“That’s not true. It doesn’t look like it. We’re moving, the three of us.”
Alex clenched the edge of the desk so hard the wood bit into his skin.
“I know it’s far, but it’s not like you won’t see Cassie anymore. We’ll figure something out. You can come anytime you want, and maybe part of the summer she can stay with you. Thanksgiving. Something.”
No , he thought and was surprised to realize he’d spoken aloud.
“I know that’s not what you want to hear,” she said, like she’d heard him. “And I’m sorry. But I”—she paused—“I spoke to my father’s lawyer, and he said that because you’ve been having trouble with the child support, we’re in the clear. Not that I want to get legal, but he said that if it came to that, given the money you’ve missed, and because Scott and I are married and providing a home to Cassie . . .” She stopped. “I hate this. You knew I wanted to talk to you. But you’ve been doing that thing you do, sticking your head in the sand hoping that will keep things from happening. Just like still working at that stupid bar, all these years later.” She hesitated, spoke with a gentler tone. “Anyway. We’ll be heading out in a couple of weeks. They need Scott right away, and he doesn’t want to be away from us. Of course, you can see Cassie before then, a couple of times maybe.” There was a long pause, and she said, “I’m sorry. Call if you want to talk. I’m sorry.”
Then the fumbling sound of her hanging up, and the machine beeped.
Alex stared. The fingers in his gut had tightened into a fist. His hands were shaking. Phoenix. Phoenix! They couldn’t do that. Take his baby girl and move halfway across the country, they couldn’t. Yeah, OK, he’d missed a couple of payments, been late on some others. But he wasn’t a deadbeat. He’d been working his ass off, hadn’t made one forward step in his own life because half of what he made went to Cassie. That lawyer of Trish’s—not hers, her father’s. Alex remembered the lawyer, a bland man with glasses and a shirt so white it shone, working the system so the child support was staggeringly high, telling him he was lucky that Trish still cared, that she was being so generous with custody, that—
He grabbed the answering machine in both hands and yanked, feeling the tension and then the delicious snap of the cords as he hurled it at the wall. It flew like a discus, hard and straight, and cracked a jagged hole in his drywall before falling to the ground, the cover breaking off. He wanted to go over and jump on it, stomp on the thing until it was just parts, until he ground the parts into his carpet. He stood flexing and opening his fists, a man alone in the dark of a lousy apartment.
This couldn’t be happening. It just couldn’t.
Leaving the vodka glass sweating on his desk, he opened the door and stepped outside.
JENN WAS ON A MOTORCYCLE, not a Harley, but one of those low Japanese numbers, what her brother had called a crotch rocket. Leaning into it, the pulse of the thing thrumming in warm vibrations through her body. Zooming on an open road, so fast the striped line turned solid as she raced toward an indigo horizon. There was a pounding sound, a thumping, maybe something from the bike, but she just leaned harder, went faster, the wind streaking her hair behind. The thumping came again, and she fought it, cranked the throttle harder—
And woke up curled sideways in her bed, a pillow squeezed between her thighs. Blinked at the green light of the clock: 4:11. The pounding came again, a real sound. The door. Someone was at the door.
It was enough to make her sit up straight, the sheet slipping from her shoulders. The hammering came again, loud and insistent. She sat frozen for a moment, an animal reaction, part of her wanting to bolt and scurry.
Rela x. She swung her legs off the side of the bed, reached underneath for the Louisville Slugger. The heft of it made her feel better. She
Alex clenched the edge of the desk so hard the wood bit into his skin.
“I know it’s far, but it’s not like you won’t see Cassie anymore. We’ll figure something out. You can come anytime you want, and maybe part of the summer she can stay with you. Thanksgiving. Something.”
No , he thought and was surprised to realize he’d spoken aloud.
“I know that’s not what you want to hear,” she said, like she’d heard him. “And I’m sorry. But I”—she paused—“I spoke to my father’s lawyer, and he said that because you’ve been having trouble with the child support, we’re in the clear. Not that I want to get legal, but he said that if it came to that, given the money you’ve missed, and because Scott and I are married and providing a home to Cassie . . .” She stopped. “I hate this. You knew I wanted to talk to you. But you’ve been doing that thing you do, sticking your head in the sand hoping that will keep things from happening. Just like still working at that stupid bar, all these years later.” She hesitated, spoke with a gentler tone. “Anyway. We’ll be heading out in a couple of weeks. They need Scott right away, and he doesn’t want to be away from us. Of course, you can see Cassie before then, a couple of times maybe.” There was a long pause, and she said, “I’m sorry. Call if you want to talk. I’m sorry.”
Then the fumbling sound of her hanging up, and the machine beeped.
Alex stared. The fingers in his gut had tightened into a fist. His hands were shaking. Phoenix. Phoenix! They couldn’t do that. Take his baby girl and move halfway across the country, they couldn’t. Yeah, OK, he’d missed a couple of payments, been late on some others. But he wasn’t a deadbeat. He’d been working his ass off, hadn’t made one forward step in his own life because half of what he made went to Cassie. That lawyer of Trish’s—not hers, her father’s. Alex remembered the lawyer, a bland man with glasses and a shirt so white it shone, working the system so the child support was staggeringly high, telling him he was lucky that Trish still cared, that she was being so generous with custody, that—
He grabbed the answering machine in both hands and yanked, feeling the tension and then the delicious snap of the cords as he hurled it at the wall. It flew like a discus, hard and straight, and cracked a jagged hole in his drywall before falling to the ground, the cover breaking off. He wanted to go over and jump on it, stomp on the thing until it was just parts, until he ground the parts into his carpet. He stood flexing and opening his fists, a man alone in the dark of a lousy apartment.
This couldn’t be happening. It just couldn’t.
Leaving the vodka glass sweating on his desk, he opened the door and stepped outside.
JENN WAS ON A MOTORCYCLE, not a Harley, but one of those low Japanese numbers, what her brother had called a crotch rocket. Leaning into it, the pulse of the thing thrumming in warm vibrations through her body. Zooming on an open road, so fast the striped line turned solid as she raced toward an indigo horizon. There was a pounding sound, a thumping, maybe something from the bike, but she just leaned harder, went faster, the wind streaking her hair behind. The thumping came again, and she fought it, cranked the throttle harder—
And woke up curled sideways in her bed, a pillow squeezed between her thighs. Blinked at the green light of the clock: 4:11. The pounding came again, a real sound. The door. Someone was at the door.
It was enough to make her sit up straight, the sheet slipping from her shoulders. The hammering came again, loud and insistent. She sat frozen for a moment, an animal reaction, part of her wanting to bolt and scurry.
Rela x. She swung her legs off the side of the bed, reached underneath for the Louisville Slugger. The heft of it made her feel better. She
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