Infinity.

by Layne Harper

  I kiss her lips, not wanting to let her go. I don’t want us to end this magical week together angry at one another. If she is wanting to stay in Houston permanently, ten minutes before she leaves me again is not the time to fight about it—even I’m smart enough to realize that.

  She’s the one who pulls away first. “You know we got distracted and never discussed the Lake Somerville property site plans.”

  She’s at least thinking about our future if she’s talking about the vacation home.

  “Damn distractions.” I smirk, staring directly at her tits.

  “Maybe we can get to it next time we’re home.” Please let it be for good next time. Prove me wrong, Charlie. Come on, baby, show me that you aren’t karma’s best revenge.

  She turns, brushing against my crotch as she wiggles away from me. “One more bathroom break. Can you put Ainsley in the car?” Neither one of us moves for a couple of heartbeats as I absorb her smell, and feel the lingering remnants of her touch on my cock.

  She breaks the spell and heads toward our bedroom. I pick up Ainsley’s suitcase. “Come on, baby girl. Time to tell you goodbye.”

  My heart is heavy as I carry my daughter to The Tank. I can do this for a finite period of time, but this can’t be my life. I can’t keep giving Ainsley goodbye kisses. I’m not willing to give up my relationship with my daughter or wife for Charlie’s career.

  Brad and Carter are having a heated goodbye make-out session in my driveway, and only stop when I begin to load the back with my wife and daughter’s things.

  Amy and Aiden join us on the driveway. Amy is flushed and her lips are swollen. They must have said their goodbyes in the privacy of one of their rooms.

  I strap Ainsley into the car seat, checking the restraints to make sure they’re secure across her chest. Next, I lean over, giving her a kiss on tip of her nose. She giggles and bats at a toy that Charlie has suspended from the roof of the car. I can’t stand it, so I lean in for two more kisses and a nose rub. “Bye, Daddy’s angel. I’ll see you soon.”

  Brad takes the passenger seat, and Amy slides in the back next to the car seat.

  Now, I must tell my beautiful girl goodbye. I pull her to me and hold her tightly while I kiss her lips. I silently pray into her hair that I’m wrong, and that she’s going to come back to me.

  Her arms, wrapped tightly around my chest, give me the reassurance that this is as hard on her as it is on me. My feelings must be wrong.

  She pulls away first. “I love you.”

  I smile, not wanting to make it any harder on either of us. “Infinity.”

  “Infinity,” she repeats as her fingers brush over her necklace.

  Then, Carter, Aiden, and I stand like the pathetic fucks we are watching The Tank, filled with our loved ones, drive through the security gates while Miguel follows them. Another man who is taking care of my family.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Charlie

  Wake up.

  Quick run, while Miguel and I ponder the meaning of life.

  Brad feeds Ainsley while I take a shower.

  Get Ainsley clean from breakfast.

  Get Ainsley dressed.

  Get me dressed.

  Drop Ainsley off at my mom’s house for Amy to watch her.

  Have the most fun that I’ve had practicing medicine.

  Brainstorm ideas with Brad on how we can bring in new patients to the practice.

  Talk shop with the physical therapists about our patients. See their progress.

  Fight insurance companies.

  Put out mini-fires in the office amongst the staff.

  Pick up Ainsley from my mom’s house.

  Feed Ainsley, Brad, and myself.

  Bathe Ainsley.

  Put Ainsley to bed.

  Collapse on the couch with Brad, and drink wine until my heart rate returns to normal.

  Give Colin thirty minutes of my night.

  Crawl into bed.

  Repeat again tomorrow.

  And the next day.

  And the day after that.

  But much more enthused about practicing medicine.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Colin

  Since Thanksgiving, Charlie and I have Skyped or Facetimed every night without fail. It’s my favorite time of the day, and I plan around it like the pathetic fuck that I am. I’ve rearranged film-watching with my coaches, I’ve canceled dinner meetings, I’ve blown off sponsors’ events, and I’ve ignored Jenny’s repeated requests to try and entertain me.

