Love Triangle: Six Books of Torn Desire

by Willow Winters

  “But the ring’s nice, isn’t it? You like it, right?”

  Cupping his face in my hands, I hover my lips over his. “It’s exactly what I’ve always dreamed of. We’ll get it resized, then I’ll wear it for the rest of my life.”

  He leans closer, resting his forehead on mine. “I like the sound of that.”

  “So do I.”

  Chapter Two

  DREW

  “Daddy,” a small voice whispers, infiltrating the place between sleep and wakefulness. It’s a sweet sound, the perfect one to rouse me from my dreams. It sounds like unwavering devotion and pure, untainted love.

  The old me would groan, tell whomever’s bothering me to go away, but those days ended eight years ago. Instead, I pretend I’m still asleep. It’s become a game, part of our daily routine, one I hope doesn’t fade with age and maturity. I treasure these moments with my two daughters. There will soon come a day when I’ll wish they’d still wake me up early on a Sunday morning to make them pancakes. When I’ll wish they’d still beg me to watch yet another Disney movie with them. When I’ll wish they’d still force me to play dress-up. Alyssa and Charlotte have already grown up faster than I like. It seems like just yesterday I held Alyssa for the first time as a bewildered twenty-six-year-old man who thought he had life figured out. Little did I know I had nothing figured out. I still don’t.

  “Daddy,” that same small voice repeats, followed by the sound of snickers.

  “Do you think he’s still sleeping?” a second voice whispers, this one younger. The slight lisp is evidence of a few recently lost teeth.

  “No. He’s just playing. Like always.” I can hear the irritation and a hint of annoyance in her tone. My oldest, Alyssa, is eight going on eighteen, and she has all the attitude to prove it.

  “I don’t know. He’s not moving.”

  I do my best to stay still, apart from my chest rising and falling with my breaths.

  “Daddy?” I sense my two girls hovering over me, inching closer and closer.

  Before they can react, I fling my eyes open, bellowing, “Gotcha!” I wrap my arms around them, hoisting them into the bed with me.

  Their giggles and laughter fill the room as I tickle them, smiling at how carefree they both seem to be. There was a time I wasn’t sure if I’d be a good dad. When my ex, Carla, split, leaving me to raise a two-year-old and six-month-old alone, I had no idea what to do. I worried I’d do something wrong and destroy any chance they had at a bright future. Looking at them now—happy, adjusted, loving—I know I’ve done a good job, despite the challenges facing me as a single father.

  “Okay, you two.” I glance at the clock, then back at them. For the longest time, I always saw Carla when I looked at them. But as the years passed and Carla’s appearance faded from memory, I no longer do. I see me. In their eyes. In their smile. In their laughter. They’re my world, and I know I’m theirs. “Time to get ready for school.”

  I fling the covers off, then lift each of my girls under an arm, carrying them out of my room and down the hall into theirs, their squeals filling our home. As I drop each off in their pastel-colored rooms laden with stuffed animals, dolls, and books, I marvel at how different my life is than it was ten years ago. Having kids was the last thing on my mind. The only thing I cared about was making a name for myself in hockey. It’s amazing how something that weighs less than eight pounds can change everything.

  Over the next hour, we busy ourselves with what’s become our typical morning routine. Alyssa helps Charlotte get ready while I shower, then both girls appear in the kitchen where we eat our normal breakfast of oatmeal and fruit. I make sure I’ve signed off on any of their homework, then place the lunches Aunt Gigi has prepared for them into their bags, leaving a note reminding them how much I love them.

  Like clockwork, at exactly 7:30, we walk out the door and begin the five-minute journey from our house in Needham, a suburb about a half-hour west of Boston, to the girls’ elementary school. During the colder months, I drive them on my way to my job as head hockey coach at Boston College. But now that it’s March and the weather is warming up, at least today, we walk, Charlotte enthusiastically clutching my hand. Alyssa refuses, claiming she’s too old to hold hands, just like she does every day.

