Kiss Me Tonight: Put A Ring On It

by Luis, Maria

  “And remember how he built that treehouse for you?”

  “Mom, he hired someone to do that.”

  Dammit. He’s so right. I quickly backtrack. “Of course he did. Because he wanted it to be the best treehouse you’ve ever seen. The best and the biggest. Your dad is many things, kid, but a builder is not one of them.”

  “He’s also not a good husband.”

  Cue sudden heart attack. Including one almost side swerve into an innocent fire hydrant.

  Think, think, think!

  “Your dad’s relationship with me has nothing to do with the one he has with you, okay? We might not be in love with each other anymore but make no mistake, baby, he loves you.”

  “I think he loves his mistresses more.”

  Forget the fire hydrant, suddenly Main Street has become a living, breathing whack-a-mole setting. Pedestrians are all over the place—tourists, from the looks of them—which means I’ve entered a game of don’t-hit-the-jaywalker while my brain promptly hits the fritz. “Where in the world did you learn that word? Because I know I’ve never used it.”

  Topher side-eyes me like the teenager he is. “It’s called the internet.”

  A visual of Not-Dominic having sex pops up into my head. Which totally proves my point when I argue, “I don’t know what you’re looking up on the internet, bud, but you’re about to be slapped with a parental lock you’ll never figure out how to take off.”

  “You’re going to ban me from Buzzfeed?”

  Goddamn Buzzfeed. What the hell is that site writing about nowadays, anyway? “Yes, yes I will. Especially if it has you slinging the word mistress around.”

  “But that’s what they are!” His voice cracks and splinters my heart in the process. “Dad cheated on you and that’s what they’re called. I’m fifteen, Mom, not five.”

  It takes every effort on my part not to slam my head against the steering wheel repeatedly, all in the hope that I’ll somehow turn back time and start this crappy Monday morning over again. “What your dad did is wrong, baby. I won’t pretend otherwise. If you make a commitment to a person, it comes with expectations—loyalty and faithfulness being two of them. But none of that changes how he feels about you.”

  “Then why didn’t he put up a fight when I said I wanted to move to London with you?”

  Like a gaping fish, my mouth flaps open and closed.

  Since the divorce and Topher’s and my more recent move to Maine, I’ve always assumed that Rick made the decision he knew was best for Topher. Had our son stayed in Pittsburgh, he would have been left in the hands of babysitters more days than not. My in-laws passed within months of each other when I turned thirty-one, and Rick is an only child. Coming with me to London was in Topher’s best interest—Rick knew that, I knew that, and although we fought about many different topics, who Topher would live with was never one of them.

  Plus, it’s not as though Rick contested in court when the matter of custody came up. He requested all major holidays—except for those when he travels with the Steelers—and I agreed.

  Pulling into the school’s parking lot, I find a free spot near the walkway down to the football field. After I park, I turn to Topher and plant my hand on the headrest of the passenger’s seat. “Dad did what he thought was best for you. He travels all the time and if you’d stayed with him . . .” I reach up to push back those locks of hair that always fall in front of his eyes. “He misses you, Toph. I’m sure he’s missing you right now, and if you don’t think that, then you don’t know your dad at all.”

  Topher eyes me like I’ve sprouted monkey ears and a bushy donkey’s tail. Skepticism radiates from every one of his teenage pores and he doesn’t even bother to hide his eye roll. “Sure, Mom. Okay.”

  He cranks open the car door, one foot already drifting out to freedom.

  I grab his forearm before he can escape. Give him an encouraging smile that I hope alleviates the tension building within him. “How about you send him a picture of the field when you get down there, huh? Or even a video he can watch while he eats lunch at work.”

  My baby boy gives a half-hearted shrug. “I guess I could.”

  “You should. Maybe we can even make a team video today—something all the kids can show off to their parents. How does that sound?”

  A little of Topher’s earlier enthusiasm comes frolicking back. “We should do a choreographed dance. Something that will trend online.”

  I bop him playfully on the head. “What did I say about the internet?”

