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Amanda laughed. “Have you learned how to control yourself better yet?”
“That shit traumatized me. Damn straight I never made that mistake again. You gotta get permission. Don’t blow till you know. That’s been my motto the last sixteen years.”
Amanda almost fell off her chair laughing so hard. We’d been having a good time, like two guys comparing war stories. Only Amanda definitely wasn’t a guy. That fact became suddenly clear when she rested her hand on my thigh. “For the record, I’d be okay with you losing control.”
Fuck.
This conversation suddenly went from innocent to feeling really fucking wrong. I looked down at her hand on my thigh and then up into the eyes of my new friend. “I fucking love her.”
She gave a sad smile. “I know. But if you wanted to maybe get even…I only live a few blocks from here.”
I shook my head. “I can’t.”
“You sure? No strings attached. It might be good to let out all of our anger.” She leaned in and whispered, “I like it a little rough.” Then she stood. “Think about it. I’m going to go to the ladies’ room.”
I like it a little rough.
Fuck.
I finished my drink and told the bartender to put both our tabs on my card, instead of Amanda’s. While I was digging my wallet from my pocket, my phone started to buzz on the bar. Gia’s name flashed, and my heart started to race. Finally. I abruptly felt sober. I swiped to answer.
“Where the fuck have you been all day? I’ve been trying to call you for hours,” I barked into the phone.
“I’m sorry. I fell asleep because I was up sick last night.”
I pushed aside the ache in my chest from hearing she wasn’t feeling good. “Who’s the damn father of your baby, Gia?”
“What?” It only took her saying one word to hear the nerves fray in her voice.
I yelled louder, “Who the fuck is the father, Gia?”
Silence.
“Answer me, goddamn it!”
Her voice shook. “Rush. Let’s talk about this when you get home. Remember, we are supposed to talk tonight?”
“Who. The. Fuck. Is. The. Father. Gia?
She started to cry. But I couldn’t feel bad. I needed to hear her say it.
“Answer me.”
“I can’t!”
“Did you fuck my brother?”
Sobbing.
“Goddamn it, Gia. Answer me. Are you pregnant with that piece of shit’s spawn?”
“I’m so sorry,” she cried. “I didn’t know until the birthday party. I was planning on telling you tonight. I’m so, so sorry.”
“Say it. Say the words, Gia. I need to fucking hear them.”
“Please, Rush. Where are you? We need to talk about this in person. I’ll come to you. Are you home?”
“Say it!” The sadistic bastard in me needed to hear it.
“I can’t.”
“I need to fucking hear it, Gia. I’m not fucking around. Say it.”
She sniffled, and the words were barely a whisper. But she said it. The words that shattered my fucking heart into a million pieces.
“Elliott is the father of my baby.”So began what was very likely the worst night of my entire life.
Rush had hung up distraught after my revelation. I couldn’t say I blamed him. It was exactly the reaction I’d expected.
The hours that followed were pure torture. I was worried. Really worried about him. And the fact that I couldn’t reach him to confirm that he was okay wasn’t helping.
Finding out through Elliott was the worst possible scenario. His brother had no idea what news he was really giving Rush. I assumed he had no clue I was carrying his baby. Finding out I had slept with Elliott would have been terrible news in and of itself. But for Rush to have received the news in such a cold way, knowing what it really meant, was simply cruel.
I was up most of the night dialing him, to no avail. He just wouldn’t answer. When I finally accepted the fact that maybe he needed some time apart from me to process everything, I tried to force myself to sleep for a bit, even though it was extremely difficult to relax. My tired body eventually succumbed to slumber, and I ended up getting a couple of hours of sleep.
When I woke up, the birds were chirping, and the sun was starting to rise. It couldn’t have been more than 6AM. Someone was downstairs brewing coffee, and the smell was making me nauseous.
My heart was palpitating as I urgently reached for my phone to call him again. Still no answer. I tried again.
Come on, Rush. Answer.
It just went to voicemail again. Starting to panic, I decided to throw some clothes on and drive to his house.
When I arrived, the ocean was choppy and the wind was fierce. It was fitting for the tumultuous mood of this morning. The wind chimes that were hanging near his front door were working overtime to keep up.
Rush usually parked in the driveway, but it was empty. I peeked inside the small windows at the top of the garage door. His car wasn’t there, either.
