Cash Out (27 page)

I stumble out of the car. “Katie.”

She quickens her steps.

I try to run after her.
Shit.
My crotch feels like hardened plastic.

“Honey.”

“Leave me alone.”

I touch her shoulder. “Honey, just wait.”

She turns with a look of utter disgust, swipes away my hand. “Leave . . .” She pushes me back, follows. “. . . me . . .” She pushes again. “. . . alone.”

I stand there, watch as she turns and heads down the sidewalk. A spindly homeless man wrapped up in countless layers of clothes meets my eye, says, “Whoa,” and giggles.

I follow her. “Kate.”

She turns and rushes me, slams me against the metal gate of a shuttered vinyl shop, bites her lip, looks me in the eyes, and knees me hard, right between the legs.

My face freezes in shock.

My midsection explodes, and my legs nearly give. I feel my eyes roll back. But I won't let go.

I can hardly breathe. It feels as though every nerve ending in my body has been redirected to my crotch and plugged into an electrical transformer. With one swift kick, Kate has cut through all my layers of defense—all the distractions, all the denial, all the Vicodin—and brought me to my knees.

“I'm so sorry.” It's the only thing I can say. “So sorry.”

Finally—maybe at the sight of me crumpled on the ground—she softens a bit.

“I don't know what happened to me, honey.”

She takes a big breath, exhales slowly. “I thought it might be something like this,” she says, her voice heavy with resignation. “You've been . . . You weren't acting like the guy I married. You've been . . . You've been an asshole, Dan.”

“I need to get back,” I sniffle. “Back to the real me. That's what this whole thing is about—quitting this life. We can get back together. I know it.”

She looks down at me. “
You
need to get back. I'm right here.”

I try to stand up with her. It takes me a while.

“I need a drink.”

She takes off down the sidewalk. I hobble after her.

W
e're at the Gold Cane on Haight.

I'm at one end of the cocktail lounge, pressing a bloody napkin into my nostrils. She's on the other end, all alone.

Except for the two guys she's talking to.

One of the guys has bought a round of tequila shots. Kate hoists hers, smiles up at the guys, and downs it. She looks up to the taller guy, smiles up at him, and straightens. Then she looks my way and glares.

“Want another?” The bartender on my end has nose studs, straight bangs, a tight, ripped black T. The loud voices, laughter, blaring music all bounce off my face. “Huh?”

“You want another beer?”

I shake my head. “Shot of Cuervo.”

She looks at my nose. “You want some ice for that?”

I nod.

Kate and the guys are laughing about something. She takes another shot, lifts it into the air. The tall guy eases closer, exchanges a huge smile with his buddy as she drains her shot, grimaces, and signals for another.

My bartender returns with a shot glass and a Ziploc full of ice. She tosses me the ice and pulls a bottle of Cuervo, glances at me as she pours. “You okay?”

I glance at Kate and the guys, nod yes.

Now Kate seems to be leaning back on the tall guy. He's lean and narrow and blond, like he's just gotten off a flight from Stockholm. Is he the kind of guy she really finds attractive? Someone completely different from me? Or is he just the first opportunity she had to piss me off?

I take the Cuervo, down it, and my nose explodes all over again. I shake my face, hunch my shoulders, and narrow my lids, glancing over. Kate smiles to herself, catches me looking, and glares again.

“Don't forget your ice, dude.”

I look up, and the bartender nods to the Ziploc.

“Oh yeah,” I mumble, pull it off the bar, and slide it down my pants. Through gritted teeth I exhale, “Thanks.”

Bartender watches, mumbles something to herself, and turns away. I say to her back, “I have a bigger problem area than the nose.”

The tequila warms and dulls my head. The ice pack cools and numbs my crotch.

Stockholm is beaming. Surely, he thinks it's his night of blind luck, to have this gorgeous creature fall into his arms, to have this woman with a modest ring on her wedding finger lean into him and laugh.

I nod to the bartender, and she shifts over and pours me another shot. “You sure you're okay?” There's a trace of amusement in her voice.

I nod, hoist the glass to her, and she nods back.

