Infinity. (Infinity Series) (25 page)

I pat my pockets, and find that I don’t have a credit card on me, but I’m Colin Fucking McKinney, the Brad Pitt of football. I brought this town a Super Bowl; surely the bartender will let me have a tab.

I walk in, huffing, trying to catch my breath as I grab a seat at the bar. The place is some chain brew-house. The name escapes me. I’ve never been in here before, but I’ve driven by it millions of times when I was a slave to fast-food row while Charlie was pregnant.

Immediately, the very pretty blonde bartender with giant fake boobs smiles and slides a glass of water in front of me. “What’ll it be?” She’s got enough makeup on that I’m sure it leaves smears on the sheets.

“Jack on ice, but hey, I don’t have my card on me. Can you start a tab, and I’ll settle it tomorrow?”

She winks a heavily-mascaraed eye. “It’s on the house, Colin.”

The first taste swishes around my mouth and burns like red-hot candy. I feel it sliding down my throat and into my stomach. The burn mixes with the battery acid, and begins to neutralize it.

The second sip lingers just inside my mouth for a moment. Then I swallow it, and feel the battery acid retreat a little more.

There’s a second of clarity when I question what the hell I’m doing here. I look around the restaurant and note that it’s painted a red color that matches my anger. There are a few other people sitting at the bar with me. One’s an older guy. He looks like he’d really like to talk to me so I ignore him, refusing to make eye contact. The pretty redhead, at the end of the bar, appears to be waiting for someone. She’s nervously tapping her foot and checking her watch. Then there’s the couple in love, practically dry-humping as they share a bar stool. It’s as if they’ve been sent by God to mock me.

I take another sip and don’t bother savoring it. I have no car, and it’s only about a three-mile walk/run/stagger/crawl back to my house. I’ve survived being hung over at practice many times before. It’s either I get shit-faced here, or I drive to Houston and take my daughter away from her mother, which will only end badly for all of us.

Slamming the glass down, I ask the
Playboy
-looking bartender for another. Here’s the pathetic thing: I have no alcohol tolerance. I’m feeling it, and I’ve only had one drink. Aiden would call me a pussy, and rag me like crazy if he were here. But if he were here, he wouldn’t let me do this, so I’m glad he’s in Los Angeles.

The older guy who’s been itching to get my attention finally grows a sac. “I really enjoy watching you play.”

I hold my glass up to him and say a polite “thanks,” hoping that he’ll now leave me the fuck alone.

“That play you made in the Super Bowl was unbelievable.” So much for him keeping his mouth shut.

“Yeah. I was just as stunned as everyone else.” I’m trying to sound humble here, and that this guy’s got to catch the clue and leave me alone.

“What’d you do to piss off Charlie?” He’s got a snide look on his old, wrinkled, smug face.

Just hearing her name come out of a stranger’s mouth makes me insane all over again. “Don’t say her name,” I growl as I grip the edge of the highly-polished wooden bar until my knuckles show white.

The old man holds his hands up as if he’s surrendering. “Sorry, I meant no harm. She’s hot. If she were mine, I’d make sure that I stayed on her good side.”

Before I know it, I’ve got the geezer pressed up against the bar, twisting his white, stained T-shirt tightly in my fist. He reeks of booze and fear. His watery eyes are bulging out of his head, and his mouth is hanging open like I’m choking him. “Don’t ever talk about my wife again,” I say through gritted teeth.

Two burly men are approaching my right side. I’m coherent enough to know that I don’t want any trouble, so I release the asshole, throwing my hands up. “Sorry, just a misunderstanding.”

The restaurant has gone silent, except for the diners holding up their phones and snapping away.
Great. I’m going to be breaking news again on the morning talk shows.

I can tell the large men really don’t want to be the bouncers that throw the city’s Super Bowl-winning MVP quarterback out of their bar. Instead of messing with me, they whisper something to the old guy, and he follows them out.

The pretty bartender hands me a fresh drink as I sit back down on the bar stool. “I get off in thirty minutes if you need a ride home,” she says with a sexy little wink.

Do I need a ride home? Yes, because I have no money, ID, or phone. I can’t call anyone to pick me up. Do I need a RIDE home? No, as pissed as I am at my wife, I don’t want to fuck some random chick.

