Reaching for a mug from the cabinet with shaky, sleep-deprived hands, I grab it too quickly and it slips from my grip, shattering on the counter. Pulling the trash out from under the sink, I begin dropping chunks of broken ceramic on top of a fractured picture frame containing a photo of Damiana, Bryce, and myself from a Mets game last year.
She’s grinning in between us, both of our arms around her, and the irony of this photo lying amongst the shattered remnants of this picture frame isn’t lost on me.
I’m not sure how long Bryce and Damiana were fucking or if they ever planned on telling me, but not in my wildest dreams did I expect to get that phone call. I’d much rather have walked in on them, then I could’ve at least had the satisfaction of kicking his ass and kicking her ass to the curb.
My phone vibrates, skidding across the counter, and Shane’s name displays across the screen. The guys have been calling me all week, checking in and making sure I’m okay. They even attended Damiana’s funeral.
“Hey.” I cradle the phone on my shoulder, picking up the remaining splintered flecks of ceramic.
“Just seeing how you’re holding up.” Shane is tense and awkward, like the rest of the team lately. Everyone’s been walking on eggshells around me. I walk in the room, they stop talking. I walk by, they all stare. I don’t need to be handled with kid gloves. I’m not in a delicate state of mind.
Angry, yeah.
Pissed off to no end, absolutely.
Fragile, breakable? Hardly.
“Yeah, you know,” I say.
He doesn’t know.
No one knows what it feels like because this sort of thing doesn’t happen.
It was a freak accident involving a jackknifed semi and two cheating assholes who happened to be leaving their hotel suite in the middle of the night, presumably after an intense fuck session, to go grab pancakes.
“Did you go to Bryce’s ... ?” Shane asks.
“Nah.”
I wanted to go, but I couldn’t bring myself. Bryce was a brother to me. My best friend. The only son of a bitch who understood me because in many ways, he was me.
But he took away the only two things I’ve ever given a flying fuck about, and now I’d give anything to forget the bastard ever existed.
I left Damiana’s funeral yesterday morning and stood outside the church where Bryce’s service was being held for several minutes. Just standing there. On the front steps. Unmoving. Alone. Arguing with myself about whether or not I’d regret this someday. I finally decided that I would, and I made my way inside, stopping just before the sanctuary and listening to Coach drone on and on about what a standup guy Bryce was, how he’d do anything for anyone, and how he had a heart of gold. I believe he even used the words “Loyal to the end.”
I couldn’t listen to another minute of that bullshit, so I left.
People have a habit of glorifying the dead, forgetting all the shitty things they did and remembering them like they were some kind of saint. Bryce was far from a saint, in life and in death. I’ll be damned if I have to listen to someone giving him some posthumous knighthood.
“Some guys thought they saw you at Shotsky’s,” Shane says carefully.
“Yeah,” I don’t argue.
He’s quiet, and he’s probably wondering why I didn’t join them, but I don’t have the energy to explain it to him. I stopped in and took one last shot, toasting a fucking jackass who didn’t deserve it because I decided I should pay one last respect to that prick so I could move on with my life.
It was cathartic, really. I tossed back the shot of top shelf gin, remembering the good times for a sliver of a second, said a quiet, “Fuck you, asshole,” then got the hell out of there.
“You sure you’re okay, man?” Shane asks.
“Never better.”
Shane laughs, then he’s silent, like he wasn’t sure if I was cracking a joke or not. “All right then. See you at the meeting next Monday?”
“What meeting?”
“Coach called a team meeting. Ten o’clock at the rink. He sent an email.”
I haven’t checked my email in days. Fans are coming out of the woodwork sending all kinds of weird shit that I have no interest in reading, or so says my assistant. I haven’t looked. I’ll have her go through them eventually, but for the time being, they’re not a priority of any kind. And the crazies won’t be getting a response because fuck them.
“I’ll be there,” I say.
“Okay, cool.” Shane clears his throat. “All right, man. See you then.”
“Yep.”
“Oh, wait,” he says seconds before I’m about to end the call. “Did you meet Bryce’s sister the other night?”
“Bryce had a sister?” This has got to be some sick, twisted joke. Some delusional fan coming out of the woodwork in an attempt to swindle what remains in his massive bank account before some distant relative gets their hands on it.
“Apparently.”
“Nope. Didn’t meet her.” Have no interest in meeting her either.
“You sure, because she ...” his voice trails. “That’s weird then.”
“Why do you say that?”
“She said she wanted to meet you because we told her how you knew him better than any of us. I thought maybe she got a hold of you?”
“Sounds crazy.” I scratch my temple. “Don’t mean to sound like a dick, Shane, but I have no interest in spending a minute of my time with anyone remotely related to that asshat.”
“Understand, Rhett,” he says, exhaling into the receiver. He doesn’t understand, and he never will. “See you, man.”
“Yep.”
Three
Ayla
* * *
I stumbled out of bed this morning with a killer hangover and a brief bout of confusion when I realized I wasn’t at home, that I was over three thousand miles away. I don’t remember how I got back here or what time they dropped me off, but it was sweet of them to take care of me. Those Spartans are good people, and I hope to God Bryce never took them for granted.
I managed to scrounge up some ibuprofen and washed it down with a glass of almost-expired orange juice, and then I decided to begin the day by doing smelly dishes in the sink. Washing the plates Bryce ate from less than a week ago was surreal in a way I don’t think I could fully put into words, which says a lot because I make my living stringing sentences together.
I was thirteen when Mom told me I had a half-brother, and on that first day, it felt like I’d won the lottery. There was someone out there, about my age, who shared fifty percent of my DNA, someone I could talk to about how stupid middle school was or how unfair my mom’s curfew rules were.
I imagined us chatting on the phone for hours, getting to know each other, flying across the country to spend time together, and I pictured myself bragging to all my friends about how I had the coolest big brother who would do anything for me.
Imagine my dismay when I found him online and sent him an email, only to be met with a raging, spewing, hate-filled response that could be summed up in two words: “Fuck off.”
I cried for weeks.
Laughing to myself, I think about what an idealistic idiot I was, and I dry my hands on a clean dish towel before moving to the shoe area. I had a bunch of plastic containers delivered this morning from a place out of Long Island. For now, everything’s going into storage, and at some point, I’m going to hire an auctioneer. I toss his shoes into a nearby box, noting that most of them barely seem worn and they’re all the same brand.