  On our way down the sidewalk, the girls entertain themselves. Charlotte sings about a marching duke as she stomps along with the beat, her dark curls springing with each step. Even Alyssa joins in. Trees line the quiet neighborhood, the branches still mostly barren. The bulbs will soon be in full bloom, the browns and emptiness of the winter replaced with greens, everything coming back to life.

  As we approach the school, the sound of children grows louder and louder. A line of SUVs and minivans snakes around the block. Several teachers man the drop-off area to keep the flow of traffic moving as smoothly as possible. The instant we turn onto the walkway toward the front entrance, Alyssa attempts to hurry off and join the swarm of kids getting off one of the school buses parked in front of the building.

  “Bye, Dad. See you later!”

  “Uh-uh. Not so fast,” I call out.

  She slows her steps and turns around, crossing her arms over her chest. I arch a brow, not saying a word. This isn’t the first time we’ve done this dance. And it won’t be the last.

  Molly warned me of the things she did to our father when she was a teenager. From making him drop her off several blocks from wherever she was meeting her friends, to the incessant eye rolling, to the constant attitude. I’m unprepared for Alyssa to reach that stage. If I could have my way, I’d keep her eight forever. I’d keep her away from the cruelties of the real world, from people trying to convince her she’s anything but the princess she’ll always be in my eyes.

  With a dramatic sigh and an even more dramatic eye roll, she shuffles back toward me. I crouch down, giving her a hug, which she weakly returns, then kiss her temple.

  “Auntie Molly will be here to pick you two up after school. You’re having a sleepover there tonight.” Releasing my hold on her, I stand. “Okay?”

  “Okay.” She takes off once more.

  “Love ya, Lyss!”

  “Love you, too, Dad.”

  Three words can completely melt your heart and turn you into mush. Three words can make even the most secure and macho of men crumble into a thousand tiny pieces. Yes, when the first girl I was serious about said those three words to me, I thought it was the greatest day of my life. But nothing prepares you for the love you have for your own child. Hearing that tiny human you brought into the world say those three words back to you… It makes all the tantrums, fights, and sleepless nights worth it. In a heartbeat, you forget all the stuff that makes you reconsider whether having kids was a good idea, because when your child says those three words, it’s the only thing that matters.

  I turn to Charlotte, lifting her as if she weighs nothing. Compared to my size, she’s a peanut. She wraps her tiny arms around my neck, squeezing.

  “Tighter, tighter!” I say, a lightness in my tone. “You give the best hugs, Char.”

  “No. You do!” She giggles.

  I hold her for a moment, relishing in the love she has for me. She’s only six, still too young to think her daddy’s anything short of perfect.

  Kissing her cheek, I lower her back to her feet, tousling her hair. “Love you, kiddo. Have a good day at school. And behave for Auntie Molly and Uncle Noah tonight.”

  “I will. Love you, Daddy.” She spins from me, barreling toward one of the teachers ensuring the students make it into the building safely. “Have a good day at your school, too,” she shouts back, almost like an afterthought.

  “Thanks, kiddo.”

  I stand there, observing my girls. Being a parent is like riding a rollercoaster. There are moments you believe you have it figured out, then something happens to make you think you’re failing miserably. But as I watch my two girls, seeing them smile and interact with other kids their age, it makes me think I must have done somet
hing right.

  Once I see them disappear beyond the front doors, I turn around, about to head home. I come face to face with a group of moms, their eyes raking over me like I’m a pig ready for slaughter.

  “Andrew,” one of them says. After her months of shameless flirting, I’ve learned her name is Misty. “You are so good with those two girls.” She crosses an arm over her stomach, raising her coffee cup to her bright red lips with her free hand. “I wish I could get my husband to pick up some of the slack.”

  I grit out a smile, keeping my thoughts to myself. I’ve been the token single dad of the school long enough to have heard it all before, and from the same people. The group of five women surrounding me makes up what my sister, Molly, likes to call “the cougar den”. They spend the hours their kids are at school getting manicures, going out to lunch, and gossiping about everything and anything while their husbands work, some of them two jobs. They wear skin-tight workout clothes, their hair perfectly coifed, makeup expertly applied. They make it clear that the school drop-off is akin to a meat market…and I’m the prize filet.