  Hearing the trill of the Skype request has turned my dick into Pavlov’s dog. It instantly gets hard knowing that we’re going to see Charlie. So far, we haven’t had sex over Skype. She’s suggested it more than once, but I’m not sure I can handle watching her come on a dick that isn’t mine when I can’t touch her.

  I get it. She’s explained it to me. She’ll be pretending that it’s me, but I know that it’s not, obviously, and as of right now I just don’t think that I can handle it.

  Charlie and Ainsley haven’t been home since Thanksgiving, a month ago, and it’s killing me. It’s no one’s fault. My football schedule has taken me away from Dallas every weekend. It sucks. I haven’t gotten used to my empty, quiet, lonely house. Thank God for Pancho. I can’t imagine what a miserable bastard I’d be if I didn’t at least have him.

  Every time I talk to Charlie, I see the gleam in her eye she gets when she’s talking about the practice. I know in my heart that it’s what she wants to do. I’m just at a loss with what my next move is. Am I a complete dick and demand that she moves home? I don’t want her unhappy. Then there’s the nagging voice in the back of my head that reminds me that she chose medicine over me once before. My ex-wife politely reminded me of that fact when I told her I wanted a divorce.

  She put her career first and dumped me like yesterday’s news. If I push her, will she choose being a doctor again over me? Can I survive her leaving me twice in one lifetime? Fuck. I don’t think so. But can I survive not having my daughter with me, not watching her grow up? Absolutely fucking not.

  I can’t dwell on these thoughts too much. If I do, I’ll lose my shit, which won’t do anyone any good. One day at time… One day at a time…

  And now, it’s slap-a-fake-smile-on-my-face show-time…

  “Hello lovely ladies,” I greet my precious baby, who’s in red-and-white striped Christmas jammies, and her gorgeous mother, who has on a baggy sweatshirt and yoga pants. She’s still so hot that my dick twitches.

  We talk about the normal stuff. How our days were. Anything interesting that might have happened. We ignore the media reports that I’ve contacted a divorce attorney, and Charlie is pregnant with Brad’s baby. You know, the normal things that every couple deals with.

  Then, I ask the absolute wrong question. “What fun did Miss Ainsley have today?” Simple, obvious, easy question, right? Wrong!

  Charlie’s cheeks begin to glow, and she’s almost bouncing she’s so excited. She turns to Ainsley and says, “Want to tell Daddy who you met today?”

  Ainsley smiles and reaches for the computer screen. I reach back, longing to feel her chubby fingers around mine instead of the flat, cold, monitor glass. I can tell that they’re in Charlie’s kitchen, and I spot Brad in the background, doing something on the stove.

  “Ainsley met Santa today.” Charlie oozes Christmas joy that I’m not feeling. “Didn’t you, baby girl? Didn’t you, baby girl?” she coos to Ainsley.

  My stomach instantly knots. “I thought we were taking her to see Santa when you come home for Christmas?” I’m rather proud of myself. My voice is steady, and doesn’t betray how upset I am.

  “Well, honey,” she’s instantly defensive, “Santa was coming to my office building, and Amy brought Ainsley up to see him. I couldn’t very well tell her to shield Ainsley’s eyes from the fat man in the red suit.”

  Her tone really pisses me off. It’s condescending, like I’m an idiot for wanting to take my daughter to meet Sant
a Claus for the first time. “I don’t know. I just thought that it was going to be something special that the three of us did together.” I don’t add because you’ve taken my child away from me for the last two months to accommodate your family, your father’s memory, and your career instead of your husband, and your assistant is playing the part of Ainsley’s father.

  Brad moves from the stove and off-screen, probably heading to the refrigerator that’s nearby. Then I watch my daughter lift her eyes above the computer screen and point at Brad. She says the words that I’ve longed to hear. Ainsley says, “Da Da,” but she says it to Charlie’s best assistant in the world instead of her father.

  “I have to go,” I spit as I disconnect from Skype, angrily mashing the button.

  I’m in shock. I sit at my breakfast bar staring at the screen. My daughter just referred to Brad as her father. I become so queasy that for a moment, I think that I might puke. My daughter just called Brad Da Da. My. Daughter. Called. Brad. Da Da.

