“You fucking told her.” Red smacks the back of Shane’s head, then shakes his head, turning to me. “Sorry about him. Shane doesn’t know how to keep his damn mouth shut.”
“It’s fine,” I say.
“What a way to go out, eh?” Red refills his beer with the last of the pitcher’s contents and takes his seat, his head shaking in sympathy. “So now you know.”
“It’s okay, really,” I assure him.
“So that’s why Rhett isn’t here,” Red says, as if I need further clarification.
“Can’t say that I blame him. It was a dick thing to do to your best friend.”
Red nearly chokes on his beer and several pairs of eyes land on me, and I realize I shouldn’t have said what I said on a day such as this, but I can’t help myself. Honesty is my middle name. I’ve never apologized for it, and I certainly won’t start now.
“You guys want another round?” Shane asks. The boys grunt and mutter their answers all at once, and Shane leaves to flag down the bartender.
Someone passes me a phone with a picture of Bryce on the screen, his beefy arms around two of his teammates as one of them holds a giant trophy. He’s the only one without an enormous smile engulfing his face.
“Bryce lost his two front teeth that game,” someone points out to me. “Took a biscuit straight to the kisser. Knocked out some Chiclets. But we won, baby!”
I chuckle and pass the phone around, watching everyone’s face light up as they remember that day in their own ways. Finishing my drink, I check the time. It hasn’t even been a half hour and I’m struggling to stay awake. I took the red-eye from LA to New York yesterday, then spent all day going over final funeral preparations, the ones I wasn’t able to sign off on from afar, and then I met with his coach, privately, to discuss a few details for the service.
At some point soon, I’m supposed to meet with Bryce’s attorney to go over his estate. At some point after that, I’m going to have to go through all of his belongings and decide what to do with them.
I haven’t booked a flight home yet because something tells me this is going to take a while. At least I can work from anywhere in the world, and I don’t have an article due until the end of next week. There may be a million things on my plate right now, but as long as I take them in stride, I can get through this.
Maybe in a messed up way, it’s good that we never knew each other. It’d be hard to be here, doing all of this, if I had some kind of deep-rooted emotional attachment to him. As a matter of fact, I don’t know if I could go through his things so casually and let them go so easily if they meant anything to me. Call me sentimental.
Growing up, it was always Mom and me. I never had siblings or grandparents, cousins, aunts or uncles. She told me about my father—Bryce’s father—and how he was her boss when she worked at the savings and loan back in Kennebunkport and how they’d had an affair that resulted in me. My father then proceeded to carry on as if I didn’t exist, and when his wife was diagnosed with an invasive, aggressive brain tumor, he relocated the family to Seattle so she could have access to a world-renowned team of neurosurgeons and oncologists who specialized in her condition.
Shane returns with two fresh pitchers and immediately tops off my drink.
Guess I’ll be staying for round two.
“How long are you going to be in town?” Shane asks.
I shrug, lifting my stein to my lips. “As long as it takes.”
“If you need anything while you’re here, just give me a call.” He motions for my phone, which I dig out of my bag and hand over, and I watch as he programs his number in. I can’t imagine I’ll be in a hanging-out-with-strangers kind of mood, but it’s good to have him on standby in case I need something.
My college roommate from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop moved here a year ago, so I owe her a call. I have a feeling we’re going to be making up for lost time, but I don’t mind. We used to be inseparable, and I’ve missed her like crazy ever since we graduated and went our own ways. I mentally add calling Bostyn to my to-do list and tuck my phone away.
“You want to do a shot with us?” Red asks.
“What is it?”
“Deer blood,” he says, watching my expression morph. “Just kidding. We’re doing Jäger bombs. They were Bryce’s favorite.”
That’s funny. Those were my favorite too back in the day—when I used to take life a little less seriously.
“Yeah, count me in.” I rise from my seat and follow the guys to the bar where everyone’s lining up to take their shot.
“Hey, is that Rhett?” I hear one of the guys say. I follow his gaze across the bar, watching as a sandy-haired, six-foot-three, broad-shouldered Adonis slams a shot, slaps some cash on the bar top, then storms outside before anyone can stop him.
“Yeah,” a second guy says. “It was.”
The first guy rubs his brow, watching Rhett leave. “Shit.”
Two
Rhett
* * *
“How are you holding up?” Damiana’s mother cups her hand against my cheek Sunday morning, peering at me with the same honey brown, almond-shaped eyes that made her daughter millions. “We’ve been worried about you.”
“You don’t need to worry about me. Coffee?” I point to the machine on the kitchen counter behind me, and Irena squints.
“No, thank you.”
Damiana’s father, George, is seated in the living room, his hands spread across the arms of an overstuffed chair. He stares ahead at a blank TV screen, not moving, not saying a word.
“Thank you for coming yesterday,” Irena says, placing her hand over mine.
“You don’t have to thank me for attending my fiancée’s funeral.”
“Well, given everything that came to light this week,” she pauses, bringing her fingers to her cross necklace and twisting the chain. “We’d have understood if you ...”
Her words trail to silence and her kind, bloodshot eyes search mine, and she’s probably wondering why the hell I seem so normal. She hasn’t slept in days, Damiana’s father hasn’t spoken more than a few words in days, and I’m standing here making coffee like it’s any other Sunday morning.
“We didn’t want to stay long,” Irena says, motioning for her husband to get up. “Just thought we’d check on you before we leave the city. Call us if you need anything, okay, Rhett?”
“Same. I’m here if you need me.” I walk them to the door, noting the elongated, catwalk stride Irena passed down to her daughter. If only she had passed down her unwavering loyalty and devotion, we wouldn’t be standing here having this conversation.
Irena wraps her lanky arms around my shoulders and kisses each of my cheeks before dabbing a tear from her eye and looping her arm into George’s. I lock the door behind them and return to my coffee.
I didn’t tell Irena, but I haven’t been sleeping either.
Besides, I’m sure she could see it on my face, the dark circles and the cloudy eyes. My mind won’t turn off, it just keeps playing an image of the two of them, fucking, over and over again. It’s on a loop that won’t stop. Every time I close my eyes, I see them.