That beautiful ass of hers.
Every corner of this city echoes with our shared memories of me trying to turn her into a better New Yorker. The corner cafe where we huddled over shared hot chocolates, the park where we laid watching the stars, and Times Square where I promised her we’d ring in the New Year with a passionate kiss. Every place in this city feels haunted by her laughter.
I grasp the empty glass in my hand, the ice cubes clinking against each other. My mind plays back our moments like an old film, each memory more bittersweet than the last.
“Can I have another, please?” I ask the bartender.
In an attempt to drown out my sorrows about missing her and my battle to play ball again, I’ve started immersing myself in legal action against Jana during the day and the city’s nightlife in the evening.
My relationship with Jana has now reached a toxic level. She is livid that I have pursued a dual custody arrangement and formal child support and I’m sure her fiancé isn’t helping matters. We have zero direct contact now and I have not been able to speak to Bella in over two weeks. Every time I call, she either says that Bella is out or she doesn’t bother picking up the phone at all. What’s worse is I don’t know what Jana might be telling her. Is she filling her head with lies about me? Does Bella think I don’t love her anymore?
To temper the sting of the pain of being without my baby girl, no Katrina to dull the pain, and no football–I fill my evenings in nightclubs filled with high octane dance music and strangers offering temporary solace. Women, alluring and beautiful, try to fill the void, but each smile, each attempt at a conversation, feels meaningless to me now.
Tonight is no different. I step into the city’s latest hotspot, a grimace pasted on my face pretending to be a smile. The music is thunderous, the lights frenzied, and the women... they are all beautiful, but none of them are Trina.
“Hi, I’m Amber.” A woman with fake tits the size of balloons approaches me. “Would you like to dance?”
In the old days, I would have pretended to be interested in most of what she said and get us a hotel room at the Marriott Marquis, where I used to have a standing reservation for nights like this. Tonight, I buy the woman a drink and send her on her way. These days, I can’t even fake it. She walks away disappointed and I stay where I’m standing…numb.
The hours pass in a whirl of empty conversations with people who recognize me and forced laughter. The noise of the club, instead of drowning out my thoughts, amplifies them. Every drink tastes bland, every dance feels forced, every touch is a stark reminder of Trina’s absence.
I wonder what she’s doing?
Does she miss me at all?
Could I have completely gotten this whole thing wrong and ruined the one good relationship I’ve ever had?
“One more, please.”
The bartender pours me another with a dash of pity in his eyes. A man knows when his fellow brother is hurting.
“This one’s on me, Dak,” He offers with an understanding smile.
When dawn paints the cityscape with a rosy hue, I find myself on the Brooklyn Bridge, the East River flowing relentlessly beneath me. The frenzied laughter and meaningless interactions of the night before are a bitter memory. I realize I miss Trina more than ever. I miss her laughter, her love, her presence.
A ring from my cell phone jolts me from my thoughts. It’s way too early for anyone to be calling. I assume it’s a spam call from across the globe until I see the number. It’s Bob. Why the fuck would the general manager of the Nighthawks be calling me at this ungodly hour?
“Morning, Dak.”
“This is early, even for you, Bob.”
“I couldn’t sleep and I figured you were up.”
I guess my new reputation for being a night crawler precedes me.
“How can I help you?”
“I owe you an apology, Dak.”
“For what?”
“After our lunch meeting, I took some liberties and decided that you weren’t ready to play prime-time football yet.”
“What do you mean, you took some liberties?”
“I contacted the therapy group you were seeing and shared my concerns.”
Which means that Katrina did write the letter.
