She touched her face. This morning, she’d gone to her dermatologist. Catastrophic timing, but then so was her life. Still, for the first time in weeks, she felt a sliver of hope.

Heath got drunk Saturday night, just like his old man used to. All he needed was a woman to smack around, and he’d be a chip right off the old block. Come to think of it, the old man would be proud of him, because a couple of hours ago, Heath had smacked one around real good, not physically maybe, but he’d beat the hell out of her emotionally. And she’d smacked him right back. Got him right where it hurt. As he fell into bed sometime near dawn, he wished he’d told her he loved her, said the words she needed to hear. But he couldn’t give Annabelle anything but the truth. She meant too much to him.

When he finally woke up, it was Sunday afternoon. He staggered into the shower and shoved his throbbing head under the water. He should be at Soldier Field right now with Sean’s family, but as he climbed out of the shower, he pulled on a robe instead, then made his way to the kitchen and reached for the coffeepot. He hadn’t called a single client to wish him well, and he didn’t even care.

He pulled a mug from the cupboard and tried to work up some more indignation against Annabelle. She’d derailed him, and he didn’t like it. He had a plan, a damn good one for both of them. Why couldn’t she have trusted him? Why did she need to hear a bunch of meaningless bull? Actions spoke louder than words, and once they were married, he’d have shown her how much he cared in every way he knew how.

He grabbed some aspirin and drifted downstairs to his pricey, barely furnished media room so he could catch a few games. He wasn’t dressed, hadn’t shaved or eaten, and he didn’t give a damn. As he began surfing the sports channels, he thought of the way her family had attacked him after she’d walked out. Like a school of piranhas.

“What’s your game, Champion?”

“Do you love her or not?”

“Nobody hurts Annabelle and gets away with it.”

Even Candace had jumped in. “I’m sure you made her cry, and she hates it when she gets all blotchy.”

Finally, Chet had said it all. “You’d better leave now.”

For the rest of Sunday afternoon into the night, Heath flicked from one game to the next, not taking in a single play. He’d been ignoring the phone all day, but he didn’t want anybody calling out the cops, so he’d managed to fake his way through a conversation with Bodie where he’d pleaded the flu. Afterward, he went upstairs and grabbed a bag of potato chips. They tasted like dryer lint. Still dressed in his white cotton bathrobe, he settled into the living room’s lone chair with a fresh bottle of scotch.