Page 14 of Rebound

This new reality is tough to accept. Logic is what I need, but I’m not capable of that when everything is hurting, physically and emotionally. A single tear escapes and trails down my cheek. Pathetic. Nausea rolls in my stomach. I have no fucking clue how to survive this day without Amber, never mind the rest of my life.

Forcing my mind to focus on what is rather than what isn’t, I ask myself what my life will look like in a year if we go through with the divorce. Would I be happier without Amber? Without the lingering sense of disappointment and disapproval that seem to radiate from her? I’m so weary of it all—she’s right, she’s not the only one who’s tired.

Last night, she told me things she never has before, allowed me a glimpse of the pain she’s been in, but does that really change anything? She seems to think it’s too late for us to fix things, and I can’t fix our marriage alone.

A sudden loud buzzing noise starts up, and for a moment, I wonder if it’s another symptom of this hangover from hell, but I realize that it’s the vacuum running downstairs. Vicky is here and getting on with her work. Her very noisy work.

It’s a Sunday, which is a stupid day to have the cleaner around, but Amber said yes when Vicky asked if she could switch. One of her kids has special needs and her husband’s shift patterns changed, making it harder for her to work during the week. I also know from the household accounts that my wife gave her a hefty pay raise while she was at it. Underneath Amber’s hard shell is a soft, delicate, kind interior. She’d hate to hear any of those words applied to her, and it’s a side to her that very few people get to see.

Double fuck. What the hell am I going to do? Wallow in bed, stinking of booze and feeling sorry for myself all day? Cry alone while I listen to Percy Sledge singing “When a Man Loves a Woman” on repeat for hours on end? That’s what I feel like doing, but that’s not me. I need to get out of here, out of my own head.

I type out a message to the only people I know I can rely on, and it takes way longer than it should because my fingers aren’t working for shit.

911 meeting, Brassington Lounge, one hour.

Finally, I hit send and force myself to stand and go take a shower.

ChapterNine

ELIJAH

The Brassington is a five-minute walk from the house and isn’t usually open on Sunday mornings. I’m not the kind of guy who normally takes advantage of my wealth and influence, but today is far from normal. A quick conversation with the owner ensured it would be open and ready, the kitchen staffed, and the drinks flowing. The place is set up like an English country club, all dark wood paneling and bookcases and top-shelf liquor. It’s exactly what I need today. Anything brighter would feel too cheerful and make me want to puke.

This is the first time I’ve ever sent a 911 message to my family, but by the time I walk into the private room at the back, they’re all there. Just like I knew they’d be.

Maddox, my youngest brother, is dressed in baggy sweatpants and a faded T-shirt covered in Sanskrit writing. Drake is reading theTimes, a coffee on the table in front of him, his hair still damp from the shower, just like mine.

Nathan immediately looks up from his phone, his dark eyes flashing with concern. “You okay?”

“Nothing more Scotch won’t fix,” I reply briskly, motioning for the waiter hovering by the door. “Could you bring us a bottle of fifty-year-old Macallan?” I ask him. “And food. Lots of food.”

“Yes sir, right away. Would you mind me asking, um, what exactly you mean by food?”

I’m on the verge of snapping back with a sarcastic reply, but I bite my tongue. It’s not his fault I’m in a shitty mood. “Bagels. Smoked salmon and cream cheese. Fries, lots of fries. Bacon. Waffles. Eggs, sunny-side up and scrambled. Cookies, chocolate chip. And ice cream.”

I give my brothers a crooked smile. “What do you guys want?”

The waiter looks dumbstruck, and I quickly assure him that I’m joking and send him on his way. There’s a pot of coffee on the table, and I pour myself a cup while I wait for the Scotch to arrive. As soon as it does, I add a couple fingers. The old Macallan reminds me of Amber. In the bottle, the liquid is exactly the same shade of brown as her eyes. Have I always thought that, or is it just today that everything reminds me of her?

I take a minute to enjoy the warm combination of coffee and Scotch sliding down my throat before facing my brothers. I’m about to speak when my phone rings. It’s Mason, calling from London. I prop the phone up next to the coffee pot and nod at him as his face fills the screen. The other three gather round so they can see him properly.

“You all right, bro?” Mason says. There’s a delay between his lips moving and the sound arriving, but when it does, it’s clear despite the distance.

“Yeah. Sorry for the drama. You didn’t have to call. I know you’re busy.”

He shakes his head, and there is a slight blur with the movement. “Don’t be stupid, dude. My big brother sends a 911, I’m there for him, no matter what meetings I have to cancel.”

I cringe a little inside. Those meetings were Jamestech business and were important. I open my mouth to apologize, but Maddox lays his hand on my shoulder and gives me that little zen-master smile of his. He may be the youngest, but after years of traveling the world, he gives off the vibe that he just might be the wisest of us all.

“It’s fine, Elijah,” he says. “Mason doesn’t mind. None of us mind. You matter more than anything else we had planned today.”

“Yeah. What he said,” Mason responds, nodding vigorously. It’s the middle of the afternoon in London, and he’s dressed in a business suit. Sunday meetings—the glamorous life of the corporate world. “So, what’s up?”

I pour some more Macallan, see them exchange looks. It’s not quite ten a.m. I take a sip and run my fingers through my hair. “Amber asked me for a divorce.”

Nobody reacts straight away, which I expected. Maddox will think it through, Mason’s on a slight time lag, and the two lawyers are world class at keeping their cards close to their chests. Nathan’s nickname is the Iceman, and he didn’t earn that by gushing about his feelings. I pay special attention to his face, though, because I know the subtle signs that tell me what’s actually going on inside his head. There’s a very slight thinning of his lips, and his eyes narrow fractionally. That means he’s angry as hell.

“She didwhat?” he asks, his voice low and steely.

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