The Game Plan (Game On 3)

I hate the sound of my name on his lips—no longer reverent but a curse. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” I whisper.

His chin tilts up. “I know that. I know you didn’t mean it, but…shit.” He begins to pace, his hands going to his head to pull at his hair, which is no longer there. Agitation makes his steps jerky, his arms restless. “I know. I’m just. Fuck, it. I can’t—” He takes a deep breath and then another.

I see the moment he totally loses his shit, like a dam that can no longer hold back the flood. He cracks with a long, ragged cry. “Fuck!” He slams the side of his fist against the aged brick wall. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Every curse punctuated by a punch.

“Ethan. Calm down—”

“No!” he shouts over me, his eyes on the wall. A sheen of sweat covers his skin, glistening over his biceps. “No. I’m so fucking sick of always being the rational one! Well, guess what? I’m done.”

His voice rises with every word, going to full-on bellow. “I’m pissed. At everything. I’m just…fucking pissed, Fi!”

Noted.

I bite my lip, tears smarting. This isn’t just about today. It’s everything that’s come before. It’s Ethan never allowing himself to fully let go until now.

With a guttural cry, he turns, tearing one of his paintings from the wall. It flies through the air, spinning like a pizza box before crashing into the far wall, the frame snapping.

I can only stand silent as he shouts, his voice filled with pain and rage. He punches the edge of the heavy wooden bookcase that divides the living room and a small reading nook. “Just—motherfucking shit!”

Books soar across the room as he hurls them in rapid succession.

I’ve always wondered how it would be for Ethan to totally lose it. Now I know. And it breaks my heart. Because I know his rage right now is pain, a soul deeply hurt that has no other outlet but to burn, hot and violent.

A sob of frustration rips from his chest, and he braces himself against the bookcase. For a second, I think he’s calmed.

An ungodly roar tears from him, and his muscles bulge as he pushes against the bookcase, which is bolted to the floor. The whole structure creaks, threatening to topple.

“Ethan,” I shout. “Careful—”

But I’m too late. The massive case tips too far and smashes to the floor with such force that the house shakes. I jump back, plastering myself to the wall as broken pottery shards, knickknacks, and books fly everywhere.

It scares the shit out of me. I know he’d ever hurt me, but the base violence of the act rattles my bones.

He stands there, his muscles straining, his chest heaving. He blinks rapidly as if to clear his thoughts, but that crazed look is still there.

“Okay,” I say through a breath. “That’s it.”

I turn, grabbing my bag and coat off the hook.

“Fi!” Ethan’s shout blasts over my skin. “You walk out that door—”

I don’t hear the rest because I’ve already slammed it shut.

Dex

The red haze that clouds my vision blows away with the slam of the door. For too long, I simply stare at the empty space Fiona used to occupy, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened. And then what I’ve done hits me like a blindside tackle. My breath leaves in a whoosh, and I struggle to find it again.

“Fi!” I stumble forward, tripping over the stupid bookshelf. “Shit. Shit!”

Hopping over the case and picking my way through the mess slows me down.

Shit, I’m such an asshole. I had a total mantrum, and now I’ve scared the hell out of her. The expression in her eyes was terrorized. And that’s all on me.

I wrench open the door and race down the stairs.

“Fi!” I don’t see her, but she can’t have gone far.

Outside, rain is coming down in hard sheets. I’m instantly drenched, my vision obscured as water runs into my eyes. I wipe my face, scan the gloomy courtyard. Empty.

Shouting her name, I run toward the garage. She isn’t there. Isn’t in the studio.

My heart pounds, fear and regret squeezing at my chest. I knew the moment I saw her anguished look that she hadn’t meant to hurt me, hurt us. And still I lost it. I said horrible things, made her afraid. I think of the room I wrecked in front of her and feel sick.

Bracing my hands on my wet knees, I try to breathe, to think of where she might be. It occurs to me that she might have gone out the front entrance. But the street is dark and empty, except for the lone, hunched vagrant in the distance, picking his way through garbage bins, his shape a black blob beneath the hazy streetlight.

With a sigh, I sink down to sit on my doorstep, unwilling to go back inside. Rivers of dirty water rush along the gutter. Rain comes down so hard it bounces off the pavement. I sit with my knees up, holding my head in my hands as if it can stop the ache. I sit until I’m soaked to the skin. But I’m not going to move. Not until Fi returns.

Hell, she might not return. Have I lost her?

The idea that she might think I don’t want her any more closes my throat.

“Hey there, fella.” The old homeless man stands in front of me. His tattered overcoat seems to be keeping him fairly dry, though water beads in his gray hair and runs down his ruddy face.

“Take this.” He hands me what used to be an umbrella, the spines broken and hanging higgledy-piggledy. It wouldn’t protect against a mist, much less this. But it’s his, and he’s offering.

I blink up at him, shocked and feeling like shit, but find my voice. “That’s okay, man. Can’t get much wetter.”