Sail (Wake #2) (19 page)

Monday, January 25, 2010

IF I HAD A dollar for how many times I’d been wrong about Blake over the past few years, I’d have loads.
Shit loads.
Scratch that. If I had a blow job for every time I’d been wrong about Blake over the past few years, I’d have a lot
less
loads.

Okay, it wasn’t a very good analogy. It sounded better in my head. That went for a lot of things. Sometimes things seemed like a good idea, then weren’t. But fuck if this mess didn’t teach me a lesson—or a hundred. One being that I’d much rather make a huge goddamned mess trying to get what I wanted, than regret from not doing anything at all.

I had experience with both.

The messes always paid off.
Eventually.

Except that one time, when I combined the two and my girl married a dick. Maybe he wasn’t a dick. Still, I’d made one hell of a mess, but regretfully, I should have done it sooner.

That bitch of a mess hurt like hell.

Even after all of that, she still managed to surprise me.

“I called that doctor I told you about. The one my dad recommended,” she’d said the night before on the phone.

Initially, when she’d mentioned it, she wasn’t totally sold on the idea. As it turned out, after some thinking about it, she’d come around to it.

Personally, I didn’t know what to think about it. My gut lurched at the notion of her getting advice from someone who only saw her side. And Blake’s retelling of it all may be mired with her guilt and blame. I had to trust that whatever she decided was what was best for her.

“And what did she say?” I asked while trying to stay neutral.

“She said that she’s known my dad for a long time and that she’d be happy to talk with me, if I felt like it was something I could benefit from.” Her answer sounded very clinical.

Very Grant.

Very not good for Casey.

“You know I want whatever you want. If you think talking to someone could help in some way...” I trailed off. I didn’t know what way. She’d seemed fine. More calm about all of it than I’d ever seen her. More sure. More at ease with everything.

One of my fears was that she didn’t feel like she could talk to me. That had always been when our relationship—or whatever you call it—ran off the tracks and crashed.

We’d somehow get back on, and then wreck ourselves all over again. Okay. I could see where maybe some professional help might be good for her—and hopefully us, and therefore, me.

I continued, “You know you can talk to me about stuff, right?
I
want to be the one you come to when you’ve got a problem. Does that make sense?”

“What types of problems are you qualified to handle, Dr. Moore?” She turned on her seductive phone-speak at just the right time. Or the wrong time, because my fucking point was that we could
really
talk, but if this made her feel better—so be it. I’d have to come back to the serious part of where our conversation was going, because she masterfully knew how to distract me

And, Dr. Moore? I liked that.

“Oh, lots of things. Dry nipples. I’m especially good at fixing that. What else?” My back met the bed and I finally started to relax about the psychiatrist subject. In the back of my mind, I heard a voice say I was a failure in the relationship department once again. But loud and clear, right up front, was a voice that said I wanted to chill out and talk some dirty things over with my honeybee. “I have a doctorate in masturbation. I’m pretty much the world’s leading mind on the subject. Do any of these things appeal to your needs?”

“I’m sure you’re overqualified for my issues.” Her laugh was sincere.

We chatted a little about masturbation, which led into a rather lengthy discussion about monkeys at the zoo and then we were right back where we started. Her seeing the doctor. But like usual, after we talked for a while and found our footing, it was easier the second time around.

“I know I was joking before, but I was a little serious too. I want you to talk to me when things are on your mind. I might be okay at it.”

“Thank you,” she graciously said. “Same for you, if you ever need to talk about stuff. I know I’ve done a lot and you probably want some answers. I guess I need some too. About myself. Why did I do all that? Why didn’t I just do what felt right? That’s the part that scares me. I don’t want to mess this up again. Not after everything I put you through. Us. Hell, everybody through. I have to do better. I’m going to do better.”

Her soft, sleepy voice showed me she was nervous, but okay. And if she continued to tell me things as they were happening, I thought we’d be all right. If she was looking for answers to why she’d made some of the decisions she had in the past, then talking to someone, outside of the situation, just might add some perspective.

“Well, if it’s
your
decision and you’re doing it
for you—
no one else—then I think it’s good. Great actually.” And I meant it. I hoped it wasn’t something she was doing for anyone else. Just her.

“She’s seeing me tomorrow. And I am. I’ll let you know how it goes. When do you fly out in the morning?”

I was headed to Boston—more of a stop in and say hello type of trip—and my flight was early.

“My plane leaves at 7:30.” It killed me I wasn’t flying to her. “I miss you. When do we get to see each other again?” I pulled my phone away from my ear and looked at the date. It was already the end of January. February was close and Valentine’s Day would be a good time to meet up.

It was a few weeks away still, but I’d be on the road most of the time. And since Las Vegas had gone so well for Blake, the franchise owner gave Couture Dining another project in Miami. That’s where she was headed the following week.

It would almost
have
to be Valentine’s Day.

“You just saw me. But I miss you, too. Do you have time to come to Seattle soon?”

I wanted to go that very second.

“Valentine’s Day?” I asked.

“It’s a date. You can see my new place.”

I hoped I could wait that long.

