Hey guys! I'm really sorry that I haven't updated in a while, but volleyball's been starting up again and I've been busy! To make up for it, I wrote the longest chapter yet! Thank you all for voting on the poll; it was very helpful in making the final decision! We have a very clear winner! :) This story will start to wrap up in a chapter or two, so don't forget to review! Thanks, and enjoy! :)
Lizzie slammed the door to their apartment, walked into the kitchen, poured herself some bourbon, and sat down to think.
All this time, she had been trying to convince herself that she and Jack's feelings were the brother-sister type, but that just wasn't true. Still, she couldn't believe that Jack had told her he loved her already! They had known each other for three days, for crying out loud!
Then again, that was about the same amount of time that it had taken him to confess his love to Rose on Titanic. Maybe he was just a fast-paced kind of guy.
Lizzie didn't know what to do. She had thought that she loved Brock, but then Jack had come along and changed her perception of everything. Besides, if Brock had truly said those awful things to Jack, then he definitely wasn't the guy for her.
If she chose Brock, the money-obsessed yet down-to-earth guy, then she would have a nice, comfortable life. There was nothing wrong with that; it actually sounded quite nice. However, if she chose Jack, the wild, free spirited one, then she would live a life full of passion and risk-taking.
The latter certainly sounded more fun and appealing...but wasn't it better to be safe than sorry?
I need to talk to Brock, she decided. She needed to find out if he had really said those terrible things to Jack, and see if he was ready to apologize for how he had behaved the past couple of days. If he was as rude as he had been, then her decision was clear. However, if he acted truly sorry, then she would have some thinking to do.
She picked up her phone, but before she could dial Brock's number, her phone rang. It was none other than Brock himself.
"Hey," she said before Brock could say anything. "Listen, we need to talk. Where are you?"
"Hello, miss." It wasn't Brock's voice on the other end, but a man with a Spanish accent.
"Um, hi?" Lizzie said carefully. "Who are you?"
"My name is Eduardo. I am the bartender at McFletcher's Bar in west Brooklyn. A man named Brock Lovett, according to his license plate, just passed out from drinking too much. I dialed speed dial on his phone and you answered. I'm sorry, but could you please come and get him? He's attracting too much attention."
Lizzie couldn't believe her ears. Brock was passed out drunk? It was only 2 o'clock in the afternoon! Besides, Brock never got drunk. In all the years she had known him, she had never seen him drink more than two or three beers at a party, tops, and he practically never did any shots.
What was happening to the man that she thought she knew so well?
"I'll be right there," she told Eduardo exasperatedly.
She looked up the directions to McFletcher's Bar on Google Maps, then headed over in her car. Traffic was terrible, and she would usually have taken the subway, but somehow thought that carting an unconscious man on and off the subway cars might be slightly difficult.
After what seemed like hours, Lizzie arrived at the bar. It was a run-down little place, and she couldn't believe that Brock would ever bring himself here. They were more of the type to hit the hip new bars and clubs that always popped up all over the city. McFletcher's looked like it had been here since New York City was established.
Brock was propped up on a stool, out cold, bottles and glasses surrounding him. Eduardo had been right: Brock was indeed getting a lot of strange looks from people. Lizzie quickly checked to make sure he still had his wallet and cell phone, then allowed Eduardo to load Brock into the tiny backseat of her car.
She thanked him for all his help and gave him a 5-dollar bill. "Thanks, miss," he said appreciatively. "So are you his sister?"
"Nope, his girlfriend," Lizzie told him, getting into the front seat.
Eduardo looked surprised. "Oh...okay then."
She furrowed her brow. "What, is there a problem with that?"
"No miss, not at all...it's just that before Mr. Lovett passed out, he told me that he was drinking so much because of a broken heart." Eduardo gave her one more puzzled look, then walked back into the bar.
Lizzie sat still for a moment, shocked. She turned to look at Brock, sleeping peacefully in the backseat. His face looked more relaxed than it had been in days, though it felt like years. Why would Brock say his heart was broken? It wasn't like they had broken up...did he think they had?
