“What are you guys talking about?” The drunk girl from two minutes ago takes it upon herself to plop down into my lap. She slinks an arm around my neck and smooshes her cheek against mine.
Matteo turns away, hiding the amused smirk on his pretty boy face.
“You know what? You two look like you could be brothers.” The drunk girl’s jaw hangs open. “Has anyone ever told you that?”
“We are brothers, babe.” Matteo pats her knee the way an adult might pat the top of a child’s head.
The woman giggles, leaning back and nearly falling off my lap.
Leaning toward my brother, I give him a look and ask, “Where’d you find this one?”
Matteo rolls his eyes. “She worked on the set earlier. Her job was to steam all the wrinkles out of the underwear we were modeling.”
Tossing back the rest of my drink, I place the flute on the table and declare that I’m in need of a real man’s drink. The drunk girl pouts before taking her sweet ass time climbing off me, and I make my way to the bar.
“Hey,” the bartender says, eyes lighting when he sees me. “I know you.”
I keep my head down. So much for the beard and flashing club lights camouflaging my identity tonight.
“You’re that baseball player. Ace, right? Huge fan.” he says. “Huge.”
“Thank you.” My gaze is averted. Meeting loyal fans anymore tends to serve as a reminder that I’ve let them down.
“What can I get you?” he asks.
I order a whiskey sour, top shelf, and take a seat on a nearby stool while he pours. A minute later, he slides the drink to me and waves me off when I try and hand him a twenty.
“On the house,” he says, hunched over his side of the bar. The lights flash on his round face, reflecting in his thick-rimmed glasses.
“You sure?”
“Absolutely,” he says. “We’re glad to have you, Ace. You’re drinking for free tonight, man.”
“Thank you.” I give him a tight-lipped smile, one he probably can’t see anyway thanks to the beard, and head back to the lounge.
By the time I’m finished with my whiskey, I’m feeling better than I have in a long time. I’ve never been a drinking man, always opting to maintain control over myself at all times. Plus when I wasn’t conditioning and eating things like quinoa and kale, I still had to stay in shape.
I may not be quite as cut as before, but the muscles are still there, like corded steel reminders that I was once capable of strike outs and 100mph speedballs.
Warmth floods my veins in slow motion, and I sink into my velvet chair, eyes half open and focusing on the pulsing tunes and swaying bodies in the crowd across the club. For the first time in a long time, I’m merely existing. In a good way.
I’m not dwelling on the past.
I’m not fixating on the question mark that is my future.
I’m just . . . here.
After a while, I lose track of time.
And I lose track of how many drinks I’ve ordered.
Come two in the morning, I find myself back at home, in my bed, with no recollection of how I got here, though I’m sure Matteo had something to do with that. It’s funny how things have changed. I was always the big brother, looking after the younger kids, making sure they were staying out of trouble and keeping their noses clean. I was always the one taking care of them when our mom was working two jobs.
Sinking into the messy sheets that cover my bed, I feel the cool glass of my phone screen. Looking up at the ceiling, the room spins. Faster and faster. Like I’m on a Merry-Go-Round. I want to get off, but I know I can’t. This is why I hate being drunk.
I bring the phone to my face, eyes pierced with pain as they adjust to the bright light in my darkened room.
For a brief moment, I forget about the ungodly hour upon me and consider calling Aidy. I should apologize. I should apologize for calling her crazy. If anyone’s crazy, it’s me. I haven’t been myself, not since last year. She should know I’m not myself. And I want to send that freckle-faced kid an autograph. He didn’t do anything wrong, and it’s the least I can do.
Maybe it’s the alcohol talking, but I kind of don’t want to be an asshole anymore.