“Lacey, why don’t you come into my office and we can discuss your options. I have time between—”
“I can’t come in,” I say, cutting her off as I rise to my feet. My eyes dart towards the door and I silently will it to open and for Blackie to come striding through. “I have to stay here in case Blackie comes home. His phone isn’t receiving my messages, and we left things badly.”
Giving up, I tear my eyes away from the door and run my fingers through my hair.
“I need you to tell me I’m making the right decision.”
“I can’t tell you that,” she says in that soft monotone voice she uses to talk patients off the ledge. “Anything can happen,” she adds, pausing to sigh. “But I will say this, you’ve been in a good place. We’ve been able to control your mood swings and have kept the depression to a minimum. If you’re set on not taking your meds, we can ween you off and then when you hit the second trimester of your pregnancy, we can revisit the situation. Depending on your mental state, we will either discontinue until you give birth or lower your dosage. I’m not going to suggest you try a different medication because we’re not sure how you will react and that, in my opinion, is too risky.”
I wait for the relief to settle, but it doesn’t come. Nothing she says makes me feel better and I think that’s because Blackie isn’t here. He’s not holding my hand like he always does. He’s not asking the questions, I haven’t thought to ask or giving Dr. Spiegel any imperative information I may have purposely forgotten to mention. He doesn’t tell her I threw my pills out or that just over a week ago I lost my job—two things that she should probably know. Two things he would tell her if he was by my side like he always swore to be but the person I have to blame for his absence is myself.
“I’ll want to see you two to three times a week,” she continues. “That’s effective immediately, Lacey. No calling to cancel because Blackie’s phone isn’t working,” she chastises, pausing for a beat. “Does your father know?”
“No,” I reply. “We wanted to wait until the doctor confirmed the pregnancy and then everything just kind of imploded.”
“Okay,” she says. “I want you to call the office and schedule an appointment first thing Monday morning.”
After agreeing, I end the call and blow out a breath and make my way towards the window. Mindlessly, I stare through the slatted blinds.
“Where are you?” I whisper.
Wishing I could shake the dread churning in my gut, I move away from the window and pick up the phone one more time. With no other option, I call the one person who has covered Blackie’s ass when he’s busy covering everyone else’s.
“Casa del Tiger,” Riggs answers.
“Riggs, it’s Lacey...”
My words trail off as he mutters a curse, making it obvious he’s not happy to hear from me. I don’t blame him.
“What are you two trying to hide from Jack this time?”
“It’s nothing like that,” I tell him. “Blackie and I had a fight and I threw him out. He’s been gone all night and I can’t get a hold of him. Riggs, I’m worried. I’m really fucking worried.”
“Shit,” he hisses.
“I don’t want to leave in case he comes home,” I continue. Honestly, I wouldn’t even know where to begin to look for him. If this was ten years ago, my first stop would be the clubhouse, but the times have changed, and I can’t fathom Blackie spending the night in Pipe’s garage.
“I’ll go look for him.”
“Riggs…” I pause. Worrying my bottom lip between my teeth, I contemplate telling him that he relapsed a few weeks ago. “He’s…well, I’m not…’ Before I can tell him to check the local bars, Riggs sighs.
“I think I have an idea where he might be,” he mutters. “Hang tight, alright?”
“Thank you,” I murmur. “Oh, and Riggs, let’s not tell my father about this okay?”
“Ah fuck this, I knew that was coming. Yeah, yeah, more secrets,” he says before disconnecting the call.
Throwing my phone on the coffee table, I lay down on the couch and drag my knees to my chest. My hand wanders to my stomach as my eyes find our framed wedding photo.
“God, please take care of him.”
Please bring him home to me.
To us.
Chapter Eighteen
Blackie
“Get up,” an unfamiliar voice calls, jolting me awake. I don’t respond and the bastard kicks my foot. “I said get up,” the man growls. Forcing one eye open, the sun blinds me. I groan, lifting my hand to shield my eyes.
“I know who you are, boy,” the man says. “Ain’t afraid to call the cops on you for trespassing.”
At the mention of the police, I force my eyes open once more. Fighting for focus, I stare up at the man. Dressed in his uniform, I recognize him as one of the many groundskeepers of Green-Wood Cemetery. In a cemetery this big, it’s nearly impossible to know any of the workers here, but this guy has been working the section Christine is buried in for years. He’s the guy that swaps out the wilting flowers on my wife’s grave before I get a chance to lay a fresh bouquet on a Saturday.
“Got some pair on you,” he continues to mutter. “Breaking into a cemetery and making a mess like you did.”
“What are you talking about?”
Following his gaze, I sit up and lean my back against Christine’s tombstone, taking in the mostly empty bottle of Dewar’s sitting haphazardly beside me.
“Clean up your mess, boy,” he orders, bending to pull the wilted flowers I laid last week.
“Don’t touch those,” I grunt, fixing him with a glare.
“They’re dead.”
“I didn’t have a chance to stop off and get fresh ones.”
“But you had time to grab a bottle of booze and hop a fence,” he snaps, taking a step back. Bending to retrieve his trash picker, he looks at me with disgust.
“I’ll get rid of the bottle,” I tell him, lifting my hands to my pounding head. “Just get the fuck out of my face.”
“Once a drunk, always a drunk,” he scoffs, turning his back to me.
“What’d you say?” I growl, narrowing my eyes into tiny slits as I peer at him.
“I said you’re a drunk,” he calls over his shoulder as he continues to walk away from me. “Been a while since you came here lit. Thought to myself, ‘this guy finally straightened out his act’, but you’re nothing but a disrespectful drunk.”
I’d roll my eyes at the bastard, but my head hurts too much. Instead, I grab the scotch and try to savor the last drop at the bottom of the bottle. Nothing comes out and so I chuck it once the guy is out of my sight. I’ll toss it in the trash before I leave. For now, I lay my head back against the cold stone and drop my hand to the dirt. Lifting a handful, I spread my fingers and watch it slip through.
“He’s right,” I say. “I’m a disrespectful drunk. I shouldn’t have come here, Chris.”