I down my third drink and can no longer feel my toes. “I could use a lift, but I’m not going to fuck you,” is what I’m sure that I said. What came out sounded like, “I cud us a fit, but I emmm not gonnnna fuck ya.”

She hands me one more and a glass of water. “Let me tell my boss where I’m going.”

She flounces back with one of the big guys who helps me to the bartender’s car. Just my luck: it’s a VW Beetle. The big guy puts me in the front seat where my knees meet my chin, and climbs in the back. God only knows how he fit. The bartender starts the car, and pulls into traffic.

Next thing I know, Big Guy is hitting me on my arm, and asking me to talk to the security guard. Something incoherent spills out of my mouth, but it’s good enough to gain us entrance to my neighborhood. It does occur to my alcohol-infused brain I never told the bartender my address.

I point to my house as I feel my eyes growing heavy again with sleep. Big Guy helps me stumble to the back gate, while Bartender opens it and my unlocked backdoor. Big Guy puts me on the couch with a thud. “You okay, man?” His voice is gruff.

I must give a satisfactory enough answer, because they leave me there. Pancho jumps on the couch, licking my face, but I swat him away. Standing up, I play pinball between the walls and furniture as I make my way into the bedroom. The last thing that I remember is shutting the door on Pancho.

****

I know that I’m sick, and I know why. I crawl back into bed and pass out.

****

My next coherent thought is “Why is Jenny standing over me?” Then I remember my daughter calling Brad
Daddy
. My run comes back to me. The bar. The altercation. My stomach turns as I’m reminded of the Jack Daniels.

When I open my eyes, Jenny says, “Caroline called. She’s beside her self.” Jenny’s hair is still a normal shade of charcoal black.
What an appropriate color.
My head throbs too badly to ponder if she dyed it in my honor.

Fuck Charlie. Let her be worried. How’d she feel if Ainsley called Jenny
Momma
? I roll over, trying to get away from the wicked witch of the west with her Goth-black hair.

“Shall I tell her that you reek of booze and vomit?” She’s using her “catch more flies with honey” voice.

I pull the covers over my head, and beg the jackhammer between my ears to shut itself off.

“Can I confirm for her that the news stories are true; that you got into a bar fight and were taken home by a blonde waitress?” Jenny says, pulling the covers off of me, tapping her foot with her hands planted on her hips.

I reach down and am relieved to discover that I still have my running shorts on. The thought of Jenny seeing me naked makes me shiver.

“Answer me, Colin. You have to be at practice in an hour. I suggest you do something with yourself, because you look and smell like a New Orleans Bourbon Street homeless person.”

I mumble, “Go the fuck away,” as I pull a pillow over my head, trying to find the jackhammer’s off button.

She shuts the bedroom door behind her. I gingerly roll to my back so as to not upset my stomach, but I know that before I go to practice, it’s going to have to be agitated. Fuck. All boozing it up did was add a sick stomach and pounding head to my shattered heart.

I yell to Jenny that I’m getting up so she won’t come back in here. My voice sounds like I’ve eaten glass. I test out my sea legs. Fortunately, I don’t think that I’m still drunk. I start my shower water, and then make my way to the toilet. Fuck, I’m regretting my decision to get wasted.

It doesn’t take much for me to get sick. When I’m sure that I’m done, I open a bottle of water and drink it, waiting patiently for it to come back up. I’m not disappointed.

When I’m finally finished, I drag myself into the shower and let the water spill over me until it runs cold.

Next, I brush my teeth, and then take inventory of myself. Physically, I’m much better. Stomach is settled. Headache is now a dull throb. Mentally, I’m a dark nightmare that resembles a Tim Burton film.

I walk into the living room, dressed for practice. Jenny’s sitting at my kitchen table, talking to whom I can only presume is Charlie, because Jenny says quietly, “He’s here. I’ll call you back.”

“
E tu Brute
?”

“Fuck you,” Jenny replies. “She’s worried about you.”

“She’s worried enough that she put my daughter in the car and drove to Dallas to check on me? No. No, she’s not that worried. She’s worried only enough to call my assistant. I see.” I know that I’m being a gigantic asshole, but I don’t care. I’m pissed and hurt. Fuck her. “God forbid that she should leave her dad’s practice for a day to check on her husband.” The word “husband” comes out of my mouth sounding like poison. I pull the egg whites out of the refrigerator and begin making an omelet.

