"I'm getting there," Paul said. "Every time there's a first down, this character has another shot of orange brandy. In the middle of the fourth quarter, he downs his eighth or ninth shot and proceeds to throw up all over the bar.
"I'm talking projectile action! As the bartender tosses him out, I look over and Veronica, who was standing on the other side of the guy, is staring at me, wide-eyed as I am. And I said, 'Let's just be glad he didn't stay for the postgame celebration.' That's how we met."
"Wow, that's sweet and kind of funny," I said with a sneer. "You really had your groove on that night, huh?"
Paul looked at me.
"I can argue or I can explain. Not both."
"Or get shot in the testicles," I said. "You left that one out."
"Shall I continue, Lauren?" he asked.
"If you please would," I said. "I can't wait to hear the rest of this riveting tale."
"So, basically, she invites me to have a drink with her. It was innocent, I swear. I wasn't trying to do anything. I don't expect you to believe that, but it's the truth. After a couple of more drinks, we're just sitting there, talking, telling our life stories, and this stocky guy walks in.
"Veronica keeps staring at him, and then she says that she knows him. Turns out, Veronica used to be a Tampa Bay Buccaneers cheerleader."
"Football?" I said, tilting my head. "That's funny. Considering the basketballs under her shirt, I was leaning more toward the NBA."
"She used to go out with one of the Tampa Bay assistant coaches," Paul continued, "and she said she remembered the guy at the bar buying Super Bowl tickets from her old boyfriend. She tells me the stocky guy is some kind of bigwig shady ticket broker. She points to the briefcase the guy is carrying and says it's probably full of hundred-dollar bills. We drink some more and talk about what we would do with that kind of money. Finally, Veronica stands up to go."
Paul stopped walking and peered at me.
"You sure you want to hear this?"
"You want to protect my feelings now?" I said. "Of course I want to hear the punch line."
Paul nodded as if pained.
" 'I dare you,' she whispers in my ear. 'I'm in two-oh-six.' And off she goes.
"So, I sit and drink. Three scotches later, I see this stocky guy get up, carrying his briefcase. I let him leave. But then I find myself on my feet, following him. Just as a joke, I kept telling myself. No way I'm going to rob anybody. But I follow him to his room.
"Then, I don't know what got into me. I was wasted, upset, alone, and excited all at once. A couple of minutes later, I knock on the guy's door, and when he opens it, I'm punching him in the face."
Paul and I both stepped out of the way as a bike messenger zipped between us.
"Wait a second," I said. "The report said you had a gun."
Paul shook his head.
"No, we just fought. He must have made that up in order to make himself look better. He was strong. He bloodied my nose with a shot, but I was too scared to lose. I just teed off on him until he went down. Then I grabbed the briefcase, and I ran."
"To two-oh-six?" I said.
"To two-oh-six," Paul said with a grim nod.
I STUMBLED ALONG the path like the sole survivor of a terrorist bombing. I remembered where we were in our marriage at the time. Not a good place. It was after we'd learned we couldn't become parents. A year of having sex like it was a science experiment. Paul having to humiliate himself with plastic cups in specialist after specialist's bathrooms. All for nothing.
We'd turned on each other then. We didn't announce it, but I could see it now, vividly. That was what had happened back then.
I decided that I couldn't care less.
I suddenly stopped short and slapped Paul. Hard! As hard as I could!
"Keep going?" he said as he rubbed his jaw.
"Good guess," I said.
"I wake up the next morning, and at first I have no idea where I am or what's happened the night before. On the desk are two neatly divided piles of hundred-dollar bills. Veronica is sitting there in a bathrobe, pouring coffee. Fifteen minutes later, I'm walking out of her room with a gym bag full of four hundred thousand dollars."
I shook my head. I was actually asleep, wasn't I? Dreaming this.
No, I realized. I was tripping. Somewhere along the course of this bizarre day, I'd been drugged. I rubbed my eyes. Paul goes off on a business trip and pulls off a heist?
I asked the next logical question. "What did you do with the money?"
"Caymans," Paul said. "A buddy of mine on the trading desk was going down there. He set it up for me. If there's a good side to this, it's that. Four-plus years of extremely aggressive investing later, we're looking at a little over one point-two million."
I tried to let that rather large sum sink in. I was experiencing major difficulties, though.
Paul continued, "Three months after I stole the money, I get a call that puts ice in my blood. It's Veronica. She tells me she's pregnant. At first I'm insane. I tell her I want a paternity test, I want to talk to my lawyer, but she says to calm down, she's not going to boil any rabbits. She just wanted to be nice. She thought I should know that I had a daughter coming into the world. Whatever I wanted to do was up to me.
"So I debated and didn't do anything for a long time, but eventually I went down to meet Caroline. One thing led to another, and well… One day a week, I take the shuttle down here and become Daddy."
"For the past four years?" I said. "Work knows about this?"
Paul shook his head.
"I just telecommute."
"What about Veronica? You want me to believe you're not still screwing her?"
"It's true," Paul said.
A second later, I found myself screeching with my hands around his throat. " Bullshit ! You married her!" I screamed. "I saw the pictures in the hall!"
Paul pulled my hands off him.
"No, no, no!" he said, holding his hands out before himself protectively as he backed away. "That was all for Caroline's sake. We wanted her to think she has a regular daddy like everybody else. We had a photographer take some pictures. That's all. She thinks I'm a pilot."
My eyes felt like they were filled with acid, burning deep into the sockets.
"And who does Veronica think you are?"
Paul shrugged. "She knows who I am," he said.
"That makes her in the minority, Paul, don't you think?" I said. "Does she know about me?"
"From the start."
"You fucker!" I said. I was insane with rage. I felt like biting him. "Do you know who you are? Because I don't. Is your new job a bullshit story, too?"
"No, that's actually real," Paul said, suddenly sitting down on an empty bench.
"Let's face it, Lauren," he said after a little while. "When you and I found out we couldn't have children, our marriage started sliding badly. We both were feeling hurt, screwed up. Then you got promoted to Bronx Homicide, Lauren, and that was all she wrote. Turnaround after turnaround. Double, triple shifts. Don't get me wrong, I didn't blame you. I just never saw much of you. I really didn't think there was a chance in hell of us getting back together.
"But things are so different now, Lauren. You're pregnant. It was like somebody hit a 'pause' button, then remembered the two of us after four years and just hit 'play' again. Caroline is in my heart, but I'd be willing to give up even her for you. There's an actual 'us' again, a future. I'm ready to do anything for that."
Paul gripped my hand.
"I've always just wanted us. You know that. From the first time I set eyes on you. We can work it out, Lauren. This… shit – It's just a stupid, horrible detour. All the lies are over now."
"That sounds really sweet, Paul," I said, pulling my hand away. "Really wonderful and nice, except for one thing. One small detail."
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