Finding Focus (21 page)

But he lied.

And here I sit on a disgusting sidewalk in New York City with my best friend a thousand miles away and the only other person who’s been there for me is seventeen blocks behind me . . . fucking the physical therapist.

A semi-psychotic laugh erupts out of my chest, along with more tears. I want to scream. I want to run back to my apartment and break Graham’s other leg. I want to get on a plane and lie in my best friend’s bed while she feeds me Ben and Jerry’s.

The only other person I want to talk to right now is Micah, but I’m not ready to talk to anyone yet.

I want a drink.

One thing I know for sure is I can
not
go back to that apartment.

Pulling myself up off the sidewalk, I stand in the middle of the street, holding my hand up for a taxi. When one pulls over, I quickly get inside.

“Where to?”

Where to?
I hadn’t thought that far.

“Uh . . .”

Shit.

“Where to?” he asks again in his thick foreign accent.

Fuck. He’s going to kick me out of his taxi if I can’t come up with an address.

Looking up, I see the sleek glass building in front of us. “I need to go there,” I say, pointing toward the building. “The, uh . . . Trump Hotel, I think.”

“Trump?”

“Yeah.”

I don’t know why I say it. It’s way over my budget, but I decide I’ll find a way to make Graham foot the bill. I still have access to all of his accounts and credit cards. I even know his passcodes.

Digging in my bag for a tissue and some money to pay the driver, I see Graham’s credit card and his driver’s license from when I went to pick up his prescriptions earlier.

Yeah, that cheating bastard is totally paying.

As I walk up to the desk, I take in a deep breath. I should be ashamed of what I’m about to do, but I’m not. I’m just nervous because I’m about to lie my ass off.

“Welcome to the Trump,” a lady with light blonde hair says, smiling. “Do you have a reservation?”

“Um, no,” I say sweetly, tilting my head and scrunching my nose. “My husband is here on business and his meeting is running late, so he sent me to see about getting a room for the night.”

“I can help you with that, Mrs . . .”

“Harrison,” I say, swallowing down the bile forcing its way up my throat.

A few minutes later, I have two keys to a room on the fourteenth floor. That was way easier than it should’ve been. I lamented to her how bare my hand felt without my rings and how I couldn’t wait to get them back from the jewelers after they were properly soldered together. She even bought my story that we were “kinda on our honeymoon”, which was how I explained away the fact that my name and address had yet to be changed. She sympathized with me on having to follow him around while he jetted the country on business, but I told her when you’re in love, you’ll do whatever it takes, to which she literally sighed . . . out loud.

It was all I could do not to throw up in the plant next to the elevator.

I am such a lying liar who lies.

I’m going to hell.

No, Graham is.

And Kaitlyn.

I should have punched him.

Or her.

Or both of them.

Before I even get my card in the slot, tears are pouring down my face again. I open the door and gently close it behind me, sliding down the back while the betrayal and disappointment set in anew.

I sit there on the floor, leaning against the door, for what could be minutes or hours. The ridiculously loud growl from my stomach is what finally pulls me out of my trance. I think about cleaning my face and walking downstairs to find something to eat or calling room service, but nothing sounds particularly good.

Walking over by the bed, I begin opening cabinets and drawers. A place this nice is bound to have a mini bar, right?

Bingo.

Tiny bottles and packages of snack foods line the shelves. I peruse my options: tequila, vodka, rum, spiced rum, wine . . . yuck . . . beer . . . not my brand.

“Hello, old friend,” I say, twisting the cap off the bottle of Jose Cuervo.

The name on the label makes me think of the big black Labrador living on an expanse of land in Louisiana, which makes me think of said black Lab’s owner.

I think about texting him, but how would I even start that conversation?
Remember my boyfriend? Yeah, he fucked the therapist.

And I am
not
calling Piper. No way. I’m not ready for her “I told you so”. Not that she ever told me Graham was going to cheat on me. Actually, she’s probably going to be shocked about that. And had she thought he would cheat on me, she’d have cut his balls off before he had the chance. However, she’s never been his biggest fan. They got along pretty well during college, but since we’ve been together, not so much. She saw the changes in him long before I ever did.