  “No Buzzfeed. But this wouldn’t be Buzzfeed!”

  Topher Levi Clarke is nothing if not persuasive. Waving him off, I tell him I’ll be right behind him.

  I wait until he’s out of sight and cutting around the corner to where the football field is, and then promptly call Rick. I don’t make a habit of calling him often, unless it has something to do with Topher—and after this morning’s conversation, Topher is my only priority.

  This is not a social call.

  My ex-husband’s ringback sings in my ear, a four-string symphony soundtrack that I know he likes to use to make himself seem posh and elite. Truth is, Rick Clarke is a Detroit native who grew up with close to nothing and connived his way to the top of the sports management food chain. The man has more money than he could spend in a lifetime, women flinging themselves at him every hour of the day, even though he’s in his mid-fifties now, and owns four houses across the country. To say nothing of his beloved private jet that he purchased when he received his seven-figure bonus with the Steelers. And yet he still can’t find a single damn minute to call his son to say three simple words: I love you.

  The violin takes on a solo run and I drum my fingers impatiently on my thigh.

  It lurches back in with the rest of its orchestra family, only for unexpected knocking on my window to send my phone flying from my hands.

  “Crap!”

  I fumble for it midair, like I’m back in football, and catch it with a smooth one-handed grab.

  “This is Rick Clarke, GM of the Pittsburgh Steelers. Leave a message after the beep and I’ll get back to you when I can.”

  Knowing its futile—Rick rarely returns my phone calls—I flick my gaze to the window, only to see a stranger standing there, waving at me like a lunatic. I hold up a finger, pointing to my phone for the man to give me a second.

  “Rick, it’s me again. Aspen. I know you’re probably busy, but please give Topher a call at some point today. I mentioned this the last time I called but he . . . he really misses you, and I think he’d feel better if he heard your voice. Two minutes, that’s all he needs. All right, I’m gonna go. Please don’t forget to call. Thanks.”

  With a placating smile to the gentleman, who’s yet to stop waving at me, I toss my phone into my duffel, yank it out from the backseat and then maneuver myself out of the car.

  I give the man a swift onceover: neatly parted brown hair, white T-shirt, jeans, sneakers. Totally normal-looking. Maybe he’s a football dad? Leveraging my work duffel higher up on my shoulder, I spare him another scrutinizing glance, taking note of the drawstring bag he’s holding down by his side. “I’m so sorry, do we know each other?”

  “Yes! Well, you don’t know me exactly.”

  Because that’s not creepy at all. I shoot a quick look over to where the fields are located, debating how fast I can run if it comes down to it. “Are you one of the parents?”

  “Parents?” His eyes go comically wide. “Oh, the parents. Of the kids. Oh, no. I’ve sworn off children forever. Little devils, honestly. Don’t you think?”

  There have been multiple times in the last fifteen years that I’ve looked at my son and thought he might actually be the spawn of Satan—but coming from a stranger? That’s not going to fly with me.

  I hold up my hands in silent warning. “Listen, it’s great to, uh, meet you, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Unless you’re a parent to one of my players or a journalist looking to write an article about
the team, you can’t stay—”

  “Oh, but I am a journalist!” Before I have the chance to turn away, or even process what’s happening, a flash goes off in my face. “See? Totally a journalist.” Another bright flash that causes little black dots to dance in my vision. “I read all about you in that NESA article—the one Deegan Homer wrote? After that, I just knew I had to come and talk to the Wildcats myself. Anyway, I’d love to do a quick interview with Dominic DaSilva. Is he around?”

  The man tries to sidestep me.

  Not on my watch.

  In my sneakers, I’m as tall as he is, something I use to my advantage when I head him off and stand in his way. “You can’t go down there.”

  That jovial grin on his face slowly goes flat. “It’s public property. Sure I can.”

  Warning bells sound off in my head like BB guns gone wild.

  “It’s a school, Mr. Whoever-You-Are, so no you can’t go down there. Do you have written permission from our athletic director for an interview? I bet you don’t, which means if you even think about cutting around me, I’ll have cops out here so fast you won’t even know what hit you.”