  My phone rings and I send Charlie to voicemail. I don’t care to hear her pathetic excuses. I know exactly what I just witnessed. Ainsley wasn’t looking at me. She wasn’t babbling. She clearly lifted her lavender eyes over the laptop and looked at Brad, calling him her father.

  Next, the house phone rings, which I refuse to answer. Charlie begins pleading on the answering machine for me to pick up. It’s really a bad move on her part. Right now, I’m so upset that phrases like “You have twenty-four hours to bring me my child” are running through my head. There’s even an “I’ll fight you for full custody” that enters in my thoughts.

  I grip the edge of the granite, attempting to anchor myself. My heart is thundering in my ears. There’s no calming myself down at this point. I’m too angry, and hurt, and enraged. I ignore the texts messages that are flooding my phone. This is the straw that broke the camel’s back. I’ve been the supportive husband through this. I’ve played nicely. I’ve let my wife and daughter leave me under the guise of saving the medical practice, and immortalizing Jack Collins. Game’s over. My daughter thinks Brad is her father. Game motherfucking over.

  The walls of the McMansion are moving in around me—crushing me. I know that if I don’t get out of this house and away from my technology that I’m going to do something that I’m going to regret tomorrow, like calling Charlie and making threats that, as of right now, I have every intention of following through with.

  If she thinks for one fucking second that I’m going to let her ride off into the sunset with our daughter, she’s got another thing coming. I worship the ground that Charlie walks on, but Ainsley is my blood.

  I slip on a pair of trainers and leash Pancho. My run begins around the gated neighborhood. It does nothing to calm me down, so I put Pancho in the backyard. Just as I head through the security gates, Jamie reaches me, dressed for a run.

  “Not tonight. I’m going by myself.” I don’t look at him, or acknowledge his presence.

  “But sir, we discussed the reasons to accompany you at night…”

  “I said, ‘not tonight.’ Leave me the fuck alone,” I growl.

  I see Jamie nod out of my peripheral vision, and turn around to jog back to the pool house.

  Just to torment myself, I run past the home that I bought for Brad. Carter’s living in it while Brad’s sharing living quarters with my wife. And playing Daddy to my daughter.

  What an idiot I’ve been. I handed him my family—hook, line, and sinker. The tabloid stories swirl through my head. I’ve never doubted for one minute that Charlie was loyal to me. Never. On this run, though, I begin putting pieces together. Pieces that my rational mind would discard. Has Brad been turning my wife and daughter against me? Is he taking what’s mine?

  I think back to the conversation that Charlie and I had when Ainsley had her first ear infection. Charlie called the pediatrician “Ainsley’s doctor.” Did she know then, that she was taking my daughter away from me? Had she already interviewed doctors in Houston? Is that why she called her Ainsley’s doctor?

  My worst nightmares, the ones that cause panic attacks, are coming true.

  Is this what my ex-wife felt like when I told her I wanted a divorce? Was she this hurt and devastated? Maybe this is my karma. If so, I’ve paid the ultimate price. My daughter’s first word was to call another man “Da Da.” I scream out loud, and hit my chest while I’m running, “Fuck you, karma.”

  I pound the streets of my subdivision, thinking things that I shouldn’t until I spot a restaurant and bar. I haven’t drank since I found out that I have Celiac Disease, and before that I hadn’t had more than a glass of wine since the night of the Clay South retirement dinner, when I poisoned myself to keep what’s-her-name from trying to fuck me. Turns out she didn’t care that I was sick and still made a play, setting in motion the events that led to the world knowing about my relationship with Charlie.

  I pat my pockets, and find that I don’t have a credit card on me, but I’m Colin Fucking McKinney, the Brad Pitt of football. I brought this town a Super Bowl; surely the bartender will let me have a tab.

  I walk in, huffing, trying to catch my breath as I grab a seat at the bar. The place is some chain brew-house. The name escapes me. I’ve never been in here before, but I’ve driven by it millions of times when I was a slave to fast-food row while Charlie was pregnant.

  Immediately, the very pretty blonde bartender with giant fake boobs smiles and slides a glass of water in front of me. “What’ll it be?” She’s got enough makeup on that I’m sure it leaves smears on the sheets.

