42. Brent
42
Brent
I t was a mistake to call Joey before I had the results of the test, but I’d broken my no-hard-liquor rule and had a drink when I got home from a short day at work. And then another one, and another, until I gave in to the need to hear her voice. But what I heard was not what I was used to hearing. Who would have thought my sweet Josie could sound the way she did?
A part of me is proud of her for not letting someone walk all over her. But did she have to start exercising her newfound power with me?
Why can’t she just trust me? I can be everything she wants and deserves. Hell, I am the man she wants! As for deserving, no one is good enough for her. But I want to prove to her that I’m deserving of her. How the fuck can I do that if she won’t see me?
Anger born out of frustration begins to boil inside. I knock back the drink and stop pacing to pour another. Is this some kind of mind-fuck game she’s playing?
After the best weeks of my life, with the best sex of my life—unbelievable sex with the same woman every night, and morning, and sometimes afternoon—and she just leaves after seeing a damn lipstick mark! She doesn’t trust me, won’t give me another chance, after all that I’ve given up for her? No more one-night-stands, no jet-setting to Miami with teammates, no partying all night.
Well, fuck it! Fuck her! Except I can’t fuck her. She’s not here. But there are others who’d be happy to take her place. Why am I pining for Joey when I have women falling over themselves, wanting to be with me?
It’s Friday and the team has a rare weekend off after last night’s game. CJ will already be partying it up somewhere. I fire off a text to him, though it takes me several tries with my clumsy fingers and bleary eyes. Where there is CJ and a party, pretty women and good times are not far behind. I’m going to have fun tonight even if it kills me, damn it.
Several hours later, I admit defeat. I’m not having fun, and the effort just might kill me. I’m drunk, something I never allow myself to be during the season. Good thing there’s no practice in the morning.
The party started in the late afternoon at the home of one of CJ’s friends in Tribeca, with plans to hop on someone’s private jet to Vegas. I don’t think I’ll make it. My body hurts from the game, which I insisted on playing in despite my bruised ribs, and the alcohol isn’t numbing the pain. If anything, it’s adding to it as I can feel a headache coming on. I want to go back to my place and sleep off this stupidity.
But first I have to unwrap a woman from my lap. Who the hell is she, and why is she sitting on me? A bright flash nearly blinds me. God, I hate people taking selfies with me for the sake of showing the world they’re with a celebrity, not because they’re an actual fan of mine. It’s been happening all night, a result of my sudden increase in popularity after my game-winning performance the night before.
The Firebirds were losing by three points, and it came down to an onside kick with less than fifteen seconds in the game. Despite a bleeding laceration I’d acquired at some point, bound tight and waiting for stitches after the game, Coach put me in for the play since I’d been on fire all night. The ball bounced off a Bengals player and right into my chest. I clutched it to me like I was going to meld it to my body and ran like the devil was after me, flattening anyone who got in my way, all the way to the end zone.
That was the way I played the whole game. I was frustrated and angry after Joey left and stressed about the paternity test. I released my boiling emotions out on the field, and the result was one of my best games. Fans who had been spouting off about wasting money on my trade after my injury in the first game were now singing my praises.
When a mouth suddenly lands on mine, and another flash simultaneously blinds me, I lose all patience and stand up, nearly upending the woman onto the floor. I grab her elbow to steady her—I’m not a complete shit—then let go and stride out of the loft.
Rather than calling and waiting for a car service, I walk to the corner and hail a cab.
“Where to, pal?”
I don’t want to go home to my penthouse. It feels so big and empty without Joey.
“Hey, buddy! Ain’t got all night. Where do you wanna go?” the cab driver barks at me.
I give him the address.
“Are you freaking joking? I ain’t going to Jersey, buddy.”
I realize I gave Joey’s address in Jersey City and not my own. But I don’t correct myself. Instead I pull out my wallet and hand over two large bills, knowing he’s not budging otherwise.
The driver curses but takes the money. “Fuckin’ Jersey.”
I tell the cab driver to stop at a coffee shop before we go into the Holland Tunnel. If I’m going to face Joey again, I need to sober up. During the drive, I’ve nearly finished my disgusting convenience store coffee—black—when the faint sound of a drum, kind of like a jungle beat comes through the half-open window. I glance up from my phone, where I’ve been scrolling through old texts from Joey like a lovesick fool, and realize the car hasn’t moved for several minutes.