“She told me what happened.” Jenny pauses as if she’s waiting for me to respond. “Babies babble. I’m sure what you heard was Ainsley just babbling.”

I expected more from Jenny.

I clench my hands into fists, and lean forward onto the balls of my feet, slamming my whisk against the edge of the bowl. Jenny’s face morphs into a questioning look. She’s never seen me really pissed off. “Jenny,” I squeeze out through clenched teeth. “If you wish to keep your job then stay. The. Fuck. Out. Of. It.”

For the first time in our working relationship, Jenny doesn’t have a snarky retort.

****

I’m a lunatic at practice. I know that I’m trying to escape the pain. Maybe if I do ten extra pushups, I will not feel it anymore. If I can just run a little faster, I’ll leave the pain in my chest behind me.

It’s no use. The ache never dulls, and I only get madder.

When I’m home, I finally check my phone. My voicemail is full. I erase every message without listening to them, and ignore all the texts from Charlie. I only reply to Aiden and my parents, letting them know that I’m alive.

I’m not fine. In fact,
fine
jumped on the last train headed west. I’m a goddamn heap of mess. I don’t bother eating dinner, because my appetite is also on the proverbial train. I take a shower while I plot out my next move.

The water beating against my back adds a level of clarity that I desperately need. It’s obvious that something has to give. My schedule isn’t flexible. I don’t have the ability to hang out in Houston while Charlie fixes her dad’s shit, or decides to permanently remain there playing head doctor. Charlie’s life is flexible. I decide to give her a deadline. Thirty days. That seems more than fair. Then it will have almost been three months since her father passed away. She needs to figure out if she wants to run the medical practice and give me custody of Ainsley, or bring herself and my baby back to Dallas. Charlie’s choice. But in thirty days my daughter will be living with me again.

I call her instead of Skype for our seven o’clock appointment. This is in no way, shape, or form a date.

She answers as if she’s been sitting by the phone. Her melodic voice fills the line, and what’s left of my shattered heart clenches. My system floods with need and hurt and want. It’s a confusing mess that ultimately washes out in sadness.

I cut off her pathetic explanation ramblings. I don’t care. No excuses. There’s nothing short of “I’m moving back in with you” that will soothe me at this point. “Listen, Caroline.” I rarely use her given name so when I do, she knows that I’m serious. “I have nothing to say to you, other than I expect you and MY daughter,” I emphasize the hell out of the word my, “to be here in two days for Christmas. But, your clock starts now. You’ve got thirty days to clean up the shit storm that Jack’s death dropped in your life, or I keep our daughter with me.”

“Is that a threat, Colin?” she asks, in a voice so cold that it could freeze ice.

“Not a threat, darlin’. It’s a motherfucking fact. Remember my ‘I don’t give a fuck’ list you like to tease me about? Well, my daughter isn’t on it, and you sadly miscalculated if you thought she was.” I’m sitting in my home office, staring out the window at the oak trees I had planted. They’re too immature to give me the feeling of stability that Doctor Benson’s old oak did. Then it hits me. What a fucking perfect metaphor for my relationship with Charlie. Even though I’ve known her since she was nineteen, we’ve only been back together for less than three years. I don’t fully trust that she’s not going to break my heart again. Would I be okay with her taking Ainsley if we’d been together ten years? Probably not, but at least maybe I’d feel like I knew the motivations of the person on the other end of the line.

She begins to cry and plead with me, but it does nothing to soften my heart. It can’t. It’s too broken. In the middle of some sort of begging, I interrupt with, “Goodbye Caroline. I’ll see my daughter in two days.”

Clicking end on the phone call is brutal. I love that woman. She’s been my one true love since I was a kid in college. She’s been my obsession—my fucking
oxygen
, since I took my first breath and discovered what love felt like. All I’ve wanted since I was twenty-one was to be married to Charlie Collins. Hell, I asked her every single day to be my wife. I’ve dreamt of being a father to our baby. But, and I plan on making this crystal clear, Ainsley is my blood. She’s my daughter. She’s half of me. I will not lose any more time with her. I will not be relegated to a paycheck-earner role in her life. I am her daddy. When she cries, I comfort her. When she’s sad, I cheer her up. When she’s sick, I mop her forehead. She’s just as much mine as she is Charlie’s—that I have no doubt about.