No, Lizzie told herself firmly. No, Eduardo must have just misunderstood what Brock said, that's all.
She drove back to their apartment building, lost in thought, the only sound being Brock's occasional grunt from the backseat. After much difficulty, she was able to get him into their apartment and tucked into bed.
...
Several hours later, Brock was still out cold. To pass the time, Lizzie had cooked a magnificent dinner of roast beef, fruit salad, corn on the cob, garlic bread, and banana pudding for desert. She thought that they could sit down and have a nice, civil talk.
The table was set for two, as there had been no sign of Jack since Lizzie had rejected him. A twinge of guilt bloomed in her stomach when she thought about it, but she quickly brushed it away. She had a boyfriend, and Jack had known it too.
Suddenly, Brock appeared in their bedroom doorway. His t-shirt was stained, his hair mussed, and the circles under his eyes dark.
"About time you woke up, sleepyhead!" Lizzie said, trying to keep her tone light. "Here, I made you a Bloody Mar-"
"YOU!" Brock roared suddenly. Lizzie jumped about a foot in the air and dropped the Bloody Mary that she had made for his hangover. The glass shattered on the polished hardwood floors and the red liquid spilled all over, looking like blood.
"Brock, what...?" she cried.
He advanced on her, pointing a finger accusingly. It was clear he was still half-drunk, for his eyes were slightly unfocused. "I...loved...you," he slurred. "I loved you and you CHEATED on me, with the frozen guy!"
His voice had steadily increased, and at the last words, his face contorted with anger and he knocked over the roast beef that Lizzie had worked hard to make perfect.
"Brock, calm down!" Lizzie screamed. "What the hell are you doing?! I never cheated on you with anyone, ever, especially not Jack!"
"That's just a blatant lie," Brock hissed, kicking the table. "And to think I was going to marry you! I even bought you a fucking ring!" He picked up the banana pudding and slammed it to the floor. His eyes were wild and deranged, shifting all over the place. "Then I come down to the office to apologize for my unnecessary behavior, and I hear you and that pretty-boy talking about how much you love each other!"
Lizzie stood stunned for a second. Brock was going to propose to her? Then she shook her head. She could think about that later; for now, she needed to stop this reckless, drunk Brock from trashing the place.
"Brock, you need to listen to me," she pleaded, taking his wrists in an attempt to stop him from destroying anything else. "Jack said that he loved me, not the other way around, okay? I rejected him. I love you, Brock, and I would never cheat on you!"
Brock stared at Lizzie's hands around his wrist for a long time. Then, so quietly that she could barely hear it, he muttered, "Get out."
She stared at him, shocked, thinking she must have misheard. "Wait, what?"
He looked up at her, and suddenly didn't seem so drunk anymore. His eyes were full of a steely anger that she wasn't used to. "You heard me," he said evenly. "This is my apartment. You moved in with me. My name's on the lease, not yours. Get out."
Lizzie's eyes filled with disbelieving tears. "Brock, can...can we talk about this, please?" she squeaked, trying to stop her throat from closing up.
"No. I want you out." He suddenly reached out and smacked over a vase of flowers. "OUT! GET OUT!"
Frightened, she ran from the room, horrified tears pouring in torrents down her pale cheeks. Grabbing her small, ratty suitcase from their bedroom closet, she stuffed some clothes and toiletries into it, then ran for the door.
"I'll get the rest of my things later," she told him over her shoulder as she yanked the door open, working with all her might to not let her voice betray how thickly the tears were flowing down her cheeks. He was silent, his back to her.
Lizzie ran to the nearest subway station, the wind blowing her tears backward into her hair. She boarded a subway without even looking where it was going and sat down, breathing hard. People shot her strange looks, and she couldn't blame them: with her small suitcase, tear-streaked face, and wild eyes, she probably looked like she had escaped from an insane asylum.
In less than half an hour, she had lost both her home and the man she thought she loved. How could anything get worse from here?
Suddenly, a thought flashed through her mind. Jack. He might go back to their apartment to try to find her and find the drunk, dangerous, crazed version of Brock instead. In Brock's current state of mind, who knew what he would do to Jack?
She had to find him.
