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A laugh rumbles from my chest as Finch shakes his head in disgust. I alert the bartender. “This calls for a celebration.”
Finch caught an Uber back home to Brooklyn, but Hunter and I didn’t feel like going home.
That’s why we’re riding the Staten Island ferry at one thirty in the morning.
We have no intention of getting off, but it’s nice to cruise along in reflective silence and look out into the city, which can be kind to most but cruel to some.
That cruelness sits inside my suit jacket, a heavy weight against my heart. How could she think I would be okay going to her wedding? She may have been able to move on, but I haven’t.
As selfish and as much of a bastard as this makes me, I’m not happy for her. How can I be? Nice people would wish them all the best, but I’m not nice. I want her relationship with “Alex” to fail. And I want her to realize I’m the one she wants to marry.
But that’s not going to happen. Ever.
“Are you all right, Dix?”
Hunter’s concern has me sighing loudly. “No, Hunt, I’m not.” I see no point in denying it because, after Madison, I promised myself to tell nothing but the truth. “How can she think I’d even be remotely interested in attending her wedding?”
I look at Hunter leaning against the railing next to me. “I don’t know, man. I’ve given up on understanding chicks.”
Hunter tried his hand at “dating” a few months ago. He got bored within a week and is now single and over women just like me.
“How can it be two of Manhattan’s biggest man-sluts are now single, desperate, and alone?” he asks, appearing genuinely baffled.
“The answer is within your sentence.”
“I’m not following.”
Looking back into the night sky, I explain. “The fact we are man-sluts, manwhores, or just plain bastards is the reason. Being a player doesn’t live up to the hype, Hunt. It just leaves you old, alone, and thinking back to the heyday when we thought we had it all. There is always someone better-looking, or younger, or more charismatic ready to take your place. And honestly, I’d rather have bagged one chick than the hundred plus I have because I know that one chick would have stuck around. All the others have now moved on, probably found the love of their lives, while here we are, riding the Staten Island ferry at one thirty on a Thursday morning, pondering the what-ifs and where we went wrong.”
It’s a sad reality, but it’s the truth. We thought we had it all. We thought we were living the high life by getting blown and fucked by half the population of Manhattan and its visitors. But we were only sealing our fate.
The damned envelope sitting in my pocket is a constant reminder of what could have been my life. It’s a reminder that Madison and I will never, ever reconcile. And just like that, the small flicker of hope I’ve held on to dives to the bottom of the Hudson. And I mean that literally.
Before I second-guess myself, I reach into my pocket and pitch the envelope out into the open water with all my might. It stops for a millisecond before it catches on the cool breeze and sails away from me, taking my faith and dreams with it. I watch its descent as it spirals and twirls in the night sky before finally coming to rest in its watery grave.
I instantly feel better.
“You weren’t curious to see what was inside?” Hunter says minutes later.
Staring at the waterway, I shake my head. “It wouldn’t matter either way. It doesn’t change the fact that Madison and I are really over.”
The rest of our passage is traveled in silence, and as I clutch at the medal hanging underneath my shirt, I realize this “journey” fucking sucks.
It’s Friday night, and I’m sitting with my dad watching the Yankees play the Rays. After two weeks of stewing in regret, this is the only think that makes me feel remotely better. I’ve decided the only way I can get through this is to drown my sorrows in beer, pizza, and baseball.
As a kid, watching baseball with my dad was one of my favorite things to do. Now that I’m an adult, not much has changed.
“Ah, c’mon! That was a strike!” I yell at the TV, standing up in protest. “What the fuck is the matter with this umpire?” My dad grunts in agreement from his wheelchair.
While it cuts to break, I decide to stock up on beer, as I need the booze to help deal with the stupidity of these blind officials.On the way to the kitchen, however, my cell chimes, vibrating loudly on the desk in my home office. I quickly make a detour to answer it.
“Hello?” I say without looking at the screen to see who the caller is.
“Good evening, Dixon. I haven’t caught you at a bad time, have I?”
Pulling the phone away from my ear, I see that it is indeed Dr. Wellington on the other end. I wonder why he’s calling. “No, not at all,” I reply a second later. “I was just watching the Yankees get their asses whipped.”
Max laughs. “In that case, I’ll keep this brief. I was just wondering if you had received Madison’s invitation.”
