by Brea Brown
“It was fine,” she says vaguely. “Short. Molly had to be up early this morning, so we had a couple of drinks and said we’d be in touch.”
“And will you be?”
“Maybe after the postseason. I’m busy and could have a ton of traveling at the end of this month and beginning of February, if all goes well. I don’t want to be tied down.” The shrug in her voice tells me she’s more apathetic about her love life than I am about mine, if that’s possible.
“Well, aren’t we the commitment-phobes?” I say wryly.
“Yeah, but what’s the point in forcing something? You can’t help it that you don’t want the same things Jet wants, no matter how hot and rich he is or how much he seems to be into you—which is kind of creepy, if you ask me—and I can’t help it that my career is keeping me too busy right now to invest a bunch of time in a new relationship. I would commit to the right person at the right time. Wouldn’t you?”
“Uh, sure,” I reply, feeling slightly guilty when Mr. Tight End’s goofy grin flashes behind my eyes. Something tells me he doesn’t think too far into the future—or think much at all, to be honest.
“Well, I would,” she says. “And maybe you would, too, if you’d stop getting distracted by all the wrong people.”
“Good grief. Who needs a mom with a friend like you?” I grumble.
She laughs. “Sorry. It’s just— You know, some days I wish you’d pull it together.”
“Get in line, sister.”
I’ve set aside all serious thoughts about life and love and my future (or anyone else’s) and spent this dreary Saturday afternoon using the gift cards I received for Christmas. After a productive afternoon on The Plaza, I stow my purchases in my trunk and head on foot to my favorite bookstore, where I’ve arranged to meet Colin.
When he texted his invitation to me this morning, I hesitated, but the outing at such a familiar venue for us seemed like his way of putting me at ease after what I said to him at the end of his appointment yesterday, so I accepted. Perusing shelves of books, people-watching, and discussing absolutely nothing of consequence sounds like the perfect way to move on.
Immediately upon entering the store, I head for the coffee counter to order my usual six-thousand-calorie, seven-dollar drink. While waiting for the barista to work her caffeine magic, I text Colin.
Are you here? I’m getting coffee.
It takes forever (but still not as long as it takes to get my drink) for him to respond.
Walking in now.
When he joins me at the counter, he asks, “Was your shopping successful? Don’t keep a bloke in suspense. I want to know everything. Where’d you go? What’d you get?”
I laugh at his silly lisp. “I stayed close to here,” I answer, referring to the swanky shopping district I can’t afford any other time of the year but that he and I occasionally visit, since the people-watching can’t be beat. “I had some gift cards, so I picked up a few of my favorite lotions that were on sale—”
“Take my breath away.”
“—and I used the Victoria’s Secret gift card from my brother—”
“What?” he wheezes. “Your brother thinks it’s okay to give his sister a gift card to a lingerie shop?”
I laugh along with him. “I’m sure that was Deirdre’s doing.”
“Still. Inappropriate!”
“Ten bucks says it was a last-minute impulse buy after I told her about dancing with Jet Knox at that Christmas party. She’s been obsessed. When she finds out I went out on date with him last night—” I cringe, then muse aloud, “Maybe I won’t tell her and Greg. Ever.”
Colin’s eyebrows shoot up into his tousled bangs. “Hang on a mo. Lady Maura, you’re holding out on me! You and I are going to have a chin wag.” After I pay for my drink, he drags me with him to the end of the queue. “But first, I need one of those coffees.”
While we wait in line—again—I try to tell him there’s nothing to discuss regarding my Friday night, but every time I open my mouth to say something to that effect, he holds up a hand and says, “Wait! No. Don’t.”
As soon as we’re seated at a table, I insist, “It was nothing.”
“I don’t believe that for a second. Did he wear his white trousers or his red ones?”
“He wasn’t in uniform, you goosegog,” I say with a laugh, using one of my favorite expressions of his. “He took me to a trendy place, not far from here. Well, we met there.”
