Fourth and Inches

by Kata Čuić

  I rush her bedside, but rein myself back before making contact. “I researched endometriosis as much as I could after your last hospital visit. I know what a radical hysterectomy is. What it means for the rest of your life. There’s a reason you can’t find a doctor to perform it, Evie. Like he said, it’s life-altering, irreversible.”

  She rubs her little fists against her eyes, the way I’ve only seen her do one other time.

  The night we had our massive fight before she gave up on us, then moved into Mike’s apartment.

  The beginning of the end.

  “Don’t you think I know that? It doesn’t matter. Everything that was supposed to create life doesn’t work. The rest of mine is already forfeit. I just want the pain to stop. I’m tired.”

  “I know, I know.” And I do. I get it. I’m tired of the pain all the time, too.

  “No, you don’t know,” she grits out. “While you’re wasting every damn opportunity you’ve ever been given, I have no options. The best I can hope for is to be free of the pain. I don’t know why everyone is so sadistic that they want me chained to it while I wait for the inevitable to happen, anyway.”

  Her bleak outlook stops my heart. Had I known she was suffering this much, I wouldn’t have spent useless months wallowing in self-pity. But even now, I can’t stop myself.

  What can I possibly say to change her mind? I can’t offer anything but shitty luck and shittier decisions.

  “Why now? Why here?” If I can’t alter her choice, I want to at least understand it.

  “What?” She blinks at me a few times, clearly confused at my questions. A slight fog dims her beautiful eyes. The morphine isn’t completely out of her system, yet.

  As much as I should feel guilty about using her lack of mental acuity to hinder her ability to put up a front, I’m beyond caring. I have nothing left to lose, and apparently, neither does she.

  If she wants to do this, then she’s going to have to give me some damn better reasons for jumping the gun and going straight to the end of the game. Much better reasons than the ones she gave for lying to me in college.

  I reclaim my seat at her side, studying her for a few quiet moments. Overjoyed to see her again, I didn’t notice the dark circles under her eyes, the way her curls don’t shine as brightly as they used to. Her once tan skin is wan, almost mannequin like in appearance under the harsh fluorescent lighting. While I didn’t agree with the why of how hard she worked out in college, I’d give anything to not see her body looking so frail and thin in a way it never has before.

  My Evie was slender, petite, but with an unmistakable runner’s figure. Now, she looks…breakable, fragile. Like I could wrap my hand around her arm and snap her bones without any resistance.

  But, I was too drunk to see all the telltale signs of her own battle. The one I haven’t been waging along with her.

  Because we’ve both…given up. Living our separate lives on opposite sides of the country.

  A deep breath, then another. I’m not completely sure I want the answer. “Why are you here, Evie? What made you show up at my doorstep after all this time?”

  She rolls her head away, but not quickly enough to hide the tear that slips down her cheek.

  I hold my breath, waiting on the words I’m sure are coming.

  “I saw what you did to that reporter,” she whispers instead of saying what I expect.

  She doesn’t say, “To deliver you divorce papers.”

  “How does that bring you to Sacramento?”

  When she faces me, a little of that fire I remember burns in her gaze. “I had to see for myself.”

  “See what?” I hold my breath again.

  “If the man I knew was really gone.”

  Yes, I almost scream. He’s fucking died a million deaths and never coming back. “You saw me in Albany.”

  “Yeah.” She nods, chewing on her lip. “But, it wasn’t even halfway through the season. You still had time to turn it around. You definitely didn’t seem as bad as you do now.”

  Holy shit.

  She actually cares.

  She’s obviously been keeping tabs on me, worrying about me.

  Even after my infidelity, the way I treated her in Albany, she wants me to be better than I am now.

  Before my thoughts run away with me, a dawning takes root in my mind.

  This is it. This is my opening.

  My last chance to be something, someone, good in her life.

  What if she’s only giving up because she thinks I have?