  When I moved here two years ago and enrolled Alyssa and Charlotte, I became the hot topic. And I suppose I still am. These women constantly flirt with me, even at school events with their husbands at their sides. The men don’t seem to notice. They’re too excited about having their photo taken with me, Andrew Brinks, retired star center for the Bruins who led the team to win the Stanley Cup twice during my short career.

  “Big game tonight, huh?” one of the women asks, biting on her lower lip as she inches toward me, placing a hand on her hip.

  I nod, unpersuaded by whatever charms she thinks she possesses. “First game of the Frozen Four.”

  “Well, I’m sure your team will win. After all, they have you for a coach.” Misty winks.

  “We’ll see. We’re playing Cornell. No matter what, it’ll be a good game.” I give them a congenial smile, then open my mouth to excuse myself when she cuts me off.

  “Will your good luck charm be by your side? That little dancer for the Celtics?” She steps toward me. “I saw the photos of you together at some charity function last weekend. She’s a very lucky girl.” When she places her hand on my bicep, I back away.

  “She’s just a friend.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” The way she looks me up and down makes it more than clear she doesn’t believe me.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get going.” I skirt around them before having to explain myself any further. News travels quickly in a small town, especially news about any pseudo-celebrities, as it appears I still am, even though it’s been six years since I’ve played professionally. My relationship with Skylar is none of their business. It’s not even a relationship. Just a mutual understanding between two consenting adults.

  “Okay, Andrew,” Misty huffs. “But if you ever need a new ‘friend’, call me.”

  I glance back at her, trying to hide my disgust when she gives me an exaggerated wink. The other women chortle and giggle. The sad thing is, every single one of them would gladly invite me into their bed. They may think their brazen flirting and advances are cute, even attractive. But not to me. Not when I know how it feels to have the shoe on the other foot, when you learn the person you’d built a family with is cheating.

  I push away the memories and continue down the street toward my house. I don’t even turn around when one of them shouts, “Go Eagles!”

  Chapter Three

  BROOKLYN

  I always thought I’d feel like a different woman once I agreed to marry someone, to spend my life with him, to cherish and honor him until the end of our days. But I don’t. I still feel like Brooklyn. My Friday morning routine is the same it’s always been, even before Wes entered the picture. I get up early, shower, then am on my way to the North End to meet Molly for a cup of coffee at the café.

  The entire drive, I don’t even think twice about today being any different from every other Friday that’s come before it. But as I near the café and am moments away from telling my best friend I’m getting married, my stomach tenses, uncertainty washing over me. What will she say? Will she think it’s too soon, like I did at first?

  As I lay awake last night, staring at my left hand where a ring would soon sit, I reflected on the handful of men I’d dated in the past. They were all like Wes—serious, professional, and anything but spontaneous. They were all charming, respectful, and devoted, the type of man I would have been proud to marry and have a family with. But something always happened. Drew always happened, cutting the relationship short before it had a chance to take off, unbeknownst to him. I can’t let him ruin this one, too.

  I pull into the alley behind the café and park, then step onto the damp pavement, the smell of coffee and sugar invading my senses. Cars roar by, the familiar sounds of the city surrounding me as I make my way to the sidewalk. Despite it not yet being nine in the morning, the North End is already bustling with locals and tourists alike. Mom-and-pop restaurants line the streets of the renowned Italian section of town, the delectable aromas infiltrating the air enough to make anyone’s stomach growl. The people who live and work here are like one giant family…including Molly’s family, who have owned this café for over a century.

  But as I stare at the familiar glass doors of the place that’s always been like a second home to me, I feel like I’m sneaking in after doing something I shouldn’t have. I’m probably over-analyzing the situation, as I’m prone to do, but I’m unusually anxious and on edge this morning.

