He gives me s.p.a.ce. Puts a twenty on the table when I sink the game ball.

I sit on the barstool, sip on a fresh beer as he racks up the next game.

My brother, born fourteen minutes and some change before me, sits down next to me. Grabs his second beer. Tries to down it in one gulp. He drinks how I feel. One egg split in two.

"I'm leaving her," I finally say.

He feels my bitterness without me even having to say much. Nods. Gives me a moment to let reality sink in.

"You sure that's what you want to do?"

I put my beer down. "At this point, there's no other choice. Something's not right, and no matter how hard I try, she's not talking."

My twin chalks up his pool stick. When I look at him, swear I'm looking in the mirror. "Maybe you just need a little time apart. You know how women can get."

"It's more than that, Drew. We've fallen apart."

He brushes some of the blue dust off his khakis. "Melissa and I aren't doing too good either."

"Figured as much. Is it the baby business?"

Andrew nods. Says, "I thought things would be a lot different, you know. Thought we'd have kids by now and be living life on a whole different level."

"Tell me about it."

I feel his eyes peering at me as I break the b.a.l.l.s and get the next game underway. Tells me, "I'm sorry, man. I didn't mean to-"

I put my pool stick in the air, shake my head. Continue sinking solids in pockets. His frustration over not being able to be a father causes him to forget I'm no longer a father. It's not the first time. And until he has a child, I'm sure it won't be the last.

"For real, Brandon. I'm sorry about that."

"Your turn," I say. Grab my beer, guzzle down the remnants.

It's not really his turn. I'm just tired of playing.

Another twenty lands on the table. He's tired of playing too. Either that or he's lost his energy. Talking about lack and loss will do that to you.

My brother sits down next to me. "It's still hard to talk about, huh?"

I lean my head back against the wall. "Feels like it was yesterday."

Three years ago, my son pa.s.sed away. He was only five. Wasn't sick. I could count the times he had been sick since birth on one hand. He went to sleep one night and never woke up. The doctors had no explanation. None at all. "We're sorry," was all they had to offer.

Andrew flags down a waitress. Orders us a couple more beers.

"There are days I want to forget. Want to forget holding his stiff, cold body in my arms. Want to forget the pain in Rene's scream when she found him." My throat becomes dry. Wonder what's taking our drinks so long to arrive.

She finally comes. Andrew pays her with the twenty from the table. She hands him sixteen dollars back. He gives her two bucks for her service.

I take a couple sips back to back before I say, "Sometimes I want to forget the day he was even born. Then it wouldn't hurt so much to remember him dying."

"Man, I can't imagine that feeling."

In a way, I know he can. We're cut from the same egg. What I feel, he feels. And what he feels, I feel.

"Do you think that's what's going on with Rene? You think she's just missing him?"

My answer doesn't come right away, need a second to let the thoughts marinate. "I mean, it's possible. She was a little despondent when he first pa.s.sed, but she pulled it together to...you know, get him ready for the funeral. It was almost a year after that she started acting like a mute."

His mouth opens to respond just as his cell rings on his hip. "It's Mel."

"Tell her I said hi." I head to the bathroom to get a little relief. Beer runs though my kidneys like a leaky faucet at midnight.

When I get back, he tells me it's time to head on home. "Mel made dinner plans and I need to get the lessons done for the week."

"All right, man. Let's do this again soon. I could always use some extra gas money."

We end on a light note with a chuckle.

"You know I let you win." He grabs me by the shoulder. "In all seriousness, think about it before you walk out on Rene. Talk to her and make her talk back. Hate to see it all end like this."

"I'd hate for it to end like this too."

8.

SYDNEY.

In the glove box of my car is a gift certificate to a local gym I won in a drawing from the local radio station. I was going to give it to one of the other agents at the firm since I prefer working out outdoors, but right now, I need this for me. I grab it and walk into Pick Your Fit 24hr Fitness where I get to "pick my fit." The owner gives me a tour of the facility. Since the certificate pays for a year membership, there's not much she needs to sell me on. I fill out the necessary paperwork, proceed to the restroom to change. Find my way to the mat for some stretches.

Besides the owner and two guys spotting each other on weights, I'm the only other person in here. I could get used to a place like this.

It's been a while since I've run. Try to run at least three days a week, but work, the kids, and acting like a happy wife have worn me out lately. Running helps me put things in perspective, and that's just what I need.