  Convincing her to fight, to try, isn’t going to be easy. I’ve broken her trust too much. I can’t run any of the routes I’ve used in the past. She’ll see right through me.

  I need a new play to persuade her not to give up.

  “And?” I lean back in my chair, trying my damnedest to affect a nonchalant demeanor. If she figures my play, we’re both screwed. “What’s your verdict?”

  “I don’t know,” she huffs, her tears burning away with renewed frustration. “I didn’t get a chance to find out before I got fucking sick again.”

  She’s obviously the one who cleaned the condo. That explains why the furniture was still overturned. She wasn’t strong enough to right it herself.

  “It must have taken you hours to clean up that disaster,” I muse aloud, not daring to make eye contact. “So, you couldn’t have been sick the whole time you’ve been here.”

  “Duh.”

  A foreign sensation sneaks up my chest. The urge to laugh at her old smartass attitude nearly knocks me on my ass, but I hold it in, even though it would feel so fucking good to let it loose. “You also obviously had enough time to see the evidence of me losing my shit on a nightly basis.”

  “Yes. I did,” she grits out. “What’s your point?”

  I shrug. Walking a fine line between baiting her and not making Evie lose her shit isn’t easy. I’m out of practice. A part of me wants to push her over the edge, just like she did to me. “I’m just curious as to why you’re still here, sitting in this hospital. You obviously saw what you needed to see. Why don’t you get the hell out of dodge and have this…hysterectomy in New York?”

  She throws her hands up in the air, another little sign of life. “I already told you! I got sick! Here we are; I couldn’t exactly hop a flight in my condition! Besides, I can’t find a doctor in New York willing to perform the surgery! Jesus, are you still drunk?”

  “Maybe,” I hedge. “I sure as fuck never expected to see you again, so I’m pretty sure this is all a tequila-induced hallucination. If you aren’t here to serve me divorce papers, then I must still be asleep or drunk out of my damn mind.” I stand up from my chair and roll the dice long and hard, patting her on the leg as I head toward the curtain separating us from the rest of the ER. “This is definitely the weirdest binge drinking dream I’ve ever had. I don’t want to wake up just yet. I’m gonna go find that doctor and talk to him about doing whatever you want.”

  I turn to face her on one last Hail Mary. “Money talks. I’m still a rich bastard, even if I can’t play for a while. I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse.”

  Evie’s mouth drops open, her eyes widen, but her skin? That’s a beautiful, angry shade of red. She sputters a few times before firing back in a way that lets me know I’ve got her right where I want her. “Who are you?”

  “Rob Falls,” I remind her, my voice cracking under the strain of holding it together. “Quarterback extraordinaire and God’s gift to women. It’s a crying shame your gynecologist isn’t female; I might not have to spend as much money. Who are you?”

  She blinks slowly at me several times, glancing around the room like she just got another dose of morphine. “I-I…have no idea.”

  “Well, there’s your problem, right there.” I gesture toward her in an overly animated way. “You can’t get what you want out of life if you don’t even know who you are. Once you figure it out, I’m sure any doctor will do your bidding. You just have to be forceful enough, co
nfident.”

  I swear I can see steam coming from her ears. Her fury makes me want to dance with glee. “You’re going to lecture me on this topic? Are you fucking kidding me?”

  Come on, baby. That’s it. Fight. I know you have it in you.

  She throws the blankets off her legs, grabs the IV pole and stalks toward me, not even noticing her own agony anymore. “You pissed away your entire debut season! You treat your teammates, fans, and the journalists who cover your sorry ass like crap! Your poor mother called me bawling because you won’t even talk to her anymore, let alone give her admittance into your once gorgeous home that you destroyed! And you wanna talk to me about confidence? About taking what you want out of life? Well, I’ve got news for you, Superjock, your life is in the toilet right now!”

  Damn. I think I pulled a Mike.

  And it just might work.

  “Bet me, Falls.”

  The shock of him addressing me that way increases when he grasps my shoulders in his large hands.

