Chapter Four (Wasting Oxygen)

His knees ached. His finger joints creaked when he flexed his hands a few times, trying to shake off the chill and of course he'd stupidly walked over here without a jacket even when it looked and felt like it was about to rain. His threadbare Iron Maiden t-shirt was damp, clinging to his chest in a way that was very unflattering but he honestly didn't care. His sigh was ragged, filled with equal measures of frustration and weariness. "Just go home..." he muttered under his breath, the words carrying the weight of his depression, "there's nothing for you here."

Easy to say. Impossible to do because he needed that closure. He had to know why she'd bailed on him, ditching him in the hospital when he'd needed her the most. Was that really so much to ask of the woman he'd been married to for three years?

Home? Fuck that. Where's home? That little loft above the gym that reminds you too much of the old days in Chicago after Georgie split? Is it in that bed with the wrinkled sheets in the arms of that girl who's very obviously got a thing for you that you're never going to return? Where is it? Where? We can go there now and pretend none of this shit's happening. Just rewind. Rewrite the history as easily as you can edit that Wikipedia page.

Jackson pressed his fingers against his temples, trying to rub away the tension, trying really to silence that hectoring voice in his head. Headache was back. After the bumps and bruises Thursday night at the hands of J.B. Ronie, pain was no surprise. The tables and ladders and chair-shots seemed to hurt more these days. Maybe he was getting too old for the business after all. Right now, it was all muted, fuzzed around the edges in a way that was almost pleasant. He'd taken a nip from the flask in his back pocket for every block closer he got to the hotel. A reward of sorts. Now he was drunk - not stinking drunk like his father, but teetering on the precipice between a nice buzz and feeling nauseous. Right now he didn't care. He was numb. For once that didn't matter; he didn't want to feel anymore. Period.

He rubbed his face with one trembling hand before fishing the mangled pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket. He shook the last one out, placing it between his lips, for a moment just enjoying the familiar motion even as he glanced up at the sprinkler above his head.

The flame jittered, sputtering and going out as he brought it to the end of the cigarette clamped between his lips. "Stupid pieceashit," he muttered, thumb moving over the wheel again. This time it stayed lit. Embers glowed as he drew the acrid smoke deep into his lungs, cocking his head as he heard a distant rumble. Thunder, maybe?

"Fuck." The epithet passed his lips on the exhale, coupled with the acrid Turkish smoke. "I need another fucking drink," he muttered. Really he didn't, but right now, he didn't feel like resisting that pull. Like father, like son, and lately it had become easier to cope with that pleasant buzz of a few shots under his belt. Tequila shots with Missy were great and she was almost as creative in the sack as he was. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he fished it out, seeing the notice that she'd posted another photo. He stared at it for what seemed like an eternity, trying to sift through the remains of his feelings for a label.

He came up empty because there was nothing left. He'd loved Lyv without reserve, without any filters or barriers, against his better judgment. She'd promised, looked him right in the eye and promised to always be honest and faithful and true.

The cigarette between his fingers was already down to the filter but he pulled in another drag because it was the last one he had on him. The last lungful burned, the sharp taste of burning plastic filled his mouth, turning his stomach. Of all the goddamned places he expected to find Lyv, the same hotel they'd been staying at before buying the house in Coral Gables was the very last one he'd even thought of to look. His hands shook as he reached out for the taps, cranking on the cold water before soaking his hair. Smoothing it back, he stared at himself in the pitted reflection on the paper towel dispenser above the makeshift eyewash station, trying to get past the dark circles under his eyes. He looked old. Halfway broken already. "Now or never," he muttered, shaking his head at the old man with his eyes. The room was down the hall, and he looked both ways to make sure he wasn't spotted sneaking out of the maid's closet. A few seconds later, he was in front of the door, already knocking before he could lose his nerve again after sitting on this intel for over a week. Maybe she'd open the door and tell him it was all a mistake. Maybe she'd tell him that the baby was making her do crazy things. Maybe she'd...

...look right through him. She held the edge of the door like it was a lifeline, as though she planned to bolt behind it at any second. "Hi."

Jackson blinked. "Yeah. Hi." He couldn't keep the hurt out of his voice, the empty hum of that broken connection in his ears as he stared at the woman he was still mentally calling his wife. "Lyv? What...? Why'd you go? Where the hell have you been? Here the whole time? Is that... why? Baby... what..." he couldn't even bring himself to ask the questions that had been building up over the last few weeks and his shoulders slumped as his eyes flicked back and forth, trying to get a read on what that look on her face meant even though his guts were telling him it was bad news.

She took a step back, sighing as she bit her lip. "I think maybe you'd better g-"

"No." He wrapped his hand around the doorframe, taking a step forward. "Alyvia, what the hell's going on?"

