Page 35 of False Start
“The place where you overanalyze the man and the situation. It’s not complicated. Do you love him?”
I don’t hesitate, because there’s no use in lying to myself or Leslie. “I’d sacrifice a lot not to.”
“Can you forgive him?”
“I’ve tried.”
“Forgiveness isn’t the hard part, it’s the forgetting how much it fucking hurts. But it’s possible to move on. It’s possible to trust again, boo.”
“Pour me a glass?” I ask. I need alcohol if we’re going to continue talking about my ex.
Leslie sets a large glass of wine in front of me. “Do you know he loves you?”
“Yes, he loves me, but I don’t know if it’s enough.” I shrug. “It’s complicated.”
“You want me to kick his ass?”
“No.”
“Good. I’d hate to mess up his gorgeousness or injure him where he can’t play.”
I’m grateful when my friend shifts the conversation slightly away from my relationship to Bryant’s kitchen. I do my best to detach from the fact it’s his kitchen and not ours. If it was ours, it would have an entirely different feel to it. It would be for a future family and not a millionaire bachelor. “This,” I say and hold up a dark mahogany swatch of wood stain. “This is beautiful.”
After another few glasses of wine, I really get into it. I sort through swatches like a demented, drunk, interior-decorating queen. And within a few hours we’ve finished the entire bottle of wine and have his entire kitchen laid out from the walls to the flooring. “I’m really good at this,” I say and look up at Leslie to find him dazed and confused. I snap my fingers in front of his face. “Yo. Are you alive?”
“Bitch, you are drunk, so I need you to hold it together when I tell you that your ex-husband is about to step onto my porch and knock on the door.”
“Shit,” I slur. “Quick, hide me.”
He arches his right brow. “Why?”
“I don’t want to see him.”
“Tough shit. We’re showing him this fabulous new kitchen you put together for him.”
As Leslie heads around the kitchen bar for the front door, I sneak off for the back door to slip out before anyone can detect my absence. As soon as I open the back door, a possum’s shiny eyes glow back at me as it starts hissing. I let out a scream and slam the door. Two heavy sets of footsteps run toward me.
“What’s wrong?” They both ask in unison.
“Possum.”
“Jesus. I thought someone had broken into the house to take your behind,” Leslie also slurs.
Bryant grins. “Been drinking, baby?”
I hold up my finger and thumb to indicate a teensy amount. “Jush a little bit.” And then I burst into tears because seeing him reminds me how much it hurts to love him.
Leslie’s hands go to his hips. “Ah, hell.”
“She drunk-cries when she’s emotional,” Bryant says.
Leslie turns to him like he might knock him out. “Motherfucker,I know. I’ve been drinking with the bitch ever since she moved in. And the damndest thing happens every time she drinks wine and talks about you–she cries.” He points at Bryant then at me. “You broke it, you need to fix it. You aren’t supposed to make her cry. Get your shit together, Mr. Football Star.” And then my friend pivots on his heel like a diva, tosses his long dreads over his shoulder, and sashays off into the sunset in an aqua blue muumuu and black yoga sandals.
I try to walk around Bryant but don’t make it far as he hooks me with his meaty hand in the crook of my arm and spins me around. “Not so fast, Hudson.”
“Hale,” I correct.
His jaw tenses at the reminder. “Baby, listen…”