“I should’ve listened,” I whisper to the tiny bottle in my hand. “I’m probably going to regret this at some point, but here goes nothing.” I empty the bottle into my mouth, wincing at the distinct burn as it coats my throat.

I really should eat something. Gathering the contents of the mini fridge, I carry the items to the bed, dump them in the middle, and settle on a can of Pringles and a package of almonds. It’s a unique combination, but it does the trick of shutting up the bear in my stomach.

The chips and almonds make me thirsty, so I reach for something else to drink. “Hey, Jack. Long time, no see,” I say as I hold up another bottle. “How about you treat me a little smoother than Jose? Although, I guess neither of you have fucked me over as hard as Graham.” I down the second bottle and sigh. My throat doesn’t burn nearly as badly as with the first, so I go for a third. I’ve never taken a shot of rum, but what the heck? There’s a first for everything, including your boyfriend fucking his therapist.

After bottle number four, I rummage through my pile, looking for something else to eat. I grab a bag of cheese crisps, which I’ve never heard of before, but they look tasty.

I could really go for that meatloaf about now.

Fucking Graham. Fucking ruining my chances for a meatloaf sandwich. Fucking ruining my life.

The cheese crisps make me thirsty again, so I down another tiny bottle. Spiced rum. Much tastier than the first bottle of rum. It probably would’ve tasted even better mixed with the can of Coke lying there, but who has time for that?

My options on tiny bottles are dwindling. I saved the gin for last, because fuck me, I hate gin.

Half an hour later, I’m still sitting in the middle of the gigantic bed with half empty packages of pretzels and nuts, and one, two, three, four, five, six . . . seven tiny empty bottles.

Lying back on the bed, I try to focus on the ceiling, using it as my point of reference, because the room feels a little shifty.

“Oh, Dani, Dani, Dani . . . what have you gotten yourself into?” I ask the empty room.

When I turn my head to look at the clock, I see it’s only 6:00 PM. But at least it’s past 5:30. Because I’m drunk. And I think there’s some unwritten rule that says you’re not supposed to be drunk before 5:30. Or was it 5:00?

My phone buzzes on the nightstand and I glare at it, the sound offending.
If it’s Graham, I swear I’ll throw that fucking phone out this fourteenth floor window.

Thinking of Graham pisses me off, fueled even more by the liquor coursing through my body. I almost hope it
is
Graham. I have a few things to say to him, and it’d be a lot easier to get them out in my current state of mind.

Pulling my phone to my face—entirely too close to my face—I try to focus on the screen.

Micah
.

Micah: Sheridan Reed, you have two minutes to tell me you’re not passed out in some back alley in New York, or I’m calling the cops.

“Well, aren’t you Bossy McBossypants.”
I try hard to type that into a message, but after fucking autocorrect is finished with it, it’s more like: “
Well sent you nosy mc postpone.”

I hit send anyway. My arms feel like jelly and I don’t feel like retyping it.

Micah: Are you okay?

Me: drunk

I go for simple, one-word responses. Those, I seem to be able to do.

Micah: Are you serious? It’s 5:00 in the afternoon.

Me: 6

Micah: Okay. 6:00. Why are you drunk?

Me: ducking hrshm

When the phone rings, it scares the shit out of me. Micah’s picture shows up on the screen and I stare at it for so long, the call goes to voicemail. Luckily, he calls back.

“Hellooo?”

“Dani?”

I pull the phone to my forehead and press it against it. The coolness feels good; almost as good as his voice feels in my ear. This is the first time I’ve heard his voice in two months. It makes my heart ache and my throat tighten.

“Dani?” I hear his voice, but it’s too far away.
Where did he go?
I pull the phone off my forehead staring at it for a minute before bringing it back to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Are you okay?”

“Um, yes . . . no . . . I don’t know,” I say, drawing out my words as my voice weakens with each response.

“What’s wrong?” There’s so much caring and concern in the way he’s asking, it makes me feel like crying. I try holding it back, but it makes my throat hurt so I let out a small sob, releasing some of the pressure.

“Dani, you’re scaring me. Please, tell me what’s wrong. Are you hurt?”

