Egomaniac - Vi Keeland Page 0,54
much, but the novelty had long since worn off of our relationship. We had three things in common: We both liked sex. Money—I earned it; she spent it. And our son. But when you’re working ten hours a day, and then nights and weekends you’re taking care of your father who is literally dying before your eyes, even sex takes a back seat.
Before my father started to decline so fast, I’d tried to take an interest in my wife’s new hobbies, give us something more in common. But other than attending a play one of her classes was putting on, it wasn’t easy. I ran lines with her, but she told me I didn’t put enough heart into my acting. That was probably because I wasn’t a damn actor. I went to watch her play practices, and she told me my presence made her think too much about her performance. Eventually, I gave up trying. Though the last few days, she’d been absolutely incredible.
I turned around and held my wife, kissing the top of her head. “Yeah. Let’s go. My shoulders are knotted. I’d like that.”
After about fifteen minutes, I’d started to relax—until Alexa brought the tension back into my neck.
“We should go to Sage’s party tonight.”
“I buried my father two hours ago. The only parent I had, considering my mother took off with her boyfriend when I was only a little older than our son. I’m not really in the mood for a party.”
“But it’s our anniversary. And it’s New Year’s Eve.”
“Alexa, I’m not going to a fucking party tonight. Alright?”
She stopped rubbing. “You don’t have to be a jerk about it.”
I sat up. “A jerk? You expect me to go to a party on the day of my father’s funeral? I don’t think I’m the one acting like a jerk.”
My wife huffed. Our five-year age difference felt more like twenty sometimes. “I need a party. The last few months have been depressing.”
It wasn’t like she’d helped me with my father or anything. Every weekend while I was taking care of him, she was out with her friends, usually shopping or having lunch God knows where. Her selfishness had finally gotten to me.
“Which part of the last few months was depressing? Living on Park Avenue and spending thousands on shopping every week? Or maybe it was the nanny who watched our son so you could take acting classes and go out to lunch? How about the three week-long trips you took back to Atlanta to visit your immature friends—the ones where you flew first-class and stayed at the St. Regis downtown instead of your brother’s double wide in the sticks? That must have been depressing.”
“My friends are not immature.”
I scoffed and went to reply, but decided I’d rather have another drink than continue this conversation. Out of everything I’d said, what hurt her feelings was that her friends were immature? She had a warped fucking sense of priority. I walked to the kitchen, which was open to the living room where she still sat, and poured myself another drink.
“Go to the party by yourself, Alexa.”
***
The sun was setting by the time I opened my eyes. Alexa had taken Beck to the mall to shop for yet another new dress, and I’d passed out on the couch after finishing my drink and the argument with her. Sitting up, I ran my fingers through my hair. I shouldn’t have been surprised that Alexa had planned to go to a party tonight. God forbid she miss a party, especially New Year’s Eve. I’d given her more credit than she deserved in the selflessness department, apparently.
My stomach growled. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d actually eaten. Yesterday, maybe? Dinner at that Italian place in between the morning and afternoon wake sessions at the funeral parlor, I think. Rummaging through the refrigerator, I took out the platter we’d ordered for this morning and picked at the antipasto with my fingers. As I was stuffing my face, my cell phone started to ring, and at first, I ignored it. But after it immediately began ringing again, I reached over to check the caller ID. It was a local number—one that was very familiar. By the third ring, my brain had searched my internal phonebook and finally recalled why I knew it.
I’d dialed it off and on for the last few months, each time my father’s health took a turn for the worse. Lenox Hill Hospital was calling.
***
The cab driver screamed at me as I