“Ah. Good girl. Safety first,” says the former cop. “Although it would have been brilliant to ride in one of his flash cars. I’m already disappointed in this vicarious experience.”
“I knew you would be! Would you like me to hook you up with him?”
“Hmm… I haven’t had a good bromance in yonks.” He stares into the distance, then snaps his focus back to my face. “But no. I couldn’t possibly dream of stealing a man from you. Remember, you desperately need to get laid. Or has that already been taken care of?”
I roll my eyes at him.
“I’m asking, because I’m concerned about your sudden onset of sex-deprivation-induced Tourette ’s syndrome.” I kick him as he stretches his legs under the table and leans back with his hands behind his head, his elbows akimbo. “Ow. So, you met him at Chez Hookup, and then what?”
“Nothing. We talked. Well, he talked. A lot.”
Colin sneers. “Oh, one of those? Enthralled with his favorite subject? Himself?”
“No, not like that. He seemed nervous, for one thing, which is hilarious.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m me, and he’s Jet Knox.”
“He takes a bloody crap like you and me.”
The corners of my mouth pull downward. “Ew. Speak for yourself, pal. You might want to get that checked out.”
With a playful scowl, he clarifies, “He’s a man, and you’re an intelligent, vivacious woman. End of.”
“Oooh! ‘Vivacious’! Thanks! But he talked about hopes and dreams and aspirations. Lots of aspirations.”
“Ahhh… That’s a dirty word.”
“I know! So you can imagine, I wasn’t too engaged in the conversation.”
“Blimey. Sounds like a miserable evening.”
I think back on it and surprise myself by saying, “Actually…”
“No!” He sits forward and, resting his elbows on the table, taps his paper coffee cup with his fingertips. “How could that have been enjoyable, listening to an egomaniac drone on and on about his ambitions?”
“First off, he’s not an egomaniac,” I find myself defending Jet for the second time today.
He arches a skeptical eyebrow but doesn’t say a word.
“And second, he wasn’t droning. He’s passionate about his future. At the time, I was on the verge of a panic attack, but looking back on it now, it was kind of… cute.” My face warms.
Colin groans, but it morphs into a chuckle. With a twinkle in his eyes, he says, “Bloody hell. You’re falling for this bloke.”
Blush deepening, I say a tad too forcefully, “No, I’m not!” then tone it down. “But it wasn’t the worst date I’ve ever been on, and he’s not what you’d imagine a guy like him to be. He’s driven in a way that, while sometimes scary, is also contagious. I could see how others might get caught up in his enthusiasm. He makes anything seem possible. Like he can make it happen by saying it. He’s obviously a natural leader.”
He points to my face. “And when you talk about him, your whole face lights up, and that little dimple in your left cheek pops.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m merely observing and stating my findings.”
I follow the progress of a drop of coffee in the bottom of my cup as I tilt it back and forth. “Anyway, it’s not going to lead to anything else, so…” I’m shocked when I realize I’m more disappointed than relieved by that statement, so I rush on. “Can we please talk about something else?”
His shoulders slump. “I suppose.” After a brief pause, durin
g which it seems he’s giving me time to change my mind, he mentions, “My first day at the salon is Monday. I have to admit, I’m a bit nervous.”
“Why? I’d figure by now you’re an old pro at being the new guy.”
One corner of his mouth rises as he says wryly, “True. But I worry I’ll stick out rather a lot.”
I hate to break it to him, but he sticks out anywhere in this town every time he opens his mouth. Instead of voicing this, though, I merely smile encouragingly. “They’re going to love you. If it doesn’t work out, you always know where to go to find another job. Right?” I look up and search his gray eyes.
“Right,” he says. “Absolutely.”
“And you seem like you’re feeling better today than you did yesterday.”
“I’m completely hopped up on over-the-counter remedies,” he reveals, “but yes, fortunately, I sound a bit less like your mobile’s ringtone and— Hang on. Was that Jet Knox calling you during my appointment yesterday?”
“Maybe,” I answer coyly.