“Graham . . .” I barely get it out past the gasps and tears.

“Did Graham do something?”

I nod my head.

“Dani, did Graham hurt you?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“What did he do?” he bites out, anger replacing the caring and concern. Controlled anger, but anger, nonetheless.

“He fucked the physical therapist.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“Nope,” I say, the scene playing back in my mind. “I saw them. In my bed. I walked into the apartment, and I heard a loud bang, and . . . and I thought Graham might be hurt,” I say, breaking into a loud sob. “S-so, I yelled for him, but didn’t get an answer. It sounded like it was coming from the bathroom, so I went back there and . . . they were in my bed.”

The tears are gone, replaced with numbness. I lie back on the pillows and lay my head on the phone. My arms are too tired to hold it, but I don’t want to hang up.

“Where are you?”

“Hotel.”

“Which one?”

“Trump. Soho.”

There’s a long pause on the phone, neither of us talking.

“I’m so fucking sorry, Dani.”

“Don’t apologize. You didn’t fuck the therapist, did you?"

He laughs, but there’s no humor there. “No. But I’m sorry he hurt you.” His words sound pained, like he’s the one hurting.

“I don’t know how to feel. One second, I’m crying. The next second, I want to go back there and beat the shit out of him. And the second after that, I want to use the key I have to his apartment and go burn all of his clothes. And then, sometimes, I laugh at the complete absurdity of it all.”

There’s another long pause, and I press my ear close to the phone, listening intently to Micah’s breaths.

“I felt like I was having an out-of-body experience. When I told him to get the fuck out of my apartment, I felt like I was hovering above myself, watching it all happen.”

“What did he say?”

“That it wasn’t what it looked like.”

Micah laughs humorlessly into the phone and mutters something under his breath.

“If I hadn’t felt like crying so bad in that moment, I would’ve laughed. As he was saying it, his dick was standing at half-mast and hanging out of his pants.”

“
Fuck
,” Micah groans into the phone.

“Yeah, that’s what they were doing.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah.” So am I. I’m sorry I ever trusted Graham. I’m sorry I wasted so many years loving him. I’m sorry I believed him when he said he would be there for me.

“What are you going to do?”

“I have no fucking clue. This wasn’t really in my five-year plan.”

I begin to cry again, but we continue to talk, and every once in a while, we just sit in silence. I don’t need him to say anything. I just need to know he’s there, even if he is a thousand miles away.

“I feel so alone,” I whisper into the phone.

“You’re not alone, Dani.”

“I am. You . . . you have no idea how this feels.” My voice cracks and I swallow the cotton ball lodged in my throat. “You have a family, who you see every day, and friends and . . .” He has everything. Everyone. Anyone he wants. I have nobody. Except Piper and . . .

“You have me.”

I
wish
I
had
you, Micah Landry. “Thanks for saying that and for being a good friend.”

“Is there anybody you could call . . . ?”

“No. I mean, Piper, but . . . oh, God. Please don’t tell Piper about this. I mean, don’t try to do some good friend thing by hanging up with me and calling her,” I ramble frantically. “I’ll call her. Just not tonight.”

“Do you have any other friends close by?”

“No.” Admitting that makes me feel even more pathetic. “But I’m fine. I mean, I
will
be fine. Don’t worry about me. It’s not like I’m going to jump out of this fourteenth floor window or anything. I’m not a jumper.”

“That’s good to know.” His soft laugh makes me smile, and for a moment, I imagine what he looks like right now. He’s obviously not at work, so that means he’s probably in a rumpled LSU t-shirt and jeans, like the day he took me on a tour of the property. The warm feeling that idea gives me turns cold when I realize he could also be getting ready to go out on a date. Maybe he’s going to drive Val right through that fucking door this time.

“You don’t have to keep talking to me, you know.”

“I want to.”

“I don’t want to keep you from any plans you may have. You don’t have to babysit me, Micah.”

“Babysit? What are you talkin’ about? Believe it or not, I
like
talking to you.”

“But, if you have a date or something . . .” I can’t even finish that sentence. I don’t want to hear about his flavor of the month.