Page 62 of All In
After I empty the rest of the alcohol, I head back to the scene of the crime. I stand at the spare bedroom door’s threshold and look at the floor. It’s littered with Maria’s letters and emails. I get on my hands and knees and put the letters away. I have a feeling she sat here and read every single one of them. A heavy wave of guilt crashes over me.
I’m sure these recent emails hurt her. But I can’t explain this pull when it comes to Maria. I need her in my life, even if it’s only via an email address and as friends. Once I have them tucked away back in the Nike shoe box, I sit on the floor with my back resting up against the bed. I reach behind my head and feelfor the softness of the black velvet box. It hits my fingertips so I pull it around. I open it, and the diamond stares back at me.
It slowly sinks in that this is the only ring I have ever bought for a woman. My ex-wife didn’t wear one. She never wanted to. As I look at the orange box sitting on the floor before me, I realize that its contents, along with this ring, held a greater importance in my life than Erica ever did.
I sit the ring back where it belongs. In the box, where I keep Maria.
The woman I will always love.
Chapter twenty-two
Sam
The throbbing in my head intensifies as I make my way home from the seminar. I can’t stand them, plus the ongoing situation with Erica is causing me so much stress that my head is ready to explode.
Since this morning, I’ve been making constant calls and sending numerous texts to Erica. Texts like:
Are you ok?
Make sure you’re at the house at 6. We need to talk
Please answer me Erica.
It’s strange that she hasn’t responded to any of them, which is not like her. Even when she is cranky or we are fighting, she will always reply with anOMG! Stop texting.So her silence speaks volumes. She’s completely pissed and has every right to be. But also, we need to sit and talk like adults and make some changes and decisions. No matter how those may hurt the other. Forget about the situation with Maria … I don’t trust her with Mikey.
And he is the most important thing to me right now. After the fight, I knew she wouldn’t come back to take care of Mikey while I was away. So, I planned for him to spend the night at Big C and Jasmine’s, so I don’t need to worry. We aren’t related by blood, but they are family all the same, and Mikey adores them because they spoil him rotten. The thought of Big C turning into a huge softy around my son brings a smile to my face. A nice distraction from the difficult discussion I know lies ahead of me.
I exit the highway and decide to stop and pick up some dinner. As a kind gesture and a measure of good faith, I order Erica’s favorite burger from a little joint called The Fearless Spoon. The smell of greasy French fries and ground beef permeates the interior of my car as I pull into the drive. Instead of the usual growling, my stomach churns with a mix of dread and nerves, drowning out any hunger pains.
The first thing that catches my eye is her car, sitting undisturbed in the driveway. She stormed out on foot after our fight, leaving me wondering where she disappeared to, but since her car hasn’t moved, I know she hasn’t driven anywhere. Which brings me some measure of relief since I’m pretty positive she has been drinking the day away. Especially after our argument. Plus, that means she’s here and ready to talk.
I tightly grip the handles of the brown bag that house the takeout containers and make my way inside.
Steadying my breath, I insert the key into the lock, hearing it click as I turn it. I’m so tired of constantly feeling on edge around Erica. I never know what to expect with her anymore.
The old door creaks on its hinges (I really need to WD40 that thing), echoing through the house as the smell of stale beer mixed with sweet grapey wine hits my nose. Not her drink of choice, which is odd. Whiskey and vodka are the norm.
I let out a moan.God, she has my house smelling like a homeless drunk.
The foul smell is a clear sign she is here. Or was here? Which means she got my texts about meeting to talk.
It’s late, and the room is shrouded in inky black darkness. The curtains are drawn, so I flip on the light switch and take in the scene before me. Empty beer bottles are strewn across the floor. A few half full wine bottles—no glasses, which is odd—are resting on the couch. On the coffee table, an open pizza box sits open, it’s half-eaten slices now cold.
What happened here today?Thank goodness I sent Mikey to C’s.
Erica and I have fought before—both during and after our marriage—and she has gotten drunk after, but this is next level. I sit the food down next to the pizza box while I kick off my shoes. As I peel off my coat, I toss my keys and wallet next to the food. I bend over to collect the empty beer bottles, clinking together and echoing in the quiet room. “Erica!” I call out as I pick up bottle number six, making my way further into the living room. As I wait for her to answer, the clock ticks rhythmically.
Tick … tick … tick
There’s only silence.
I step further into the house. “Eric—what the heck!” My sock instantly becomes saturated as I step onto a wet spot on the floor. A wine bottle sits in front of a red-soaked spot on the carpet. Is that an entire bottle of wine spilled out?
“Erica!”
Tick … tick … tick
I sit the bottles on the end table and peel the soaked dress socks off, thrusting them onto the couch. My head is spinning with a million questions. It’s obvious she went on some kind of bender after our fight. More than likely buying this while I was at the seminar and coming here to drink away her feelings about what happened. But why here? Was she hoping to maybe see Mikey?