"I need to move past what that old pervert did to me," she said, breaking eye contact as she glanced behind her, folding her arms across her chest. "And I can't do that when every single time I look at you, I have a constant reminder-"

"What?" He stared at her, feeling a distinct sense of vertigo, like he was falling in a nightmare. "Lyv... what? No. This isn't happening right now. You're just confused. This chick, she's put ideas in your head. She's... no, honey. Please don't say that. Don't... don't tell me that. I..." he could feel the prickle of tears. "No. We're good. Miami's supposed to be our fresh start, babe. You and me and Christian and the new-"

"There's no baby."

"What?" Jackson stared at her, "I was there when you did the tests. I saw the... I don't even understand what you're saying right now. Did you miscarry? Jesus Christ, I would have been here for you if I knew that!" He paused, breathing heavily past the tightness in his chest. "Why didn't you tell me?"

She shook her head, "you really need to go."

"I'm not going anywhere." The silence spun out and he stepped into the room, forcing her to back up.

She sighed, stomping over to the couch and picking up her cell phone even as she flopped down. Her tank top rode up and he could see her flat stomach - she should have been showing quite a bit by now. Instead he could count her ribs. "Listen, I already told you-"

"Tell me again, then." Her tone was cutting right through him and this was worse than any loss he'd ever weathered before because he hadn't set out to sabotage it from the get-go. "Lyv... just tell me. Whatever it is, I want to hear it. I need to hear it from you. In plain English. Just... tell me why you cut me out of the picture without a word." He raked a hand through his hair.

"And then what? You beg me to take you back?"

"Then I'll go." He could barely keep his voice level.

"I'm going to call the cops if you don't leave."

He ignored her, looking around the room for his son only to find no evidence of him whatsoever, "where's Christian?"

"He's not here." She could tell he was anxious just by how he was acting but she couldn't quite bring herself to care. For the last few months, she'd actually felt freer than she had in years and now here he was again, sucking up all the oxygen in the room.

"Where is he?"

"Somewhere safe." She replied, shaking her head. "I think it's best if you don't see him-"

"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!" It was like he'd fallen down the rabbit hole and she was talking backwards in riddles. She was wearing Lyv's face, sure, but this stranger was flat and lifeless, completely detached.

"Sit down," she said, "I don't bite." Her attention went to him and the exhaustion she felt was visible.

"You sure?" He hesitated, testing the boundaries, wondering if she was going to flinch or cower as soon as he sat down. Finally, he took the offered seat, letting out a sigh. "Listen, Lyv... whatever this is, I'm... goddamnit, I'm sorry. I've been..."

"I know." She laughed, shaking her head, "everyone knows you're fucking that tattooed up bimbo. It's not like you're discreet."

He chuckled half-heartedly, looking down at her - she was still wearing the engagement ring he'd given her although it was on her right hand now, the matching wedding band curiously absent. The sapphires mocked him, still sparkling as nicely as they had when he'd picked it out in the jewelry store despite how much damage had been done to their relationship. Lifting his eyes to meet hers, he stared at her for a few seconds before looking away with a sigh. "You wanna know why I'm here? I need-"

"This back?" She interrupted, sliding the ring off her finger and holding it out to him. "Here."

He stared at the ring as though it was contaminated, equal measures of horror and disgust in his face. Clearly it was already too late to undo the damage he'd done if she wanted to give it back. Something inside him broke, the jagged edges grinding together as he took in a breath, making him wince. The pain radiated from his guts up to his chest - maybe it was his heart actually breaking. He didn't know and didn't really want to dwell on it. He just needed it to stop. "Please don't do this," he muttered, trying to maintain that last shred of pride and failing miserably. "Please, Lyv. Whatever I did... whatever happened, we can fix it, okay? We're good together. We are. You just... you just need some..." he fell silent, closing his eyes as he shook his head.

"You can't put a Band-Aid on a bullet hole," she replied, quoting Taylor Swift as she pushed up to her feet after dropping the ring on the couch beside him. "I need you to leave and please, stop texting me. Stop creeping me on Facebook and posting weird subtweets. Just... leave me alone, Jackson."

He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe and it was like the walls were closing in. "You don't mean that." He was squeezing the ring so hard in his hand that it was digging into his palm. "I love you. You're my wife, Lyv. I wanna be with-"

She was standing there with the door open, cell phone in her hand with a 9-1 already dialed in on the screen and her finger hovering over the 1. "What're you gonna do? Are you going to throw me around and then blame it on Harmony?"

Hurting her was the last thing on his mind. He wasn't violent. He'd been trying to keep the depression from dragging him under for weeks and now the black waters were closing over his head. "Baby... I don't understand. We were happy and you're supposed to be my best friend. What did I do?"

"Nothing." Lyv replied, shaking her head. "That's the problem. I spent the last three years trying to be your perfect wife and you're still the same-"

He didn't stay to hear the rest of the laundry list. It was everything he could do to get the hell out of that room and back down the hall to that little bleach-scented closet before the panic attack set in.