  “This is just like every other Friday,” I remind myself, filling my lungs with air, which has the pacifying effect I’m hoping for.

  With my nerves temporarily at ease, I open the door and enter the trendy café that’s abuzz with activity. The walls are all dark brick, industrial-looking lights hanging from the high ceiling. Wooden tables of various sizes fill the space—some small bistro tables, others long, communal style. The focal point is the large glass display cases showcasing every delectable treat known to man, all family recipes handed down through the generations.

  “Good morning, Brooklyn dear,” a petite woman with dark graying hair calls out from behind the coffee bar. She barely even looks up, cashing out a man dressed in a suit. It reminds me of Wes and how we met in his very café. Last night, he told me how I’d caught his attention almost immediately. Well, he certainly caught mine.

  I’ve always prided myself on being such a permanent fixture here. I tend to know most of the people who come through that door. The ones I don’t are usually tourists. But Wes… He was neither a regular nor a tourist. Dressed in a breathtaking navy blue pinstriped suit that clung to his muscular, tall physique, he certainly got my pulse going. Then again, I had been reading a rough draft of one of Molly’s books, and being the romance author she is, it was exceptionally steamy. When I kept seeing him here, I thought perhaps he’d recently moved. I never would have imagined he stopped by just to work up the courage to ask me out. It’s sweet, the type of story you tell your kids years down the road when they ask how their parents met. And what makes it better is that it’s pure, free of pain, of heartache, of regret.

  “Morning, Aunt Gigi.” Heading past the long line of customers, I duck behind the display cases and pour myself a cup of coffee.

  While she’s technically Molly and Drew’s aunt, not mine, I’m closer to her than some of my own aunts and uncles, whom I barely see. Gigi, short for Giorgina, has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. When Molly and I became fast friends our first week of school and her aunt learned I’d recently lost my mother, she took me under her wing, offering me all the love and affection a mother would…just like she did for Molly and Drew.

  “Busy today, huh?” I ask, making small talk, smiling at a few of the other employees as they diligently fill the influx of orders. The coffee and espresso machines whir and steam while patrons wait off to the side for their lattes, cappuccinos, or whatever else they ordered.

 
“It’s Friday. It usually is.” She glances over her shoulder, giving me a smile as she seems to analyze me. It’s ridiculous, but I wonder if she knows Wes proposed. She’s always had an uncanny ability to see things most people can’t, see things I try to hide from everyone. Sometimes I feel like she’s the only one who knows the real Brooklyn. “How was your date with Weston last night?” She turns back to the customer, writing his order on a paper cup before handing it off to one of the baristas.

  “Good.” Coffee in hand, I dip back under the counter and snag an empty table before anyone else can. I lower myself into the chair, dropping my heavy bag laden with files to the floor. The aroma of coffee gets even stronger as I raise my mug to my lips, my entire body relaxing as that first taste of the best coffee in the city hits my tongue.

  “Just good?” Gigi asks. I look at her. When our eyes lock, she squints the way she always does when trying to peer into my soul, to read my mind.

  “It was like every other date.” I shrug, playing it off. I don’t want to tell her yet. I want Molly to be the first person to know. I’m the first one she shared her news with when Noah, her fiancé, proposed to her. Molly’s always been the first person I’ve told everything to. Well, almost everything. Some things I can’t share, the words too painful to say.

  “You don’t sound very excited about the prospect,” Gigi comments.

  “I am. I just…” I take another sip of my coffee, trying to collect my thoughts so I don’t say anything she’ll read too much into. But it had been just like every other date. Pretentious restaurant. Expensive bottle of wine. Sex that can be described as blissfully adequate. A nip here. A suck there. A bit of effort to bring me to orgasm, but falling just short of reaching that finish line, at least for me. “I don’t need fancy caviar and champagne to be happy. Sometimes it’s the things that don’t cost a penny that have the most meaning.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. I brace myself for her next intrusive question. Thankfully, the whirlwind known as Molly Brinks bursts through the door, saving me from further interrogation.