Finding Infinity (2 page)

I groan. “I’m not in the mood to shop for antiques today.” Colin helped Brad buy a house in the same neighborhood that we live in. It’s outside the gilded cage, and Brad has become obsessed with decorating it. His other new obsession is Canadian HGTV.
Sarah’s House
is his favorite show. He likes for me to go shopping with him. He pretends to be Sarah, and I’m Sarah’s assistant, Tommy. If I didn’t adore Brad so much, I might have murdered him by now.

“What else are you going to do today? Lay in bed?” he says condescendingly. “Get up and get dressed. I’m coming to pick you up in thirty minutes.”

I hate that he knows that I’m still in bed. I roll over and look at the clock. It’s almost nine o’clock on Tuesday. There’s a little voice in the back of my head that’s screaming
The day’s half over
. I’m just so damn tired. I can’t seem to get enough sleep lately.

I wake up plotting how I can work in a nap after lunch, without Jenny telling Colin. I snuck off and took a pregnancy test last week, but it was negative. I didn’t want Colin to know. First of all, there’s no point in getting his hopes up. Secondly, I didn’t really think that I was. I just wanted to rule it out as a cause. The only other thing I can think of that explains my constant tired state is that my body is making up for all the nights of sleep I missed in medical school, and residency.

“Give me an hour,” I reply not even trying to hide my annoyance.

“Ah…need some quality time with QueBee?”

“Colin,” I make sure I emphasize his name, “is not here. He left early this morning to work out with his trainer and passing coach. Then he has meetings with the coaching staff about the draft. He said to not expect him home until late.”

Brad squeals. I mean, he literally squeals, like a little girl on a playground who has a secret. “Put on your grubby clothes. We’re going to refinish my armoire.”

I give up. There’s no escaping him today. I blew him off yesterday. If I don’t give in and be his Tommy, he’ll just come over here. Then I’ll have to listen to Brad and Jenny bicker like an old married couple.

“Fine. I’ll throw on my running clothes and jog over. Thing One and Thing Two will be with me, but I’ll send them home after they’re sure that there are no crazies hiding in your house.”

“It’s a plan. I’ll go buy the supplies. See you later, alligator.”

I begrudgingly reply, “After while crocodile.”

“I love it when you play with me,” Brad coos.

“Bye, Brad,” I say as I hit end. The best assistant in the world is seriously lacking in his ability to hang up the phone. The boy will keep chatting forever.

I roll over and grab Colin’s pillow and pull it to me. It smells like him. Masculine. Strong. It makes the pit in my stomach feel that much deeper. I miss him. I know that he’s at work, but I still ache for him when we’re not together. It’s pathetic, and I’m working on being stronger.

I flop on my back and look around Colin’s bedroom (my bedroom?). It is the definition of masculine design. It has cathedral ceilings that add to the vast feeling. The bed is large, but the thick wooden headboard and matching bedside tables make it feel even more solid and rugged. There’s a large flat screen TV that comes up from an innocuous looking piece of furniture. The sitting room has a fireplace that’s made of Texas limestone, and the couches are a worn-brown leather. I love the bay window that looks out onto the pool. There’s a private entrance to the bedroom from the backyard that Colin had said that he added for midnight swims.

If I don’t sit up, I’m going to fall back asleep so I lean against the heavy wood headboard, trying to wake up. Colin thinks I hate this house. I don’t. It’s not my design aesthetic, but it’s not distasteful. What I loathe about the house is the chaos inside of it. Because Colin and Jenny’s office is here, there’s a constant flurry of activity outside of our bedroom door. Never mind that Jenny is always on the phone, there are also deliveries a couple of times a day.

Colin’s dining room also doubles as his conference room. Right now, the dine-con room is filled with design boards that feature his winter collection of athletic wear, and about one hundred samples of fabrics that cover the entire spectrum of color. Even if we wanted to actually dine in the dining room, there wouldn’t be enough room to set our plates down.

Alice is Colin’s full-time housekeeper, yet his house is never clean. It’s not dirty, but it’s never neat and organized. He has four large boxes of footballs sitting in the foyer that he’s needed to sign for a month. There are countless numbers of gifts, memorabilia, and promotional items lining the floor of his study. They’re now spilling into Jenny’s office, which I think used to be a formal living room. The only place where I can keep order, and feel a little bit in control of my surroundings, is our bedroom and bathroom. Alice is very good about only cleaning it when I’m gone. I know that she’s touching my things, but I don’t have to see her. It helps!