“Going through a rough patch, looks like?”

I down the shot, shudder, and try to ignore my throbbing nose.

She nods to Kate and the guys. “One of those guys rough you up?”

“Huh?”

“They don't look the type.”

“No. It's— I mean, the lady did.”

She squints at me and turns back to look at Kate. “She kicked you?”

I look down, nod.

“What, you get a little fresh?”

“No, I— Well, actually . . .” I rearrange the ice pack. “Yeah, a little too fresh. But with someone else.”

She smiles, eases away. “Such a dude.”

Stockholm is leaning over Kate, his mouth practically in her ear, whispering something, his lips almost brushing against her ear.

Okay, that's enough.

I swivel off my stool, weave through the bodies toward them. Everyone else in the bar is having such a great time. Everyone else is on a different planet.

Kate looks up again and notices my seat is empty. Stockholm tries to nibble her ear and she brushes him off, stumbles off her stool, heads my way.

I emerge from the crowd, shuffle toward her. “Honey.”

She reaches out, yanks me to her, lets me hug her. “You asshole,” she slurs. “You
fucking
asshole.”

I wrap my arms around her, look her in the eyes. “Never again, babe. I swear.”

“Hey.” Stockholm stands behind her, his hands out, brow creased. “Dude.”

Kate announces into the air, “Dude . . .” She fights off a burp. “. . . it's over.” She swallows hard. “Scram. My asshole husband is begging for forgiveness.”

I'm staring into my girl's eyes.

She chokes on something.

“Dude,” he says, takes a step closer. “Totally not cool.”

Kate sways, moans and burps.

“Dude.”

Then, like an unexpected slap across the face, she vomits down my chest and over my shoulder. Warm, rancid wetness rolls down both sides of my body. Some of it splashes onto the floor.

Everyone
eeeeee-ewing
and shrieking.

Everyone making room for the drunk parents on date night.

I
'm driving shirtless down Baker Street, Kate riding shotgun.

“Food,” she rasps. “I had all that—” She gasps, moans. “. . . on an empty stomach.”

“Just hold on, babe. Keep that bag close.”

“Honey.” Her fingers latch onto the plastic grocery bag I'd salvaged from the back of the van. She gasps, closes her eyes. “I need to get—” She exhales hard. “Something . . .” She pauses, blows out a gust. “. . . in my stomach.”

“There's a McDonald's at Fillmore and Golden Gate. It's got a drive-through.”

She covers her face, exhales. “Fine.”

I pull a right onto Golden Gate. “Just hold on, babe. We'll get some food in you, sober you up a little.” And I realize I'm probably drunk myself, shouldn't be driving. “We'll do the drive-through, find a place to park and sober up a little.”

She reclines her seat a little. “Why?” She takes a big breath, lets it out slowly. “Why . . . aren't we connecting like we used to? Thass . . . That's the problem, you know?”

“No. No. Honey, I was just stupid. I just got pulled into it with those IMs. I mean, we told a few stories, I guess.”

“You tell her how I sucked you off behind that rock that time?”

“Kate.”

“Did her stories give you a . . .” She pauses, swallows, and sighs. “. . . a hard-on?”

“Kate. C'mon.”

“Well, I got news for you.” Tiny burp, long exhale. “What if I told you Alec and I have been back in touch? We've been e-mailing?”

Alec? Kate's old boyfriend? The guy she always says she hasn't heard from in twelve years?

“What”—
burp
—“would you think of that?”

Is she kidding?
My brain constricts.
She's been lying to me.

“Guess I don't feel so bad about that anymore.”

We pull into the McDonald's drive-through. “That's nice,” I say. “You're mad at me for having a few horny instant messages with a coworker? When you've been off reconnecting with your old boyfriend?”

God, that sounded bad.

“Stop it . . .” She exhales. “A couple of e-mails—”

“Welcome to McDonald's,” says a female voice.

“. . . with an ex doesn't compare to . . .”

“May I take your order?”

“. . . boner and vagina talk.”

Long silence.

