Ego Maniac(76)

I stood before the court utterly dumbfounded. Mentally, I was busting through the yellow tape at the finish line with my hands held high as I finished the almost-four-week-long marathon I’d been running. I just couldn’t believe I’d won.

Behind me, Roman let out a triumphant yes, and I stood there stunned, feeling like it was a dream and any second I was going to wake up to have the nightmare of reality hit me.

Then Judge Walliford finished. “Lastly, on Mr. Jagger’s cross motion to compel Alexa and Beckett Jagger’s relocation to their home in New York City, that motion is denied.”

Wait. What? “Your honor, if I am retaining my visitation, how can you deny my motion for my son’s return home?”

“Isn’t that obvious, Mr. Jagger? Your son is going to be here in the great state of Georgia. You might want to think about relocating.” He banged his gavel and stood to leave the courtroom.

“This is bullshit! I have a practice in New York. Alexa doesn’t even have a job here.”

Walliford froze mid-step. “That’ll be one thousand dollars for using that language and tone in my courtroom. You don’t like my decision, take it up with the court of appeals.”





I held the bathroom wall to keep myself upright long enough to take a piss, then stumbled from the bathroom back to my barstool. Tie and jacket God knows where, zipper still open, shirt half tucked in and half hanging out—I looked as trashed as I felt.

“I’ll have another on the rocks.” I slid my highball glass toward the bartender. He looked at Roman, then at me. “You gotta ask my father’s permission or something? Just give me the damn drink.”

Did I mention I’m an even bigger dick than usual when I’m drunk?

My cell phone jumped around on top of the bar. Emerie. It was the third time she’d called. Also the third time I didn’t answer.

“Not gonna answer that again?” Roman asked.

I slurred, “Whassssthepoint?”

“How about to let the lady have a good night’s sleep tonight? God knows you’re gonna have one when you pass out by five p.m, you selfish prick.” Roman drew on his beer and set it down on the bar. “She loves you. You’ll work it out.”

“Work what out? It’s over.”

“What are you talking about? Don’t be an asshole. It’s the first woman I’ve ever really seen you fall for. How long we been friends?”

“Too long apparently, if you’re going to start lecturing me.”

“What did I tell you in the back of the church right before you married Alexa?”

In the condition I was in, most of my life was blurry, but that morning was always crystal clear. I’d thought about Roman offering me his keys to split on more than one occasion since. “Car is in the back if you want to bail,” he’d said. When I’d reminded him Alexa was carrying my baby, and I was doing the right thing, he’d said, “Fuck the right thing.”

The bartender brought my drink, and since I was still able to remember a portion of my life I had no desire to recollect, I promptly sucked back half the glass.

Then I turned to look at Roman—well, two Romans. “You never did say I told you so.”

He shook his head. “Nope. Won’t say it if you don’t take my advice and figure shit out with Emerie either. Not much on rubbing bad choices in people’s faces.”

“Sometimes the choice is made for you by circumstance.”

Roman chuckled. “That’s crap, and you know it.” He paused. “Remember Nancy Irvine?”

It took me a minute to reach back into the depths of my alcohol-marinated brain. “Chicken pox girl?”

He tilted his beer in my direction. “That’s the one.”

“What about her?”

“Remember the pact we made never to go for the same girl?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, after you move to Atlanta and leave Emerie heartbroken because you’re too stupid to try to figure out how to make it work, I’ll be there to comfort her—among other things. Payback’s a bitch.”

“Fuck you.”

“What do you care? She’s just pussy to keep you busy. Not worth your trouble.”

As if on cue, my phone lit up with Emerie’s name, indicating a text had arrived. I grabbed it and my drink from the bar and stood.

Wobbling on my feet, I leaned in to my friend. “Fuck you.”

Then I stormed off to find the hotel elevator.





Drew



If I could have just cracked open my skull and let a few of the little trapped drummers out, I might have had a chance of getting up off my couch.

It was a fucking miracle I’d gotten onto the plane at all. Would never have happened had it not been for Roman, who dragged my hung-over ass from that hotel room this morning at six a.m.

Now it was noon. I’d been home for more than an hour, and I finally grew a set of balls and responded to Emerie.

I texted back.

Yeah. Balls. Sure.

And I lied.

It wasn’t the first time. Certainly wouldn’t be the last.

Drew: Sorry about last night. Was sick as a dog. Food poisoning. Bad sushi, I think.

The little dots started jumping around immediately.