Page 21 of Trash Talk

Chapter 12

Knox- 30 years old (April)

God, I feel like ass. My body feels like I slept on a bed of rocks. My eyes are dry and burning, my head is pounding, and I have a case of cottonmouth, Teddy Ruxpin would be proud of. What in the fuck happened last night?

I’d driven down to Charleston Friday afternoon for John’s wedding. Apparently, you can’t just show up for the ceremony anymore, there’s a ton of stuff to do beforehand. If I ever get married, I want to keep it small, simple, maybe elope. It’s highly unlikely that I will, since the only woman I’d ever consider saying ‘I do’ to can’t even stomach looking at me.

We had the bachelor party last weekend, so this weekend’s pictures weren’t screwed by a bunch of hungover people. I feel more like shit today than I did last Sunday though. Why am I still doing this? Thirty years should be enough time for a man to know his limits, no matter how much fun he’s having. John and I played ball together in high school and started hanging out again when we both moved home after college. He’s a good guy, and I was honored to be a part of his big day. He’s been dating Jess off and on since our sophomore year. Like me and Brit, except he and Jess actually love each other.

I’ve made mistakes in my life but getting together (and back together… and back together) with Brit is one of my greatest regrets. I’d love to have a seven-year-old kid running around right now, but I guess everything happens for a reason. After talking to Ruby at the bar, I’d started drinking (it’s what had gotten me into the mess I was in, but damn, I had to do something to numb the pain). My life had gotten so fucked in such a short amount of time. I’d gotten home late. We’d argued, I told Brit I couldn’t marry her until I knew the baby was mine. She accused me of being a bastard and I’d agreed, but I held fast on her getting a DNA test done. She ultimately caved and said she’d do it in the third trimester.

I waited months, while she lived in my house, ate my food, used my credit cards, and slept in a separate bedroom (the thought of spending my life with Brit, sleeping in the same bed as her, making a family with her, depressed the hell out of me, but I’d do what I needed to do to be a part of my kid’s life). Finally, the morning of the test came. I had gone into work and waited for the results. I got a call from Brit about three hours later from the hospital. I was busy wondering how long a damn DNA test could take when she started talking about the cramping and bleeding. After an argument with her parents that morning, she’d slipped and fallen on the wet patio at their house. Her dad drove her to the hospital, but the doctor couldn’t find a heartbeat. She’d lost the baby.

Part of me felt guilty (I figured I was responsible for their argument. I told her if the baby wasn’t mine, she’d need to move out, find a place to live and marriage definitely wasn’t on the table; she’d probably need to start sucking up to someone that would take her in). The other part felt relief (then guilty again for feeling relief). I know that sounds harsh but the only sadness I felt was the loss of the child. A child that may or may not have been mine. I didn’t even know if it was a boy or a girl. Regardless, I wanted that baby, and I would’ve been a great dad. It just wasn’t in the cards.

Brit moved out a week later; left town and I hadn’t seen her for several years, until she recently moved back. I know this because she stopped into Depot and told me all about coming home and how different everything is. Acted like nothing happened, even flirted with me. It was uncomfortable to say the least. Then I saw her again Friday. Apparently, she’s still good friends with Jess. And I’d been awarded the pleasure of escorting Brit down the aisle.

The garden ceremony was beautiful, the reception was fun. There was a live band, a full dancefloor and an open bar. I had a few, but I don’t drink to excess anymore, well, I thought I didn’t. Somehow my tolerance has gone to absolute shit or the bartender was extremely heavy handed. The last thing I remember is stumbling into an elevator. The rest is blank. I really didn’t think I’d drank that much. I’ve only blacked out once in my life. Well, twice now. I remember dancing, giving a toast, eating cake but I only recall visiting the bar two or three times. I left my drink on the table when I went to the dancefloor, but surely no one was going around refilling old fashioneds. Thinking this hard is painful.

God, my head is killing me. And I am so fucking thirsty. I struggle out of bed and snatch a Gatorade out of the minifridge. I pop a couple tablets out of the bottle on the nightstand and take a deep breath. Man, I stink. You know it’s bad when you make yourself gag. Please don’t let me throw up. I need a shower. Hot or cold, I’m still debating.

“Good afternoon, sleepy head. I didn’t think you’d ever get up.” A familiar female voice hits my ears and I swing around to see an almost naked Brittany Lennard standing just outside the bathroom door (I’m seeing way too much of her lately). Freshly showered, wrapped in a towel and eyeing me like a piece of meat. It’s at this moment I take a good look in the full-length mirror at myself. My completely naked self. What in the déjá vu fuck?

After the last time I got with her, I swore I’d never make that mistake again. So why is Brit standing half naked in my hotel room at 11am? “What are you doin’ here Brit?” Damn, my voice is gravelly as fuck.

“You don’t remember? Well, I guess you were kinda far gone last night.” She walks over to me and slides her palm over my chest. That nausea comes back full force. If I don’t move quick, she’s gonna need another shower. “You look pale, babe. Why don’t you lie down?”

I gently push her hands away and haul ass to the bathroom. I barely make it in time. My mind is spinning. How could this have happened? Again! I didn’t even talk to Brit after the ceremony. We walked down the aisle and back up; took a ton of pics with the rest of the wedding party. Then we parted ways. I remember dinner and dancing. After that, things get a little hazy. Obviously, I had more than two or three drinks, or I wouldn’t be having this much trouble piecing shit together. I have zero recollection of even seeing Brit all night, let alone doing other things with her. I see a condom wrapper in the trash can next to the toilet, and it makes me sick again. God, I’m an idiot. But at least I had enough sense to wrap it up. I turn on the shower and contemplate the nicest way to get Brit out of here while swearing to never drink liquor again.

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