  “W-what?”

  “Bet. Me.”

  I heard him the first time, it just doesn’t make any sense. The numbing qualities of the morphine might be wearing off, but this brain fog just won’t quit. Either that or he really is still drunk, even hours later, and rambling incoherently like he did in his living room.

  “You said my life’s in the toilet, right? That I have no business telling you what to do when I’m not doing it myself?” he clarifies, tightening his hold on me. “Bet me it can’t get worse. I promise you it can. This is me, holding back. Holding on…by a very slim thread.”

  “Holding on?” I shake free from his grip, realizing too late I don’t have much freedom to pace while attached to the IV. Why would he possibly want to bet me things can’t get worse? “Holding onto what?”

  He doesn’t bother to grace me with an answer as I lose my mind further. I can’t keep up with all the different personalities he’s thrown at me since I arrived at his condo—drunken, angry lunatic, concerned friend, and now…now.

  Manipulator.

  I whirl to face him and nearly fall over.

  Dammit, now is not the time to seem like a damsel in distress. I can’t let him know that I know what he’s doing.

  This could be my only shot to get him the help he needs, to show him he has too much potential to live his life the way he has been for the past year. Even if it means sucking it up and proving to him fighting is always worth it.

  A change in tactic might be in order to ensure this goes where I want it to, though. Losing my temper will only make him defensive. I have to play the game. One last time. “Tell me how it could be worse.”

  His panicked expression almost makes me let go of the small thread of self-control I’m clinging to. “I…could be doing drugs.”

  “You’re probably still legally drunk. In the afternoon. Alcohol is a drug. A depressant, in fact.”

  He shrugs, unfazed by my accusation. “Most NFL players are drunk or partying it up in February. We’ve had a long season, and don’t get much time off. That’s not a big deal.”

  Oh, it’s a very big deal when your father is a known alcoholic, but I keep that to myself. I can’t help him by pushing him away this time. “Your apartment is destroyed, Rob. Annihilated.”

  “Number one, it’s a condo, not an apartment. Number two, not anymore. You cleaned it all up.”

  A seething anger bubbles beneath the surface of my skin. He’s clearly trying to push my buttons, to get a reaction out of me. Fine. Two can play this game. “You might have a horrible, horrible disease.”

  Confusion descends on his expression. It’s not a good look for him. He’s too smart for that. “Um, I might have had tequila for breakfast, but I think the morphine they gave you is clouding your brain. You have a horrible, horrible disease, not me.”

  “I meant an STI.”

  He narrows his eyes, barely controlled anger flushing his face. Good. “I’m pretty sure I don’t.”

  “How do you know?” On second thought, this was a terrible idea. I don’t want any details.

  The muscles in his jaw work as he grinds his teeth. “Because I got tested when I moved here. I’m clean.”

  “What about the steady stream of pussy you’ve had since moving to Sacramento?” I would make air quotes if I had both arms available.

  His eyes widen. He sort of chokes on nothing at all. “I…what?”

  “That’s what you told me when I arrived. That you were living the dream and following my suggestions. A change of location and a steady stream of pussy were your exact words.”

  He grips his hair and begins pacing in a way I wish I was free to do. “I said that? To you?”

  I nod, but there’s no gratification in the gesture. Only white-hot jealousy that sears my body. “You don’t remember?”

  “No,” he whispers.

  “You were so drunk this morning at ten, you could barely stand upright. You don’t remember me arriving; don’t remember anything you said to me. You’ve been suspended from team activities during the offseason and for the first three games next year. Not to mention fined sixty thousand dollars. All because you lost your temper and decked a reporter after your last game. You’re damn lucky no assault charges were pressed.” I pause to catch my breath, a heady concoction of guilt and fear over his downward spiral strangling my throat. “The media vilifies you every chance they get. As far as I know, you’re not speaking to any of your friends. And you’ve cut off your family, your mother who would do anything for you. So, I’ll ask you again. Please explain to me how it could get any worse.”

