Page 79 of False Start
I take a deep breath and audibly release it. “I took the day off again. Priscilla needs you up and dressed. The video game creators are coming to schmooze you.”
I leave my seat on the side of the bed and begin to change out of my scrubs.
“You’re mad,” he says.
“My boss told me to take a leave of absence. I’m close to losing my job because of all the time I’ve missed.”
“Shit. I’m sorry, babe, but I’m glad you’ll be here today. You know when they’re bullshitting me.”
I roll my eyes, glad I’m turned away from him, and try not to cry. I hate disappointing people, especially my boss. I feel guilty each time I miss work.
I step into our massive walk-in closet and pluck jeans and one of Bryant’s replica jerseys in my size from the rack. He comes up behind me and wraps his arms around me. “Let’s do something just you and me tonight. We need to spend some quality time together.” He kisses the side of my neck and places a hand on my hip. “Fuck, I need inside you.” He places his dick against my back and shows me how hard he is for me. Considering he hasn’t wanted sex in the past few months, I’m rather surprised he’s in the mood. He’s usually too hungover or passed out drunk to want it.
“Priscilla will be here any minute,” I warn him.
“I don’t give two shits about Priscilla hearing me fuck my wife in my house or anywhere for that matter.”
Months without it and this is how he talks to me to get me in the mood? “You’ll have to wait until the day is done.”
I leave the closet in search of my flip flops, and he’s right on my heels. “I need you, Z.”
There’s a sort of desperation in his voice you hear when a child is terrified, and it stops me in my tracks. “You have to stop drinking,” I tell him. “Do you realize how long it’s been since you’ve touched me?”
“I know it’s been a few weeks…”
“Try over three months.”
He has the good sense to look sheepish. “I didn’t… I guess I hadn’t realized it’s been that long. I’ve just been in a dark place.”
“I know, and I get it. I’ve been where you are, but I didn’t have to play the biggest game of my life two weeks after. I can’t imagine how awful it was when all you wanted to do was hide from the world and grieve, but alcohol isn’t the answer, QB. The staying out all night and partying has to stop. You’re a married man. I’ve tried to be understanding, but really, what wife is okay with their husband being God only knows where without her? Would you be okay with me doing the same four or five nights a week?”
His jaw tenses. “No.”
“Something has to change.”
He takes a step forward and touches his hand to my cheek. “You’re scaring me.”
“I’m not trying to. I think you should talk to someone about your dad, and please know I’m always here for you to talk to as well. But I’m not a professional. I can only tell you my story and hold your hand while you deal with his loss, but baby, you have to deal with it.”
“I know. I’ll find someone tomorrow after the gamers leave. I promise.”
I release a breath it feels like I’ve been holding since his dad died. And for the rest of the day, Bryant keeps me close. He’s never handled me being upset with him particularly well. And today is no different. He touches me more than he’s touched me in months, and I can’t help but bask under his attention after being starved of it for so long.
The third group of techies after Bryant’s name and image bring a bottle of bourbon with them and insist on breaking out the bottle, even after I decline their initial invitation to open it. I don’t think Bryant is an alcoholic, but he’s certainly using alcohol as a way to deal with his problems. And his poor liver needs a chance to detox after the three-month binge he’s been on, but he doesn’t take the many hints I drop that he should put the fucking glass down. Nope. He continues to refill that bad boy until the six men in the room are all half snookered.
Priscilla’s own smile is tight as she watches her drunk client sing karaoke on our television with the nerds. And as the night goes on, the louder the lyrics become and the tighter her smile grows.
I resign myself to going to bed alone tonight. I have a mind to lock him out of the room to keep him from stinking up the damn sheets, but I leave it open after I wish everyone a good night. Poor Priscilla has to stay up until everyone has had their fun. I don’t envy her job one bit.
I don’t often talk to my dad, but as I lie down at one a.m. I reach out and ask for help. I ask for him to protect the man I love and bring him out of the dark place his grief has opened in his heart. And I hope like hell my husband will get his act together before he ruins his career.
I don’t sleep well. I dream of Bryant getting injured on the field because he’s hungover, and the resulting ache in my heart, even in my dreams, keeps me on the edge of consciousness. The noises filtering from downstairs stop some two hours after I lie down, and I hope it means Bryant has told everyone to go home. I continue to doze lightly while I wait for him to slide in behind me and wrap his hand around my hip like he does every morning he stumbles in, but Bryant doesn’t show.
I always worry about him locking up the house after guests leave when he’s been drinking. We live in a great neighborhood, but it’s still Los Angeles, so I finally roll out of bed and make myself use the bathroom before I head for the first floor. Downstairs, all the lights are off, and the moon shines through the many skylights and large windows in the home. I still love our home, but it’s too big for us. It’ll feel much more cozy when there’s little ones taking up space.
“Fuck, yeah,” I hear someone whisper as I quietly walk down the stairs. “That’s it.”
When I reach the large foyer at the bottom of the steps, I walk across the white marble floor, and flip on the light. I look to my right into the living room and find Bryant sprawled out on the couch. I blink once, twice, three times, and open my mouth to scream, but I can’t manufacture any sound.
