The Space In Between(4)

Iris was standing in the corner across the room, panicked. I’d scared her. The f*cking pain that started to shoot through my hand shook me a bit. I scared myself. I lost grip on everything around me. The room started to spin. My eyes blurred over. My mind started mocking me, screaming inside my head, ‘Tom Reed, Tom Reed, Tom Reed.’ Over and over again.
“SHUT UP!” I shouted, wrapping my hands around my head, covering my ears, and blocking out all sounds. I wasn’t sure if I was speaking to my wife or the f*cking Tom Reed chant on repeat inside me. I needed to leave; I needed to walk out the front door before my anger took me to a level I wasn’t sure I could control.
Did she really say that? Did she say she still loved me?
Son of a bitch.
I needed a divorce.





WHISKEY WAS THE only liquid lingering in my body by this point. My hands stayed clenched around the glass in front of me as I brought it to my lips and drank down my brown toxin. Did I need another drink? I squeezed my eyes shut and looked around. People appeared to have two heads, and some had three. I glanced to my hand where my wedding band was and slid it off, tossing it into my wallet.
Yup. I needed another drink.
“Maybe you’ve had enough.” The bartender came over and took the glass away. I’d been coming to this bar for awhile now—drinking and forgetting. Well, trying to forget. I hated how she was always with me in a way. I hated how she wasn’t physically around, but had the ability to reside in my head. When I closed my eyes, I saw her face. When I licked my lips, I tasted her mouth. It pissed me the hell off.
I met Iris after I’d agreed to shoot a famous couple’s engagement photos. I never did anything involving weddings; I was more into edgy, raw, human-connections type of photography, the true grit of emotions. But the couple had been damn helpful when my career was starting out, tweeting my name to their followers online, telling their other famous people to look out for me. So when they asked, I had no right to turn them down. They showed up to the shoot with this stunning woman next to them, their wedding planner.
We started the shoot at five in the morning. By five in the evening I was addicted to Iris. Two weeks later we had our first date. Three months later we were engaged. Within less than a year of knowing one another, we were married. Instant love, people called it. It wasn’t long before we were offered a television series to handle luxury weddings.
If I could go back in time, I never would have agreed to do the engagement photo shoot. I needed another drink. The dude behind the counter hesitated.
“Fuck you. Get me another.”
The look in the bartender’s eyes pissed me off. He felt sorry for me. Fuck him. I could go find my whiskey elsewhere.
“Cooper…” He leaned forward, eyes on me. He had four heads now. I shook myself and tried to focus on the ass who wouldn’t get me another drink. He continued to murmur some bullshit I didn’t want to hear. “Paparazzi—don’t go—water.” Blah blah blah. My cell phone went off and I saw Iris’s name plastered on it. What a stupid name. Drop! Into the stupid glass of water went my stupid phone with my stupid wife’s name on it.
I stood up, allowing myself a few moments to find my footing. Digging into my wallet, I tossed the ass a few bills and stumbled to the exit. It was dark outside, but the streets were bright. My hand flew up to shield my eyes from the lights. Or flashes, I should say. Dammit. The ass was trying to tell me that the paparazzi were here looking for a story. They must have heard about my pregnant, cheating, whore of a wife.
“Don’t you have someone else to be following? Get the camera out of my face.” I pushed my way through them, pissed off. I was a f*cking reality television star, not damn Brad Pitt. Leave me alone. I blamed Iris for this. I blamed Iris for everything. They kept following me, searching for something to sell. I staggered back and forth, trying to keep my balance, but it was tough when everywhere I turned, there was a f*cker pushing me the other way.
Fine.
I’d fly.
It appeared my flying skills were lacking. My feet landed on top of a parked taxi as I tried to hurry across the street to get to my hotel room. My new home. Losing my balance, my ass landed against the hard, metal hood. Standing back up, with a pain shooting through my back, I huffed and puffed.
“Are y’all happy!? Did you get your f*cking pictures!?” I hollered at the men holding the cameras. So many lights. I took off my shoe and threw it at one of them. They laughed, as if they were somewhat enjoying my breakdown. More lights joined in the party, this time red and blue flashes.
My fingers wrapped around the back of my neck, trying to get a grip on the craziness occurring. I tried to focus in on the officers approaching me. It looked like there were sixteen of them, but there were really only four. Damn alcohol.
“Sir, we need you to get down,” one of the cops shouted. I laughed—shocked that he was looking at me as if I caused this problem.
“Why don’t you do something about these stalkers!? They won’t leave me alone!” I could have really used another drink. The real world was still too real for me.
“Sir! Get. Down. Now!”
I was sick of it all. Sick of this lifestyle. Sick of the cameras. Sick of the fame. And f*cking sick of my wife for doing this to me. I looked at the cops and chuckled at their serious demeanors. One had his hand on his cuffs and another with his hand on his gun. What was he going to do? Shoot me?
“I’m a guy trying to get to my hotel, and I’m the bad person here? I mean, seriously?! Do you not know who I am?!” I jumped off the taxi, into the street, where a large group had arrived with cell phones in their hands, videotaping me as if I were the damn circus.