“Bloomin’ ’ell… I was in the presence of greatness and had no idea.”
“Please.”
“And you tossed him in your desk drawer, like you couldn’t care less.”
“I didn’t know it was him.”
“If you had?”
“I may have answered the phone,” I admit, quickly adding, “which is dumb. I’m glad I didn’t know. Because I don’t take personal calls during appointments with clients.”
“I would have insisted. The better for me to listen in.”
“Someone has a man-crush.”
He looks down, then up at me through his lashes. “Who wouldn’t? The way he grips that ball…”
Laughing, I shake my head at him. “You’re hopeless.”
He raises his head. “There’s just so much material there.”
Yeah, there is. For everyone.
What I don’t tell him is that I immediately went online after I hung up with Rae and Googled the pictures of my date with Jet. Only a complete newb would care, right? But I wanted to see how I looked, and what people were saying.
Mistake.
Fortunately, nobody posting the pics has a clue who I am, so I was called “Knox’s New Flame” (lame!) in most of the captions. The nicer ones, that is. The not-so-nice ones wondered if I was a distraction and went further to say I wasn’t worth it. The meanest ones… Well, I refuse to repeat those. I’m trying not to think about them at all.
Now, suddenly feeling as if those labels are following me around, and any minute I’ll be recognized as Jet’s “Pre-Playoffs Poke” (yes, that was one of them!), I stand and dig my gloves and knit hat from my coat pocket. “I’m going to head home.”
Colin blinks up at me. “What? But we haven’t had a chance to see if there are any new Murder, She Wrote mystery novels with the exact same Angela Lansbury face Photoshopped on every cover.”
I wince at skipping one of our favorite bookstore traditions. “Yeah, but I’m wiped out. By the time I fight the traffic and get home, I’ll be ready to collapse.”
“I didn’t say anything to upset you?” He stands and hugs me, then pulls back and holds me at arms’ length, searching my face. “I hope you know my teasing about Captain All-American is only in good fun.”
Waving off his explanation, I say after a snort, “Does that sound like me? When I stop being able to laugh at myself, get the gun.”
Still gripping my arms, he says, “In all seriousness, mate, he’s a bloke like any other. I hope you don’t think he’s out of your league, excuse the pun. No, don’t. It’s brilliant. If you like him, you shouldn’t be ashamed of that.”
I shrug him off, but gently, so I don’t let on how annoyed I am. “Colin. It’s fine. I promise. Shopping wears me out, that’s all.”
“If you’re certain…”
“I am.” In an effort to convince him, I yank my hat onto my head and pull it over my ears, pulling a funny face. “Au revoir, mon ami.”
Nine
Charmed
I may not be guilty of sitting around, stressing about the condition of my 401K or revising endless versions of my five-year plan (I’ve never had a first version of one), but that doesn’t mean I never worry about anything. I do worry about stuff. Granted, it’s usually more along the lines of whether the Chiefs are going to make wise picks in the Draft, but every once in a while, I stray into darker, more dangerous territory. Like, Am I ever going to grow up? or Will I always be alone? or When was the last time I went to the grocery store? Occasionally, I’ll think about something truly scary, like, Is it time to renew my car tags?
This evening, after dumping my bags of purchases inside my bedroom door, taking a hot shower, and selecting the least romantic movie I can imagine (The Hangover), I struggle to ignore some of those deeper musings, and fail. Miserably.
I’m moderately more successful at ignoring the three voicemails from Jet on my phone (two of his calls I missed while shopping and talking to Colin, the other while I was in the shower), if you call not listening to them a victory. That doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about them—or him—though. I’m thinking about him plenty. Too much. Wondering what he thinks of this movie. Would he and I laugh at the same parts? Does he get the subtler jokes or only find amusement with the obvious, physical humor?
What about Bradley Cooper’s other works? Has Jet seen Silver Linings Playbook? Did he find it as sweetly romantic as I did? Did it make him cry while trying to hide he was crying, because Rae was sitting next to him and would have made fun of him for being a sap? Probably not that last thing.
