Matteo turns away, hiding the amused smirk on his pretty boy face.
“You know what? You two look like you could be brothers.” The drunk girl’s jaw hangs open. “Has anyone ever told you that?”
“We are brothers, babe.” Matteo pats her knee the way an adult might pat the top of a child’s head.
The woman giggles, leaning back and nearly falling off my lap.
Leaning toward my brother, I give him a look and ask, “Where’d you find this one?”
Matteo rolls his eyes. “She worked on the set earlier. Her job was to steam all the wrinkles out of the underwear we were modeling.”
Tossing back the rest of my drink, I place the flute on the table and declare that I’m in need of a real man’s drink. The drunk girl pouts before taking her sweet ass time climbing off me, and I make my way to the bar.
“Hey,” the bartender says, eyes lighting when he sees me. “I know you.”
I keep my head down. So much for the beard and flashing club lights camouflaging my identity tonight.
“You’re that baseball player. Ace, right? Huge fan.” he says. “Huge.”
“Thank you.” My gaze is averted. Meeting loyal fans anymore tends to serve as a reminder that I’ve let them down.
“What can I get you?” he asks.
I order a whiskey sour, top shelf, and take a seat on a nearby stool while he pours. A minute later, he slides the drink to me and waves me off when I try and hand him a twenty.
“On the house,” he says, hunched over his side of the bar. The lights flash on his round face, reflecting in his thick-rimmed glasses.
“You sure?”
“Absolutely,” he says. “We’re glad to have you, Ace. You’re drinking for free tonight, man.”
“Thank you.” I give him a tight-lipped smile, one he probably can’t see anyway thanks to the beard, and head back to the lounge.
By the time I’m finished with my whiskey, I’m feeling better than I have in a long time. I’ve never been a drinking man, always opting to maintain control over myself at all times. Plus when I wasn’t conditioning and eating things like quinoa and kale, I still had to stay in shape.
I may not be quite as cut as before, but the muscles are still there, like corded steel reminders that I was once capable of strike outs and 100mph speedballs.
Warmth floods my veins in slow motion, and I sink into my velvet chair, eyes half open and focusing on the pulsing tunes and swaying bodies in the crowd across the club. For the first time in a long time, I’m merely existing. In a good way.
I’m not dwelling on the past.
I’m not fixating on the question mark that is my future.
I’m just . . . here.
After a while, I lose track of time.
And I lose track of how many drinks I’ve ordered.
Come two in the morning, I find myself back at home, in my bed, with no recollection of how I got here, though I’m sure Matteo had something to do with that. It’s funny how things have changed. I was always the big brother, looking after the younger kids, making sure they were staying out of trouble and keeping their noses clean. I was always the one taking care of them when our mom was working two jobs.
Sinking into the messy sheets that cover my bed, I feel the cool glass of my phone screen. Looking up at the ceiling, the room spins. Faster and faster. Like I’m on a Merry-Go-Round. I want to get off, but I know I can’t. This is why I hate being drunk.
I bring the phone to my face, eyes pierced with pain as they adjust to the bright light in my darkened room.
For a brief moment, I forget about the ungodly hour upon me and consider calling Aidy. I should apologize. I should apologize for calling her crazy. If anyone’s crazy, it’s me. I haven’t been myself, not since last year. She should know I’m not myself. And I want to send that freckle-faced kid an autograph. He didn’t do anything wrong, and it’s the least I can do.
Maybe it’s the alcohol talking, but I kind of don’t want to be an asshole anymore.
I don’t want to be heartless.
Rolling over, I clutch my phone, eyelids at half-mast and free hand reaching for the cold, empty side of the bed. Moving to my side, I tuck my hands under my pillow and shut my eyes.
The room spins.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice sounds far away, muffled. “Ace?”
I’m dreaming, I’m sure.
Fifteen
Aidy
* * *
Armed with a brown bag of groceries that I lugged all the way from Chelsea, I’m rapping on the door of 942 Lexington Avenue Sunday morning, just before ten.
The bag feels heavier than it did a few blocks ago, if that’s even possible, and I’m quite certain the bottom’s about to fall out. Fortunately, I spot a doorbell just in time.
Pressing the button over and over, I almost feel bad. He’s got to have a horrendous hangover. Then again, he woke me up at two in the morning, so I kind of feel like we’re even.
The door swings open a second later, and Ace stands before me, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His hair is going every which way and when he lifts his arm to shield the blinding sun from his eyes, his shirt pulls up and reveals a hint of the dark happy trail that runs straight south to the dwindling morning bulge in his pants.
“Good morning,” I say in the cheeriest, Mary Poppins-esque tone I can muster.
“Why are you here?” he asks.
“Payback?” I glance down at the groceries in my arms and then up at him. “Plus I felt like you maybe needed to talk?”
Ace scratches his head, squinting.
“You called me . . . last night . . . two a.m. Remember?” I ask.
He doesn’t blink. He just stares ahead at me.
“I don’t think you meant to call me,” I say. “I think you must have pressed a button or something. You sounded really out of it. Like hammered beyond belief.”
Ace blows a hard breath, nostrils flaring as he studies me.
“Do you remember anything you said last night?” I ask.
“No. I don’t even remember talking to you.” He stands back, hand gripping the door, and motions for me to come in. “What’s all this?”
“Figured you’d be hung over, so I brought you some things. Gatorade. Eggs. Bacon. Bread. Orange juice. I don’t know what you eat. Maybe you’re vegan. I have no idea. Didn’t really plan this out too well . . .”
We’re standing in the landing of his townhome. Ace closes the door, watching me still. A set of stairs behind him looks to lead to the main part of his place, but his frozen body language makes me wonder if he wants me up there at all.
But I kind of don’t care because it’s not like I wanted him calling me at two in the morning.
As far as I’m concerned, we’re even Stevens right now.
“Is someone up there or are you going to invite me up?” I ask.
I should’ve considered the possibility that maybe he wasn’t alone. That maybe he’d taken someone home with him the night before. Although if he did, she had to have been passed out cold because she didn’t make a peep as he rambled drunkenly into his phone for the better part of an hour.
“No,” he says, still unmoving. “Nobody’s here.”