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

“Yeah, I’ll have another,” I said to the bartender, then swallowed back the last of my third draught. It wasn’t
my
beer, but I’ll be damned if it wasn’t doing the trick. I had a lot of things floating around my head that night. I was in Boston, knowing that Blake was going to see Dr. Rex. And not knowing what the doctor’s take on us would be, I felt anxious.

Recently, I had many things to be thankful for. But there were many things, in the past few weeks, I’d realized were
my
shortcomings. I’d spent so much time blaming and pointing my finger, and not nearly enough time thinking about how my actions played into all of it.

There was a ball of guilt the size of Rhode Island in my gut. Yeah, I know Rhode Island isn’t really the biggest state, but it’s the one that probably gets overlooked the most. That seemed fitting. And regardless of how big it was by comparison, put that fucker in your gut, it felt pretty massive.

Point was: Blake was seeing a counselor and I didn’t know how I felt about it.

Yes, I did.

I was scared. I was terrified the doctor would find the pesky spot in her mind that had been doubting us all along. The place where trying for a shot with me was a terrible idea, reminding her of the kind of deal she was making. I was the man she cheated with. Who on the planet would side with me? With us? What the hell was I going to do if I lost her?

I could still lose her.

She had a house. A husband. A planned life.

What did I have to offer other than my love? And that wasn’t even something I alone offered her. He loved her too—I assumed, in his weird robotic way.

“Better get me a shot of Jameson, too,” I added when I was handed a fresh ale.

The guy, two stools down, asked, “So what are you drinking to?” He wore a sports jacket and the dress shirt underneath was unbuttoned. His tie hung loosely in front of him, as he held all of his weight with his forearms pressed against the countertop. He slouched into the bar.

I tried to come up with a Casey the Sales Guy answer, but all I had was Casey the Fuck-up answers.

“I guess I’m just trying to get my shit together,” I answered.

He shook his head understanding.

Standard bar buddy etiquette requires a man to engage in conversation at this point. Speak when spoken to.

“You?” I asked him in turn.

“Bitches.”

I glanced at the bartender and he gave a chuckle, before turning to do some bartender-y things.

“I’ll drink to bitches. Any particular one or just
them
bitches in general?” I inquired. At least the guy was funny. I’d expected him to be beer bent about work or maybe the economy, which I’d found to be a popular reason to belly up at the watering hole. But bitches was a new one. Not the idea really, just the way he’d said it. He had my attention.

“All the bitches,” he confirmed. “Lying, cheating, heartless bitches—the whole lot of ’em.”

Oh God.

The Universe was taunting me. Worse than taunting. The Universe was playing let’s give Casey early onset heart failure. And just for good measure let’s take away his bowel control. Because, I swear, I almost shit my pants sitting in the hotel bar with the bitch hater.

“Okay. Better make it two shots.” Bartender showed mercy and poured both of his patrons, me and the bitches-guy, doubles.

“On the house,” he said. Then he produced another shot glass, from somewhere under the counter, poured a third and held it high. “To the bitches,” he toasted and tossed back the whiskey. So it seemed, I was with two men who had smashing good luck with the ladies.

Maybe we were the three amigos. The bartender. The bitches-guy. And me.

“Yeah, they love to make you into their dream man and then...then when they’ve got you by the balls, they fuck you over. Because now you’re not exciting anymore or some shit.”

I had a hard time believing he’d been someone’s dream man. But in solidarity, I had to side with the poor guy. I didn’t know his story. I didn’t want to know his story. Thick sensation hung in the air that indicated he and I were on opposite aisles of the scenario.

He continued, “Some fucking bitches don’t know when they’ve got a good thing. Am I right?”

“Amen, pal,” said the bartender as he rinsed a glass. “Never trust a pretty woman.”

“Yeah, the prettier they are the blacker their heart.”

Clearly, the two men had some bad luck. I let them rant about how they’d been wronged by the women of their lives. As familiar as some of it was, it didn’t sound like my story.

“Who leaves a lawyer for a tire salesman? A fucking tire salesman,” he swore. “We had a life. Kids. And she threw it all away for a fucking tire salesman.”

I had to sympathize, but then again, I also identified with the tire salesman. I
was
the fucking tire salesman in my scenario.

“But at least I’m getting the house and she’s not fighting me on anything,” he said, more to his beer than to us. “That makes for a pretty quick divorce.” He slugged back half the pint and huffed, “I’m getting a divorce. Fifteen years of marriage and I’m getting a divorce so she can be the Queen of Discount Tires.”

Bitches-guy fished out his wallet and threw some money toward our faithful bartender. He swiveled on his stool. All humor had left the building.

Then he said, “You know what the worst part is? I know the guy. I thought he was an all right dude, you know? Why couldn’t he just be a man about it? Face to face. Own up to it. Be a fucking man. You want to take away my wife, the woman who loved me through tough times and good times and two daughters? Fine. If she wants you more, then take her. But look me in the face. Not him though. He cowered like a dog, like he was ashamed. The least he could do was be a man for her.” Then he stumbled away. I silently prayed he got a cab.

After I finished my beer and settled up with Kevin, the bartender as it turned out, I walked up to my room, showered, and clicked through the TV. Nothing registered, only the poor bastard’s words.

Is this what Grant is thinking?

They hadn’t built a fifteen-year life together, but was that what I was to him? Just a dick who stole his wife?