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Sometime after, I fell asleep as the sun sank below the horizon and the lights of Manhattan flicked on to stave off the impending darkness. When I woke, my neck was sore, and mouth dry as the Sahara. I was still drunk because I found it hard to navigate my way into my apartment. I tripped over the lip of the slider, almost bottoming out on the kitchen floor.
My cell once again went off and I had the urge to yank it from my pocket and throw it against the wall. It eventually silenced itself but went off a minute later. I fished it from my pocket and was greeted with nine calls and a multitude of texts. Apparently, Michael got wind of what went down. I had no idea how, but he was worried.
It looked like the Elliott boys were not only lucky in love, but unlucky. I called my brother to let him know I was alive.
“Michael…” I started.
“What the fuck is going on?!” he demanded, cutting me off. “Erika called me and said you were in trouble.”
I frowned, slurring out, “How the hell would she know?”
“You sound drunk. What happened?”
“It’s more sordid than your little tale. And yes, I am drunk.”
In the background, I heard street traffic and then the slamming of a door.
“Where are you? Working late?” I asked.
“Working late and on my way over.”
“That’s unnecessary.”
I steadied myself against the counter and worked my way around it to the refrigerator, snatching at the handle. I found a bottle of water, twisted off the top and slurped at it until it was empty.
“You’re fucked up,” he retorted. “You need me.”
“Save yourself, brother. You can’t save me.”
“I know how it feels.”
I scoffed. “What words of wisdom can you offer me?”
“None, but we can commiserate. You have so much to offer.”
“I don’t want to hear that bullshit. I wanted to offer what I had to Erika.”
“I’ll be over in a few minutes. I want to hear the entire story.”
“If you must.” I pressed the end button on my phone and used the wall to keep myself from falling as I made my way to the bedroom. I was sweaty and uncomfortable and needed to change my clothes.
“Foster Black?” Michael echoed, his voice carrying the same disbelief I’d felt when Erika first mentioned the name. “Jesus Christ.”
I took a sip from the glass of ice water Michael had set in front of me earlier, the cold liquid doing little to quench the bitterness in my throat. After the confrontation with Erika, I’d gotten drunk and ended up in my bedroom eventually. Michael had found me there and shaken me awake. Now, I was sitting on the chaise in my bedroom, wearing a pair of shorts, trying to piece together the shattered remnants of my thoughts.
“That’s what I said,” I muttered, shaking my head. “I thought I was a player, but I have nothing on that bastard. Erika was engaged to him years ago. She doesn’t want to marry me, but she gets engaged to Foster fucking Black.”
“Lincoln, that was a long time ago,” Michael said, his tone gentle but firm.
“Doesn’t matter,” I shot back, the bitterness seeping into my voice. “After everything he did to her, she still has feelings for him.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, the sincerity in his eyes making my chest tighten.
“I could use a drink,” I mumbled, the urge to drown my sorrows in something stronger than water clawing at me.
“You’re still drunk,” Michael warned, nodding at the glass in my hand. “Have your water instead.”
Grimacing, I picked up the glass and sucked a cube of ice into my mouth, rolling it around as if the cold would somehow numb the pain inside. It cooled my tongue, but the sudden brain freeze made me wince, and I spat the ice out into the glass with a frustrated sigh.