  “Jack on ice, but hey, I don’t have my card on me. Can you start a tab, and I’ll settle it tomorrow?”

  She winks a heavily-mascaraed eye. “It’s on the house, Colin.”

  The first taste swishes around my mouth and burns like red-hot candy. I feel it sliding down my throat and into my stomach. The burn mixes with the battery acid, and begins to neutralize it.

  The second sip lingers just inside my mouth for a moment. Then I swallow it, and feel the battery acid retreat a little more.

  There’s a second of clarity when I question what the hell I’m doing here. I look around the restaurant and note that it’s painted a red color that matches my anger. There are a few other people sitting at the bar with me. One’s an older guy. He looks like he’d really like to talk to me so I ignore him, refusing to make eye contact. The pretty redhead, at the end of the bar, appears to be waiting for someone. She’s nervously tapping her foot and checking her watch. Then there’s the couple in love, practically dry-humping as they share a bar stool. It’s as if they’ve been sent by God to mock me.

  I take another sip and don’t bother savoring it. I have no car, and it’s only about a three-mile walk/run/stagger/crawl back to my house. I’ve survived being hung over at practice many times before. It’s either I get shit-faced here, or I drive to Houston and take my daughter away from her mother, which will only end badly for all of us.

  Slamming the glass down, I ask the Playboy-looking bartender for another. Here’s the pathetic thing: I have no alcohol tolerance. I’m feeling it, and I’ve only had one drink. Aiden would call me a pussy, and rag me like crazy if he were here. But if he were here, he wouldn’t let me do this, so I’m glad he’s in Los Angeles.

  The older guy who’s been itching to get my attention finally grows a sac. “I really enjoy watching you play.”

  I hold my glass up to him and say a polite “thanks,” hoping that he’ll now leave me the fuck alone.

  “That play you made in the Super Bowl was unbelievable.” So much for him keeping his mouth shut.

  “Yeah. I was just as stunned as everyone else.” I’m trying to sound humble here, and that this guy’s got to catch the clue and leave me alone.

  “What’d you do to piss off Charlie?” He’s got a snide look on his old, wrinkled, smug face.

  Just hearing her name come out of a stranger’s mouth makes me insane all over again. “Don’t say her name,” I growl as I gr
ip the edge of the highly-polished wooden bar until my knuckles show white.

  The old man holds his hands up as if he’s surrendering. “Sorry, I meant no harm. She’s hot. If she were mine, I’d make sure that I stayed on her good side.”

  Before I know it, I’ve got the geezer pressed up against the bar, twisting his white, stained T-shirt tightly in my fist. He reeks of booze and fear. His watery eyes are bulging out of his head, and his mouth is hanging open like I’m choking him. “Don’t ever talk about my wife again,” I say through gritted teeth.

  Two burly men are approaching my right side. I’m coherent enough to know that I don’t want any trouble, so I release the asshole, throwing my hands up. “Sorry, just a misunderstanding.”

  The restaurant has gone silent, except for the diners holding up their phones and snapping away. Great. I’m going to be breaking news again on the morning talk shows.

  I can tell the large men really don’t want to be the bouncers that throw the city’s Super Bowl-winning MVP quarterback out of their bar. Instead of messing with me, they whisper something to the old guy, and he follows them out.

  The pretty bartender hands me a fresh drink as I sit back down on the bar stool. “I get off in thirty minutes if you need a ride home,” she says with a sexy little wink.

  Do I need a ride home? Yes, because I have no money, ID, or phone. I can’t call anyone to pick me up. Do I need a RIDE home? No, as pissed as I am at my wife, I don’t want to fuck some random chick.

  I down my third drink and can no longer feel my toes. “I could use a lift, but I’m not going to fuck you,” is what I’m sure that I said. What came out sounded like, “I cud us a fit, but I emmm not gonnnna fuck ya.”

  She hands me one more and a glass of water. “Let me tell my boss where I’m going.”

  She flounces back with one of the big guys who helps me to the bartender’s car. Just my luck: it’s a VW Beetle. The big guy puts me in the front seat where my knees meet my chin, and climbs in the back. God only knows how he fit. The bartender starts the car, and pulls into traffic.