Our marriage had always been tumultuous. And expensive.
I was the moody writer and she was the gregarious socialite who liked throwing lavish parties and hosting expensive dinners.
She had to have the big house in Rosewood Point and the finest furniture to fill it and the finest art to hang on the walls.
She had to have the best cars and closets filled with designer clothes and expensive jewelry and exotic trips with her friends.
She spent money as fast as I could make it, and that was fine with me because all that kept her entertained so I didn’t have to bother. I just wanted to hole up in my study with my computer and a bottle of Jack Daniels and the voices in my head.
I considered myself to be a tragic writer in the mold of Hemingway and Poe. I thought pain and anger bred brilliance. Turned out I was simply fooling myself.
My books sold well, but at the cost of my soul and our marriage.
We almost split up several times, but I somehow developed this silly notion that a baby would fix everything. I should have known better. My folks had eight kids and still died hating one another.
Bethany said a baby wouldn’t fix what was broken between us. There was too much carnage left in the wake of my drinking and her spending.
Still, we agreed to try.
She got pregnant and I went to Alcoholics Anonymous.
I guess we should have added a third caveat: she would not fuck my best friend, Ernie. Or any guy, for that matter.
I knew she wasn’t happy.
Shit, I wasn’t happy either, but that was the bed we’d made.
My first two books had both been best sellers and the pressure was on for a third hit. I couldn’t focus. I was hard to live with. I was struggling to kick the booze. I ignored her. I didn’t even remember the last time we’d had sex.
Fine, I wasn’t giving her what she needed, but did she have to fuck my best friend?
She was a gorgeous woman.
She could have had any man she wanted, even at seven months pregnant.
Did she have to fuck Ernie?
Or was that the point?
Maybe fucking Ernie was the ultimate fuck me.
Ernie had been my best friend since college. He was a partner in a big law firm downtown and handled all my legal affairs. He was also a swinging dick who loved to brag about all the women in Rosewood he’d fucked. I never would have imagined that my wife would be one of them.
I had even confided in Ernie when I first suspected that Bethany was cheating on me. She wouldn’t do that, he said. She loves you. The booze is making you paranoid. Clean yourself up and work on making her happy. You can’t afford a divorce. She’ll take everything you’ve got.
Thanks for the advice, Ernie old pal.
You cock-sucking son of a bitch.
It was a good thing you were killed in the wreck.
I would have killed you myself if you had survived.
*
I was sitting in front of my computer, staring at a blank page, when the doorbell rang. I glanced over at Lizzie, who was sleeping on the sofa in my office with her blanket—her binkie—tucked under her chin and a thumb in her mouth.
A Barney video was playing on the TV with the sound muted. That didn’t stop that fucking “I Love You” song from looping through my head. God, I hated that song.
We’d been up for hours. Lizzie usually woke up around seven and climbed into bed with me. We would have breakfast, get dressed, and she would play in my office while I tried to write.
I use the word “tried” because so far I hadn’t written a thing, not in two years.
I had two weeks to deliver a full outline for the next book or I’d have to return the ninety-thousand-dollar advance.
I could hear the clock ticking in my head.
I had never tried to write sober before.
I wasn’t sure I could.
Thank God Lizzie was an easy kid most of the time. It was like she knew what was happening with me and wanted to help me along.
I put on a video, gave her some toys to keep her busy, and she pretty much entertained herself.
Trust me, the similarity to how I treated her mother did not escape me.
I often turned away from the computer to watch her play.
Not a care in the world.
No clue that she nearly died before she could be born.
No idea that her mother was a cheating cunt…
No, that wasn’t fair.
A better man would say that her mother was a passionate woman in a shitty marriage who made lousy decisions that ended her life.
And Lizzie looked more and more like her every day.
It was hard to hate a woman who left such an amazing gift behind.
It was hard to forgive her as well.
And Lizzie was mine. There was no doubt.
The DNA test I had the hospital run proved it.
What would I have done if the test had proved that Lizzie wasn’t mine?
Thankfully, that was a bridge I’d never had to cross.
I’d been too full of hate and despair to think about anyone but myself at the time.
Only God knew what I would have done.
Only God.
The doorbell rang again.
I tiptoed out of the room and went to the front door.