Colin has a rule—in place since before I moved in—that football is not allowed in his bedroom. Thankfully, there’s some separation, but his mistress is clearly consuming everything outside of our personal space.

I drop Colin’s pillow and grudgingly climb out of bed. If I don’t get security arranged, I’ll never get to Brad’s house, then, I’ll have to listen to him whine. I call Jenny, who’s about twelve feet outside of my bedroom door, and tell her that I’m running to Brad’s. She hangs up, and I assume notifies the Dallas security team that I want to go for a run. I remember the good old days when I’d crawl out of bed, use the restroom, throw on my running clothes, pile my hair in a ponytail, brush my teeth, and walk out my front door.

Those days are dead and gone. In fact, any semblance of my former life has been destroyed. Our interview with Allison Katz set off a media firestorm. The allegations of Colin being addicted to prescription painkillers have taken on a life of their own. If that’s not bad enough, we’ve been hounded by the paparazzi wanting details on our engagement. Security guards have become my appendages when Colin’s not with me, because news of Colin being engaged brought out all of his overzealous fans. I’ve had to quit visiting anything other than mainstream news sites on the Internet because the stories about us are ridiculous, mean-spirited or just plain wrong and sometimes all three.

There’s the fan camp, who can’t believe that Colin would have tossed aside the goddess Sasha Stone for an average, everyday girl. Then, there’s the fan camp that can’t believe that Colin’s not marrying them. The final fan camp is what I like to call the crazies. They either believe that Colin can’t marry me because he’s already married to them, or that Colin’s gay.

It doesn’t matter. Any way you slice it, my life is the complete polar opposite of what it was before Colin-fucking-McKinney hijacked it again, and there’s no going back. This is who I am now. Doctor Caroline Jane Collins has been completely redefined.

I drag myself into my walk-in closet that is larger than the bedroom I shared with Chelsea my entire childhood, and dust off my running shoes. I’ve lost my passion for early morning jogs. Colin lives inside a gated and guarded community. I completely understand why he has to live here. Not too long ago, he found a woman in his bedroom, and she had a knife in her car. She fell into the crazy “already married to Colin” camp. That forced Colin to move into the gilded cage. It’s so pretty behind the twelve-foot tall wrought-iron fence. All of the houses are on multiple acres, and back up to a man-made lake. Colin has the biggest house in the neighborhood, and the most land.

I can run without security inside of the gilded cage. Unfortunately, it’s only about a mile and a half loop. That means that I have to keep running in a circle, like a lab rat.

Colin has a gym in his house. I can run on the treadmill if I wish. Once again, refer to the statement about being a lab rat. If I want to run like I used to, and explore the neighborhood that surrounds the gilded cage, I have to take security with me. Lately, Colin’s mistress is keeping him too busy to run with me in the mornings.

There are usually one or two photographers camped outside the gilded cage’s gates. They’re not the same ones every day. I always wonder how they’re scheduled. Is there, like, an Excel spreadsheet that says which paparazzo goes where for the day?

Rationally, I know that the bodyguards are for my own good. Colin has done a nice job of sharing the security reports that he gets with me. I can see in black and white the threats against us/him/me. I’m sure that he shares them because he wants me to understand why I can’t go all “Charlie” on him which I’ve come to define as independent, spontaneous, and generally fabulous.

However, it doesn’t change the fact that I can no longer run alone like I used to. My days of going grocery shopping alone are in the past. I needed a few things from the drugstore a couple of weeks back — my monthly pill prescription, tampons, a sympathy card, and lotion. No big deal. I thought it would take me ten minutes, and I wouldn’t need security. Wrong! As I was standing in the stationary aisle, trying to choose an appropriate card, a lady approached me and spat in my face. She said, “You don’t deserve him. Look at you. You’re not even pretty.” She was in the “You’re not good enough for him” fan camp. That was the wake-up call I’d needed. If I have to leave the gilded cage, security tags along.

Today, I’m going to jog to Brad’s house, and security is just going to have to suck it up. I need to find my center again, some peace in my life. I need to feel happiness like I used to when Colin isn’t with me.

