taught me—to walk on eggshells and always be cautious.
Rick pushes himself up and tosses the covers to the side. “Okay.”
“I can open the door to make it easier for you.” I twist my head to the side and smile. It’s very callous of me, but he deserves to know this side of Hannah.
“You really don’t give a shit about me anymore, do you?”
“Aw, Ricky, was this a little test? Were you just trying to see how much I still care about you? Does it help you sleep better at night? You know, knowing I’m next door weeping and wallowing over the loss of our marriage? Because—,” I touch my finger to my lips since I’m trying to stop smiling, which feels unstoppable as I get this all off my chest. “That’s not what’s happening. I’m over you. I’m over us. I don’t care if you live next door or in another country. Other than our custody arrangement, you’re dead to me.”
“Shit, Hannah. Don’t stop there. Tell me what you really think.”
“Oh, I’m done. That is what I think.”
“Ouch.” He stands up from the pull-out and sighs. “I’m not going to lie and say it doesn’t hurt to hear you say that.” What is he expecting to hear from me? “Things aren’t going well with Tiana, you know.”
“What were you expecting? You’re fifteen years older than her. She can have any man she wants, and at some point, even the biggest gold-diggers figure out it isn’t always worth it in the end.”
There’s a possibility I said too much. There’s also a possibility I don’t care. Rick looks hurt—like the rug has been pulled out from beneath him, and I can’t care.
I don’t care. I actually feel a small sense of relief.
There is no part of me that should care.
I’m stronger than this.