“What’s going on, man?” I ask the driver.
“There’s a wedding going on. One of those Indian ones.”
Seeing that I’m only a block away, I tell him to pull over. “I’ll walk from here.” I hand the guy a hundred. “Keep the meter running and pull over at this corner or circle around if you have to and wait for me. I’m not sure how long I’ll be. Maybe a half hour.” Or five minutes. “I’ll give you another bill if you’re still here.”
I exit the cab and have second thoughts when I see the number of people standing near Joey’s old place. Because it’s at the end of a dead-end street, they’ve taken over the area, which is lit up with string lights. Some of the people are bystanders watching the wedding guests dance in the street. The rapid drumbeat is coming from a man with a long drum slung over his shoulder in front of him. As I walk closer, I notice people dressed in traditional Indian clothing on the steps of the house Joey lived in. The woman Joey called Aunty is standing with a young couple.
“Look at her. That girl used to live here. She’s getting married soon.”
The strongly accented words come from a woman standing next to me, talking to another woman. I follow their gazes and see they’re referring to the tall woman standing with Joey’s landlady. She’s dressed in a fancy Indian outfit. A man, dressed in a long blue shiny tunic and what appears to be matching leggings underneath, stands close to her.
That girl used to live here.
Joey had lived here for years. Had this girl lived here before that? Then the tall woman turns to survey the people dancing in the street. It’s Joey, smiling awkwardly and looking stunningly beautiful.
She’s getting married soon.
My breath catches, and my heart leaps before rationale takes over. No, of course that isn’t possible.
I make my way to the front of the house and call out, “Josie!”
She turns, and my breath catches again at the smile that blooms. But the smile fades a second later, and she turns her back on me. She says something to Aunty and starts back up the stairs. The man at her side puts a hand on her back—her bare lower back, exposed by the short top—and goes with her into the house. Who the fuck does he think he is, touching my Joey?
I stalk up the short walkway, intent on following her, but Aunty steps in front of me.
“You are not invited.” She cranes her neck up at me though she is two steps above me and fists her hands on her ample hips.
“Hello, Aunty.” Doesn’t she have a name? I feel ridiculous calling her that. But I smile at her, turning on every bit of charm I can muster when all I want to do is go after Joey. I grit my teeth and keep my smile in place. “Remember me? I’m Joey’s friend, Br—”
“You are no friend. You make Joey sad. Go away.”
My fake smile fades at the words, and I look imploringly at this implacable woman who is not going to budge without some sincere convincing.
“Please. I know I made her sad, and I want to make it right with her. But she won’t talk to me. How can I fix it if I can’t talk to her?”
“What you want to say to her?”
Jesus. I don’t know what I’m going to say. Sorry? No, that isn’t going to get me anywhere.
“You will tell her you love her?” Aunty scoffs and doesn’t wait for a response. Good thing because I have no answer to the question. I care for Joey, miss her, need her, want her back but…love?
Just as well I didn’t say that was my intention, because Aunty has no use for such an emotion.
“Love doesn’t mean anything if two people have nothing in common,” she lectures. “You are American football star. You have many girls. My Joey is sweet Indian girl, and I will find her good Indian husband who will take care of her.”
Relief pours through me at her words. “So she’s not already engaged?”
Aunty eyes me like I’m crazy. Okay, she has reason. Joey would have told me on the phone today. I must still be drunk to think this was her engagement party.
“Engaged?” She laughs. “I am a good matchmaker but not that good. But soon,” she promises.
Over my dead body.
“Please let me talk to her,” I implore once more.
She shakes her head stubbornly. I have no choice but to back down for now. Joey doesn’t want to see me. Best thing to do is wait for the paternity results, then talk to her, whichever way it goes. I’ll need to figure out how to convince her to talk to me, to let me explain. I hope the truth will not make things worse. But then, it couldn’t be worse than it is already—us living apart and her not talking to me.
“Okay, I’m going. But please tell her to call me.” My words are likely falling on deaf ears, but I say them anyway.