What does make Jet Knox cry? Anything? He seems like a pretty happy-go-lucky guy. But what about losing? If he lost, say, the Super Bowl, would he cry? Or just be mad? Or what if he won it? There’s no shame in crying. I like people who feel deeply and don’t mind showing it occasionally, around people they trust and care about. Did Jet cry when his fiancée left him to be a single dad to their dog?
Gaaaaaaaaaah! I shift on the couch under my fleece Chiefs throw blanket, blinking and trying to refocus on the movie. Tiger, missing tooth, Ken Jeong. Funny.
But before I can reorient myself to the plot, my cell phone moans. I stare at the device on the coffee table and implore my innards to settle the hell down at the sight of that name on the display.
Why can’t the guy text or IM like a normal person our age? Then I could better react to what he says, and I wouldn’t have to hear his voice, which is becoming my Kryptonite. No, that would be his eyes. But his voice makes me feel like a giddy moron. As does the way he smells. Thank goodness he’s not into video calls, and there’s no such thing as a smell-o-phone.
In a text message, I could also control the tone and pace of the conversation. I could pause between responses. Slow things down a bit. In a regular phone call, he’s in control. Which wouldn’t be an issue for me, usually—control ain’t my thang—but in this case, the person in control wants to go faster than I’m comfortable going.
The paradox, unfortunately, is that I can’t get a handle on anything if I continue to avoid him, so before yet another call goes to voicemail, I tap the green button on my phone’s screen, hoping my voice doesn’t shake when I say, “Hi, Jet,” and put him on speakerphone.
“Hey. Did you get my messages?”
“I did.”
Please, don’t ask if I listened to them.
“Oh. Are you busy?”
I pause the movie and consider my answer, finally going with a noncommittal, “A little.”
Busy being terrified by my weird, obsessive thoughts.
“Well, I wanted to tell you I had an excellent time last night.”
“Yeah. Me, too.” When I wasn’t searching for a paper bag to breathe into.
“Good! I’m glad. Mega-glad. I’d like to see you again, but…”
I hold my breath and close my eyes, praying for an insurmountable hurdle to our being together, other than his use of the term “mega-glad,” whic
h might be enough but would sound “mega-shallow” to cite out loud. An arranged marriage between him and the scantily clad woman who rides around the stadium on that white horse—Horse Lady, to me—would work. Or he’s being traded to another team. In Europe. Anything like that. I don’t want to hurt his feelings; I want him to feel like it was his idea to stop seeing me.
Unfortunately, he simply finishes his sentence with, “…it’s going to have to wait until the off-season. Our date wound up on a couple of stupid gossip blogs. Can you believe that? Like there aren’t important things happening in the world. Not that our date wasn’t important to me, but… You know what I mean. Like, why do people care?”
I open my eyes, wondering if he’s seen the awful things some of them have said about me. Or if I should admit I have. In the end, I pretend I don’t care enough to mention it. “Right? Rae called me about it this morning and lectured me like a teenager who’d broken curfew.”
“Aw, Maura. I’m sorry about that! It wasn’t your fault. She shouldn’t be mad at you!”
His genuine regret makes me smile. “I know! I totally blamed you.”
He laughs. “Yeah, she was pissed when I saw her after the team meeting. If she wasn’t so scary, it would be funny.”
I smile at the image of her bearing down on him and can’t resist teasing (okay, flirting), “Is Jet Knox afraid of a five-foot-six girl?”
“You better believe it. She has strong hands!”
For some reason, this strikes me as one of the funniest things I’ve ever heard from a guy.
He joins me in laughing at himself, then says, “You have a great laugh.”
Nobody’s ever mentioned it before, so his compliment surprises me. “Uh, thanks.” I squirm, glad he can’t see me.
“It always makes me smile. It makes me happy, I guess.”
“Oh. Well. Okay.” He doesn’t seem embarrassed or self-conscious at all by this declaration, so it’s up to me to be uncomfortable enough for both of us. “Anyway…”