Not even a mile in, my legs let me know they're rusty. Press the up arrow, increase to a six-and-a-half pace. Breathing is harder, heart pumping something serious. Feel my sweat pores open and pour out rivers of salt water, forms a lake in the crevice of my bosom. The burn in my legs calms down just a tad. Takes a minute or two for my breathing to settle to an even pace. Running slower aches more, especially when I go weeks without running.

As the two weightlifters leave the gym, another guy walks in. He causes me to lose my step. I step on the sides of the treadmill, take a breather. Use my towel to dry off my face and neck, sip on a bottle of electrolytes.

My daughter's first grade teacher hops on the treadmill next to me. He doesn't say anything when he looks in my direction.

"You don't know who I am, do you?"

He shakes his head while fidgeting with the b.u.t.tons on the treadmill.

"And I only thought it was after a man sleeps with you that he no longer recognizes you." I chuckle.

He stares at me with one eyebrow raised. Not sure if he's trying to remember if I'm someone he actually did sleep with or if he thinks I'm totally off my rocker.

"I'm Kennedy-Kennedy Holmes' mom, Sydney."

His eyes widen as if I've just told him he has a child he didn't know about.

I relieve him of his confusion. "From school. Mr. Carter, right?"

He gives me a blank stare.

Maybe I'm the one confused. Or maybe my child's teacher has no manners outside of the cla.s.sroom.

Out of nowhere, the guy laughs. "I'm messing with you. I am Mr. Carter."

I let out a hesitant chuckle while thinking about switching my daughter to another teacher. Not sure this is the kind of guy I want teaching my child.

He's still laughing. "You should see the look on your face."

I say, "Ah, didn't know you had quite a sense of humor." I shut my treadmill off, grab my towel, and proceed to the mat to stretch my tightened hamstrings.

Mr. Carter pulls the emergency stop on his machine, hops off before I have the chance to walk off. Tells me, "I am Mr. Carter, but not the one you're thinking about. I'm Brandon. Andrew's your daughter's teacher." He looks at me with a half-smile and raised shoulders. "Bad time for jokes, huh?"

"You're twins?"

"Identical."

I slap him with my towel. "Funny. You had me about to call the school board on you."

"Please don't do that. My brother would kill me."

"As well he should. You're ruining his reputation."

We share a smile. No harm, no foul.

He says, "People get us confused all the time. Even at our age, we still like to have a little fun with it."

"I'm sure it never gets old." I leave Brandon by the cardio machines and plop down on the mats. Not running in awhile only to push myself as hard as I did was not a good idea. Not a good idea at all. My quads and calves join my hamstrings in screaming for relief.

The moment I open my legs for a b.u.t.terfly stretch, over walks Mr. Funny Man. I see his eyes focus in on the wet spot in my crotch area. Immediately, I become self-conscious about my sweating issue and close my legs.

"How far did you run?" he wants to know.

"Not as far as I'd like."

"And that is?"

"You sure are quite the joker and talker, I see," I say, my voice laced with bite.

"And I see all of my joking and talking has you a little wet between the legs."

My face burns with embarra.s.sment. I want to explain I've been this way my whole life, how I would sweat so much in my sleep as a child, my mother swore she was going to invent diapers for eight-year-olds. Telling him that would only make me more embarra.s.sed, so I hold my tongue. I pull my legs in and slide my shirt over my knees. Plan to sit here and rock in silence until Mr. Funny Man finds someone else to torture.

Brandon senses my discomfort. "That was inappropriate of me. Sometimes my tongue gets the best of me."

Wet between the legs. Tongue gets the best of me. All of a sudden a weird feeling pa.s.ses through me. Maybe not weird, but definitely inappropriate. Why has my mind taken his words to a s.e.xual level? What if he meant it that way? Do I dare sit around and find out? "Let me get out of here before the kids make my husband run away from home."

He reaches down to help me up from the mat.

"Thanks."

He nods and walks to the free weights.

As I grab my keys and other items from the storage rack, I catch a glimpse of Brandon through the mirror in the middle of a bench press. Don't know why, but my eyes scan his left hand. A silver band halts my curiosity.

Yep, he's married.

Then I have to remind myself: So are you.

9.

BRANDON.

Rene beats me home for the third night in a row this week. Ever since the night she left me hanging in the bedroom, things have been a little different around here.

Still tense, but different. She's sitting in the dining room. A plate of roast, potatoes, and asparagus is in front of her. Gla.s.s of red wine in her hand.

Maybe there is hope after all. Maybe Andrew was right. Despite it all, my wife can still bring a smile to my face. I walk over, plant a kiss to her forehead. "Smells good in here."

"Your plate's in the oven. I'll wait for you."