  He faces me, his shoulders slumped, his face deadpan. “I could be dead.”

  Panic sneaks down my limbs, making them tremble beyond control. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Why not?” He shrugs, but his expression never wavers. “You just gave me an accurate list I can’t argue. I don’t have much to live for.”

  But, but, but…Pops. Rob would never commit suicide. He understands the impact.

  “Don’t, Rob. Don’t even think it. You have so much to live for.”

  He approaches me with a measured step, then another and another until we’re toe to toe, his chin dropped to meet my upturned gaze. “If you can do it, then why can’t I?”

  “I have no intention of killing myself.” Even through my darkest nights, the unending reigns of terror, the horrible pain, I’ve never considered it.

  “That’s what you just asked for. You asked a doctor to end your life for you.”

  Rage replaces fear. “Having a hysterectomy won’t kill me. It will preserve me. I won’t be able to have kids. So, what? That is not the same as death. Many women can’t have children; many women choose not to. Why doesn’t anyone understand it’s our right?”

  Rob steps back, nods his head slowly, but never averts his nearly lifeless gaze. “A hysterectomy might not end your life, but it will end your hope for something you always wanted for your life. Same difference.”

  All the fight drains out of me with his broken words. “I have no hope. It won’t make a difference.”

  Something in his currently deep blue eyes softens. He appears almost…like the old Rob. “So, you’ll what? Have the surgery? Go through early menopause, and all the symptoms and complications that come with that at your age? Be free of the pain, but be a living shell of your former self?”

  “If you can do it, then why can’t I?” I throw back at him.

  “Because I don’t want that for you, just like you don’t want this life for me. Because I think that’s what really brought you to my door after all this time. You hate what I’ve become, too.”

  I pull my lip between my teeth, working away at the skin. There’s no other outlet for my emotions. “So, you admit you hate me?”

  He jerks his head back. “When did I ever say that?”

  “At the game in Albany. Pretty much every word out of your mouth was proof enough.” I knew going to that game was a mistake. I’ll never fo
rget the look of rage in his eyes when he saw me on the sidelines.

  He seems to think before responding. “I did at that point. I hated you for what you did to me, to us. It’s a battle I’ve been fighting for the past year. Hating you versus hating myself. Hating myself won out.”

  His answer shouldn’t shock me as much as it does. Rob’s always had a guilty conscience. It’s something he’s been living with since my attack. I haven’t freed him from the weight of it, after all. “You have to let go of that guilt. It’s killing you. You’re not responsible for what happened to me in high school; you’re not responsible for our relationship falling apart; you’re not responsible for my decision now.”

  “Yes. I am.” He stands before me again, but makes no move to bridge the physical rift between us. “Hating myself won out because hating you has never been an option.”

  “Why?” Of all the questions pinging through my brain, that one trumps all the others. “Why don’t you hate me?”

  He should. If he knew everything, he would.

  “It’s impossible for me to hate you. Believe me, I tried. I thought blaming you, reviling you for the way you lied to me would make the consequences of us parting ways easier to live with. Turns out, I’ve just gotten really good at lying to myself.”

  I’m all too familiar with that. The depressed tone of his words causes my shoulders to slump under their weight, even as his admission makes my heart race. “Don’t go down the path of lying to yourself, Rob. It’s almost impossible to come back from it. Once you lose yourself completely, you’ll never be able to find your way out. You’ll get so good at convincing yourself of the truth you want, you’ll lose sight of the truth that is.”

  He heaves a deep breath. “You know that better than most, don’t you?”

  I don’t bother denying it. “Yes. Now you see why having the hysterectomy now won’t change anything. I’m already too far gone.”

  “I don’t believe that.” His voice is the softest caress, almost as if he reached out in that familiar way with his fingers against my cheek. “You wouldn’t have flown all the way across the country, cleaned up the mess I made, and asked me to stay with you for the past several hours if you really thought I was too far gone, either.”