Blood dried under his nails, black as winter pitch. He stood before the penthouse door, confident, feeling like a man who had never heard of responsibility, who had never met a problem he couldn't wriggle out of. The party had reached a fever pitch, everyone inside seeming like they were possessed by something wild and ancient. He remembered suddenly sitting in the principal's office with his parents and his brother, in trouble again. "Poor Impulse Control," the nun called it. The phrase hung in the air like prophecy.

Gregory entered, and his sneakers marked his passage across the polished floor in squeaks. The cold had cut deep outside, not unlike that winter day when he'd married you. He'd refused to wait for warmer weather because waiting meant time not spent as her husband, and that had seemed an unendurable thing. Now the memory of her there in her white dress with winter roses in her hair and her cheeks bitten by cold felt like something from another life entirely. A better life. One he kept trying to deserve and failing at spectacularly.

The air inside was thick with vodka and vape smoke and wealth gone sour. Neon caught in the mirrors and turned everything garish and unreal. Bodies moved without rhythm or reason. Mouths shaped words that died in the din. He passed a group of men in expensive suits with their ties pulled loose, talking about bitcoins—digital money that didn't exist anywhere you could touch it. Gregory didn't know what a bitcoin was. Didn't know who threw the party either. Sponsor maybe. Rich fan. Another player. It didn't matter. The bar was free, and he wasn't planning to ask questions.

"Yo, The Mouth is in the house!" someone called out and slapped his back hard enough to send him stumbling. Gregory turned. His face arranged itself into a smile, carefree, genuine. Some man stood there, his face vaguely familiar, name lost somewhere between the third period and now.

"Damn straight," Gregory said, found himself holding something brown and expensive. "The Mouth shows up, the party starts." Laughter rose up around him like smoke. He drank. Let it burn. He never flinched. Not on ice. Not off it. Least that's what he told himself in the dark hours.

But the weight in his gut remained. That fight with Sampson played out behind his eyes. His brother's face red as sin. Eyes wild as something feral. The feel of jersey bunched in his fist when they went at each other like animals. The crowd watching their private war become public spectacle. Sam standing there after, jaw set like granite. Gregory hadn't looked at him since. Not after that staredown that cut deeper than any blow. "Don't act better than me," Sam had said. The words hung there still.

"C'mon, Buccafusca!" someone shouted, hand landing hard on his shoulder. "Quit starin' at your beer like it owes you child support. Fuckin' drink up."

And you. He hadn't even texted after the game. Maybe she hadn't watched, he told himself, but that was a lie and he knew it. She always watched. Every game. Every fight. Every goddamn mistake. She watched, and she cared, and somehow that was worse than indifference.

He moved through the chaos like a man underwater. Found more drinks. Laughed at jokes he didn't hear. Near the DJ booth, influencers posed with drinks that glowed unnatural colors. Each laugh became currency. Each drink a small death. He let himself drift, a leaf in a stream flowing nowhere good.

"Yo, Greg," the question came sudden as a blade. "What was that shit with your brother earlier? Looked like you were about to kill each other."

The smile faltered. Man in a blazer stood there holding a cigar like it meant something. Gregory laughed, the sound hollow as an empty church.

"Just family stuff, man," he said, clapping the man on the shoulder. "You know how it is. Brothers fight."

He moved away before truth could catch him. Wove through the crowd with the grace of a man running from himself. The party wasn't about talking. Wasn't about anything really. Except forgetting.

By the time the night bled into morning, the party had grown thin and grey. Empty glasses and abandoned shoes littered the floor like bones in a desert. The survivors swayed or slumped on couches while Gregory stood by the windows. Thick frost coated the glass and turned the city into something abstract and meaningless.

His phone buzzed. The sound carried through the dying music like a warning. He pulled it out slow, like handling something that might bite.

*1 New Message:

Her name hit him hard as a check into the boards. He put the phone away without reading. Grabbed one last drink from a passing tray because why not. Night was already lost, might as well make it worth forgetting. The ride home blurred past. Cab Driver talking about choices and values. Words floating by like debris in floodwater. Gregory nodded. Didn't hear.

He stumbled through his door as dawn began painting judgment across the sky. The house quiet as a church after the congregation leaves. For a moment, he thought maybe she was sleeping. That he could slip into bed. Pretend the night hadn't happened.

The door creaked loud as damnation. His hands fumbled with the lock, the click echoed final as a judge's gavel. He leaned against the door, half for balance, half because standing seemed a thing beyond him now. The ghost of bass still throbbed in his skull, keeping time with his guilt. The smell of home hit him first. Of her. It fought against the stale beer and sweat and borrowed cologne that clung to him like sin. His eyes found the counter again where his failure lay in state.

The anniversary card sat there accusing. Her writing: "Here's to Forever—Happy Anniversary." Flowers stood witness, their petals bright as hope he didn't deserve. The wrapped gift completed his judgment, perfectly placed like the final word in a sentence of condemnation. A sound escaped him, low and animal. The light coming through his windows showed no mercy as reality found him. His anniversary was today. No, shit, it was yesterday. The day had turned, and he was lost in territory beyond forgiveness with no map to lead him home.

He pressed his palms into his eyes until colors bloomed in the dark, like pressure could grind away the magnitude of what he'd done. His mind raced through options that didn't exist. The silence pressed in on him, heavy as cathedral stone. For one moment, he held onto hope that she hadn't noticed his absence. The blue glow of the television reflecting off the wall broke that lie like a stick over his knee.

His shoes marked each step toward the kitchen with tiny betrayals. He tried to move like a man with purpose instead of a hangover. Found a pen. A wrinkled receipt. Wrote words that died before they touched paper.

"My angel, my everything, I wanted to wake up with you in my arms etc etc." He stared at the words. Scratched out the "etc etc" with disgust. What kind of man wrote "etc etc" in an apology? Before he could destroy the evidence of his failure, a throat cleared behind him with the finality of a bell tolling.

He turned, dread living in his gut like poison. There she was.

His mouth opened, but whatever excuse he had died between thought and tongue. "Morning," he said, voice rough as ice after three periods. Tried to smile, but it felt more like surrender.

Her silence damned him more than words ever could. Gregory held up his worthless note like a white flag in a lost war.

"I can explain," he said, the words empty as his future seemed right then. Already knowing he was damned, he dropped to his knees. Crawled to her like a man seeking mercy he didn't deserve. His arms found her waist, pressed his face into her stomach and held on like she was the only solid thing left in a world gone to shadow and regret.

"No, shit, I can't, but... babe, please... let me make it up to you. God, I'll do fucking anything, I’ll kiss your feet, I’ll fuckin' crawl on my stomach like a worm. Just... Please, babe, fuckin' please."