  Simply to prove that I’m willing to back my talk with a whole lot of action, I riffle through my bag for my phone. 9-1-1. I hover a finger over the green telephone, fully prepared to send this crazy dude straight to the Mount Desert Island county jail. “Don’t test me. I’ll do it.”

  He mutters something unflattering under his breath. Takes a single step back. “You know, when I read that article about you in NESA, I figured you were a lesbian. A girl coach? Yeah, you gotta be into pussy.”

  What? Does he think I haven’t heard that before? I spent almost all of high school with every guy thinking I was into chicks. I dealt with Rick, who, when drunk, liked to tell me that he knew the reason why I was such a “dead fish” in bed: because I was secretly lesbian. Apparently, that was as far as his creativity went for explaining my increasing lack of attraction to him. Rick’s self-worth is as inflated as his bank account.

  Men can be such narcissists.

  Tempted as I am to raise my hands like claws, just to see if the man will go screaming in the other direction, I lower my finger, hovering just above the call button. “Not to cut this heart-to-heart short, but I’ve got about a gazillion other things I’d rather be doing. Talking to you is not one of them.”

  Another flash goes off in my face. It’s so disorienting I jerk my chin back, blinking repeatedly. Who the hell does this guy think he is? The friggin’ camera police?

  “Seriously?” I snap angrily. “I tried to play nice, but game time is officially over. You need to leave. Right now.”

  He whirls around, drawstring bag smacking against his thigh as he breaks into a quick-paced jog. One minute I’m debating the merits of chasing after him to tackle him to the ground, and the next I’m watching nothing but taillights as he revs his engine like a total tool and speeds onto the main road like the devil itself is chasing down his car.

  I push away the mental image of a bunch of children dancing around a bonfire dressed in Halloween devil costumes, then immediately turn for the fields.

  During my marriage to Rick, I watched players for the Steelers be hounded by the media. On the rare occasion that I attended an event with my ex-husband, it was hard to miss the so-called journalists who stood outside on the road, snapping pictures of whatever they could.

  But I’ve never experienced the paparazzi phenomena for myself. I purposely stayed away from the craziness of celebrity athlete culture and stuck to what I did best: coaching middle school football and then later the high schoolers of a small town just outside of Pittsburgh. The only people who cared about those kids were their parents, the nearby rival teams, and the local newspaper that usually dedicated a single column to Hancock High’s wins and losses.

  London High is similar to Hancock in that way.

  There’s only one variable between the Tigers and the Wildcats. A man who dresses in all black, wears a tattered baseball cap that has seen better days, and has a body that could make an angel weep.

  “Hey,” he calls out now, jogging over to me from where he was leading the team warm-up. “Everything all right? Topher got here almost twenty minutes ago.”

  I meet Dominic’s concerned gaze. “Houston, we have a problem and that problem is . . . you.”

  27

  Dominic

  “I’ll resign.”

  Brien shoots me an exasperated look. “You’re not resigning.” He glances over to Levi, who is camped out in the chair next to mine. “How was practice today?”

  “Practice was great. The kids are doing great. I’m doing great.” She turns in her chair to face me, a don’t-mess-with-me look hardening her expression. “You’re not quitting.”

  Jesus fuck, not her too.

  Reaching up for my hat, I toss it on Brien’s desk, then scrub my hands over my face. “You guys really think that douchebag from earlier is going to be the last pap to show up here? If you do, then you’re delusional.”

  Levi snatches one of my hands and tugs it away from my jaw. She watches me earnestly, a hopeful gleam in her blue eyes. “All we need to do is reconfigure the way we do things. Just because one jerk showed up in town doesn’t mean we’re about to face down the White Walkers.”

  Though it feels absurd given the severity of the situation, I can’t help but laugh at her pop-culture reference. “Are you really comparing the paparazzi to an undead army from Game of Thrones?”

  Her playful smile nearly knocks the wind out of me. “You have a problem with that?”

  “Not even a little.”