As I walk out of our bedroom—that’s really become what I think of as my home—into the rest of the house—that I think of as Colin’s office—I’m greeted by Jenny with a dismissive hand wave. She’s yelling at somebody on the other end of the phone. I wave as I walk past her office. I note that her hair is orange today.

When I enter the kitchen, there are four guys sitting at the breakfast bar talking football. Two of them are our temporary houseguests, and the other two are total and complete strangers, but I surmise that they either play for Dallas or hope to. This is ridiculous. I live in a home for wayward boys. No! That’s not correct. I live in a home for wayward football players.

Four sets of eyes track me like I’m a wild animal. “Morning boys,” I say, as chipper as possible. I open the refrigerator, and see that my special brand of milk has been drunk. I mumble to myself, “Guess I’ll have to start writing my name on my food.”

One of the wayward players says, “Aw…man. I’m sorry, Charlie. I didn’t mean to finish off your milk.”

I set my bowl on the counter, open the cabinet, and pull out my box of Raisin Bran. Once I’ve poured it into my bowl and put the box away, I pick up some flakes with my fingers. No need for a spoon when I don’t have any milk. “My name is Caroline, and don’t touch my milk again.” I realize that I sound like a shrew so I add, “Please.”

I know that I’m being a bitch, but I’m really reaching my breaking point. I need order in my life. I need space. I need my things to not be touched.

I grew up with three sisters, and shared a room with my oldest sister, Chelsea. The first time that I found order in my life was when I moved in with Rachael in college, and I had my own room. Having my own space and knowing where all my things are gives me the control that I crave in my life. It gives me the strength to fight my compulsion to purge or run until I collapse when I feel out of control. It’s my constant. I crave it. Right now, I have none, and I literally don’t know how much longer I can take it.

I grab my bowl of bran flakes and walk back toward my home when Jenny stops me. “Do you have any interest in helping to plan Colin’s annual golf tournament?”

I walk into her office and sit down in front of her desk while I finish picking at my dry cereal. “Who usually coordinates it?”

“I use an event planning company here in Dallas. They’ve managed it since it began,” she says, barely glancing away from her computer screen.

“Then, I guess not. Event planning is not my specialty. Hell, ask Colin. He’ll tell you that. I can’t even pick a date to get married.” I stand with my cereal bowl to continue making my way home.

“Colin’s worried about you,” Jenny says this without an ounce of concern in her voice. I get it. Jenny and I will probably never be friends. She has been the most important woman in Colin’s life, besides his mother, for a long time. She barely knew that I existed when Colin moved me into his home. Her toes have been stepped on. I get it. Plus, our personalities couldn’t be more different, but we should be on the same side because we both care about Colin.

“And?” I reply motioning for her to continue.

“Every time he calls me, he asks how you’re doing,” she states.

I continue to wait for her to get to the point. When I realize that that’s it, I turn back around and walk into my home. I love that I’m being checked on, like I’m a small child. The only thing that’s keeping me from packing the few belongings that I have here and moving back to Houston is my addiction/love for Colin and my loyalty to Brad, who relocated to Dallas for me.

There’s been no less than a handful of times I’ve regretted this move. The only thing that keeps me from slipping back into my illness is Colin. When he’s home, he’s mine. My degree of happiness is defined by the amount of time I get to be alone with him. I feel like a flower, kept in a dark closet. When Colin’s with me, I’m being carried into the warm sun. I drink up his energy and thrive. When Colin leaves, I’m gently placed back in the dark closet and left to wait for his return.

Sure, the sex is great, and I love that we can pleasure each other in lots of different ways. But I also love when we snuggle in bed, and talk about life. Or when he tells me about his day over dinner. I love showering with him, watching movies with him, and being in his presence. I, Caroline Jane Collins, love when just the two of us take Big Bertha out for a spin. If you’d ever told me I would volunteer to ride in that environment-killing hunk of metal, I would have checked you into a mental hospital.

Then, there’s Brad. He’s only been in Dallas for a short time, but he’s so happy. He has his house. He’s made some nice friends. I can tell that he’s thriving here, not like in Houston where he just seemed to be surviving. There might even be a boyfriend, but he’s playing coy with me.