Page 84 of False Start
“I hate you—the air you breathe, the ground you walk on, and your very fucking name—I hate you.”
Bryant swallows hard and attempts to speak but doesn’t produce any sound.
I step over to him and snatch my keys from his hands. I swear if I pushed him, he’d fall over from shock. Now he knows how I felt the other night.
“Zhanna,” he whispers and searches my eyes. He can’t believe it’s really the end, and there’s a small part of me still in denial as well.
“I’ll send for my things.” And then I leave him standing in the drive. As I pull through the gate, I look back to see him on his knees with his hands in his hair.
— 29 —
Then
WHEN YOU DIVORCE THE Super Bowl Champ, the fans are going to choose a side, and it’s most likely going to be his side. I’ve learned in the few months I’ve been home in New Orleans that Bryant Hudson will always be Louisiana’s golden boy. While the details of our divorce have remained out of the news, the masses have speculated why college sweethearts suddenly fall out of love—him cheating is the number one reason most people have speculated over. And it’s difficult not to confirm those suspicions when there are cameras in my face and reporters shouting inappropriate questions at me in public.
So I don’t leave the house. I can’t even go to the grocery store without seeing both of our faces plastered all over magazines and papers. I can’t turn on the television without seeing a report about it, and his face is on every fucking billboard in New Orleans it seems.
After two weeks of sleeping in Zina’s guest room and moping around her apartment, I throw a little of my energy into finding a place of my own. I’ve always wanted to live in the Quarter. I’m drawn to it’s mysterious, historical nature. Actually, Bryant and I dreamed of moving home one day and living there together.
I try not to think of him, but it’s impossible not to constantly be reminded of the reason for the ache in my chest and the nausea in my gut. He’s tried to call every day, several times a day, since I left California. Zina took care of having my things shipped to her place, and we left Los Angeles hours after I left him in the drive on his knees.
Zina, who loves him like the brother she never had, is hurting. She’s devastated with the turn of events, but she’s been my rock. My mom has also been equally amazing in supporting me. She’s even offered for me to come home, but I’m much more comfortable at my sister’s. I feel a bit more free to break down when I need to here.
A loud, incessant knock at the apartment’s front door diverts my attention from my tearfulness. I immediately suspect Bryant’s on the other side. I knew it was only a matter of time before he showed here. I’m surprised it took him two weeks.
I creep quietly to the entrance and look through the peephole. Bryant isn’t on the other side of the door, but a large African American man is.
His deep voice makes me jump out of my skin. “Delivery!”
I open the door but leave the chain slid into place. “I think you have the wrong address.”
He puts his hands on his hips and purses his lips in displeasure as his royal purple and yellow striped muumuu sways somewhere around his knees. “Suga, what are you wearing?”
I look down at my sweatpants, oversized sweatshirt, and mouse house slippers. I look back up at him and shrug. “I’m going through a divorce.”
“Ew, girl. This is not the time to let your guard down.” He snaps his fingers in the air to the left and then to the right. “You don’t let a silly little thing like divorce leave you in this condition. It’s time to get it together, honey chile.” He pushes past me into the apartment, spins around, gives me another perusal, and flares his nostrils. “How long have you been like… this?” he asks as he waves a hand in my direction.
“Two weeks.” Why is this dude in my sister’s apartment?
“Did he cheat?”
I tear up at the “c” word. “Yeah.”
“He cheated two weeks ago?”
My bottom lip quivers. “Yeah.”
“Damn,” he says as though he’s resigned himself to something. “That’s tough. No wonder you look like you’ve been hit by the ugly cry truck.” He narrows his eyes at me. “Wait a minute… you’re that girl!”
He pulls his phone from his pocket and taps on the screen with his long nails until his eyes widen and he holds the phone up to compare the photograph to me. “Yeah, it’s you. Oooo-wee, Mr. Football Star did a number on you. Who did he cheat with?”
“His agent. In our house. While I was sleeping.”
“You caught ’em?”
“Yeah.” I sniffle.
“That’s fucked. You need a drink. Shit, I need a drink.” And then he’s off to Zina’s kitchen opening and closing cabinets in search of alcohol.