  Brien bangs a fist down on his desk, then looks from me to Levi and then back to me again. He wags a finger, pointing to each of us. “What’s going on here?”

  Levi’s hand untangles from mine. “Nothing! Definitely nothing.”

  I don’t remember reading the contract I signed well enough to know if sleeping with a coworker is on the Don’t Do This list. I’ll have to look for my copy, which is somewhere in my house buried beneath all sorts of equipment in prep of Nick coming up this weekend to help with some of the major renovations.

  “You two are getting along surprisingly well,” Brien drawls, finally taking his seat. “Which is yet another reason why you can’t quit, DaSilva. One pap isn’t gonna make a difference down the line.”

  “It’s never only one, though.” Hands on my thighs, I inhale sharply. “They’re like vultures circling. They show up at your house, at your gym, in your gym. Thanks to that Celebrity Tea Presents asshole, they all know I’m here in London.”

  “Celebrity Tea Presents?” asks Levi, her brows raised in question. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of them.”

  “It’s a him,” I say. “An anonymous him but a him nonetheless.”

  Brien swivels his chair toward the desktop monitor. His fingers fly across the keyboard—he taught typing here at London High before moving over to the sports department—before he exclaims, “Here we go. Celebrity Tea Presents. First thing that pops up on Google.”

  “No surprise there,” I mutter. “He’s the leech on all of Hollywood.”

  “Uh, guys?”

  At Brien’s uneasy tone, I jerk my gaze up. “What is it?”

  He doesn’t say a word, only turns the monitor so both Levi and I can get a good look at the screen. One glimpse of the headline and my stomach sinks like a rock free-falling down to the bottom of the ocean.

  “Celebrity Tea Presents: BREAKING NEWS Is Put A Ring On It’s Dominic DaSilva Mending His Broken Heart By Sleeping with A Married Woman?”

  Silence permeates the office for only a half-second before Levi’s voice fills it. Only, it’s not Levi sitting next to me who’s talking but a clip of her on the computer screen: “Not to cut this heart-to-heart short, but I’ve got about a gazillion other things I’d rather be doing. Talking to you is not one of them.”

  The footage cuts to her livid expression—blazing blue eyes,
pursed mouth, furrowed brows—before swerving down and zooming in on the concrete, as though the person with the camera is taking off.

  Beside me, Levi scoots to the front of her seat, bracing her hands on the desk. “How did he get that I’m married? I haven’t even worn my wedding band in three years.”

  Three years. Is that how long it’s been since she decided to divorce Clarke? As much as I want to pause the conversation and ask, I cut straight to the chase: “I doubt the pap even knows who you are. It’s clickbait, simple as that. The dude that showed up here probably sent whatever he had over to Celebrity Tea Presents the minute he left the school. Then Mr. Anonymous Asshole himself whipped together an article he knows will stop people mid-scroll.”

  Her fingers curl into a fist. “Adam, read the rest.”

  My college buddy winces. “I don’t think I should.”

  “Yes, you should.” Levi stares him down, unblinking. “Or I’ll come over there and read it for myself.”

  Scratching his ear, Brien sighs. “You’re as stubborn as your dad was, you know that?”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. Now read.”

  Hand to the monitor, Brien angles it toward him. “Okay. Buckle up, kiddos, here we go.” With a click of his mouse, he leans forward and clears his throat. “Dear Reader, let me start off by saying YOU ROCK! I put out the call, hoping that one of you might be able to find out more deets on our favorite football player, Dominic DaSilva, and not only did one L.A. native come through but he did so in style!” Brien glances over at me. “At least you’re his favorite football player?”

  Unceremoniously, I scratch my forehead with my middle finger. “You’re more than welcome to take my place whenever you want.”

  “I’ll pass, thanks.” He scrunches his nose, ducking his head out of the way like he’s trying to avoid the curse of my middle finger. “Okay, where were we?”

  “Finding out why the hell they think I’m married,” Levi cuts in, tension radiating from every inch of her. “Hopefully sometime before I turn thirty-eight.”