“Ummmm.” The attendant pauses. “Can you repeat that?”

“Hold on,” I holler.

I turn to her. “Have you seen him?”

Her eyes closed. Annoyed. “No.”

“So, what, you're having one of those
emotional
affairs? Missing him or something?”

The attendant says, “Sir?”

“He's just a friend.” Kate blows out a gust. “When there's no one else who'll listen. That's the problem with you and me. Who am I supposed to talk to?”

“Sir?”

“Hold on. So you're saying, because it's not boner and vagina talk, that's okay?”

“Dan,” she gasps, quiet, “I'm not feeling so hot. Just get me something starchy.”

“Sir?”

“Obviously your little e-mail affair was wrong, too, or you would have told me.”

Eyes closed. “Order the . . . fucking . . . food.”

I order her a cheeseburger and fries, and a Double Quarter Pounder with Cheese and fries for me. When we get to the window, the pimply-faced attendant acts like everything's normal. Hell, at a late-night drive-through, maybe boner talk is normal.

I can't help myself. “Does he still have feelings for you?”

“Oh God. I don't feel—”

Kate sits up, opens her door, leans out, and throws up onto the asphalt. The bitter, acidic stench cuts through the air.

“Here.” I reach into the glove box, pull out the last napkin, hand it to her. “Hang in there.”

She dips her head, groans.

I rub her back. “It's okay.”

I turn to my left, and the attendant is handing me a hot bag of food. I look up to her and produce a happy, grateful smile.

“Could we . . .”

More retching and splatter.

“. . . have some extra napkins.”

The attendant smiles, turns away, and returns with a massive wad of napkins.

Kate closes the door and releases a long groan as I ease away from the window. I hand her a few napkins. “We'll turn out here and find a spot, get you cleaned up.”

“Water,” she rasps.

I turn onto Fillmore, hand her the water bottle from the cup holder between us. “I think . . .” She takes a sip. “. . . that food will come right back up.” She sighs hard. “All that grease.”

Crap.
She's probably right
.
“You need something bland.”

“Exactly.” She sighs, wipes her mouth. “Pancakes. No butter or syrup. Just pancakes.”

I head north on Fillmore, toward Cow Hollow and the Marina. “There's a Mel's on Lombard.” I shove a bunch of fries into my mouth. “They serve breakfast.”

“Fine.” She reclines her seat, closes her eyes, moans. “And no.”

We cross Geary.

“No?”

“No.” Gasp. “I don't have feelings for Alec.”

That's good to hear.

“I'm just . . .” Her voice cracks. “. . . so lonely sometimes.”

My heart sinks. “Lonely?”

“It's just nice to have someone to listen.”

That hurts, like a sock in the gut. “I don't listen?”

She sniffles. “I can't tell you anything negative—my concerns, my fears, my frustrations. You don't like hearing that stuff.”

“But I want to hear it, Kate. I do.”

We cross Sutter.

“I don't want suggestions or solutions, but that's what I get from you. I just want you to listen.”

“Don't I do that?”

Shakes her head. “When I start talking about that stuff, your face says it all.” Sniffles. “You don't even realize you're doing it.”

There's nothing more maddening than knowing you're hurting the one you love, but not knowing how you can change. We've gone through all this with the therapist, and it's still a problem. How am I supposed to change my facial reactions when I don't even know I'm having them? How am I supposed to know when Kate's venting is just venting, and when she's trying to tell me about her deeper problems? I want to be there for her—I do. I just need to figure out how to get there.

“I want to get better, Kate. I want you to be able to share this stuff with me.”

“I guess I don't feel so bad about Alec anymore.” She pauses. “Considering your sex-talk buddy.”

“That was just . . . so fucking stupid.” My throat weakens. “And I'm so sorry.”

She thinks about it, starts to cry. “You slept with her, didn't you?”

“Oh my God. Honey. I never even kissed her.”

“How am I supposed to know?” She sniffles. “For sure?”

“And how can I know for sure whether you haven't met up with Alec?”

We hit the top of the hill, surrounded by mansions, and start coasting down toward Lombard.