by Tara Brown
But he’s right. I know it deep down. I’ve always known it. The Sami Ford the world knows is trouble. But I swear there’s something there no one else sees.
And that is what’s most intriguing about her.
I don’t discount his words. I take them to heart and let them be the counter opinion to what the rest of me is saying.
Later that night when I get back to my room, high on scotch and a couple of doses of anti-inflammatory meds, I press on her name in my Messenger. Even her name tightens my stomach.
I type a message, telling her I need to reschedule our date.
Made-up lies flow from my fingers, spinning a tale of injuries so bad I can’t face her. They’re true; I am battered and bruised but nothing could keep me away from her. I could crawl from the airport to her door if my legs didn’t work.
Our past picks at me, combined with Laramie’s words.
She’s a train wreck, but she’s also an enigma.
Nothing about her is typical.
Yes, she’s spoiled. She’s rotten in so many ways. She’s petulant and rude when she wants to be. She can be a diva.
But she’s also vulnerable and weak at times. Her best friend is down-to-earth and calm, which speaks volumes for Sami. You are what you hang with.
Every bit of me is tired of the Upper East Side and the fake lives we live there.
But I feel it in my bones that she is the same, she wants something else.
I delete the message and type a new one.
I have to know.
Even if she’s the devil and everything she’s shown me has been an act, I have to know.
I’ve never felt this way about anyone, ever.
And she’s already broken all my rules.
So if I’m going to hell for ruining my career over a girl, I might as well go all the way.
Instead of messaging her, I call Bev.
“Nice game, cuz. Hat trick and all. I bet there were a team of hookers waiting to soap you up after the game.” She laughs, not knowing how close to the truth she is.
“Yeah, it was a gooder,” I mutter and then sit up. “The game, not the hookers. I mean the hookers—fuck. Never mind. I called for a reason.” I have to speak louder because she’s howling with laughter.
“You’re such a moron. I’m telling Gran you let whores touch your ding-a-ling.”
“You’re a ding-a-ling.” I try to joke but honestly fear her telling Gran that. No one is scarier than Gran.
“What do you want, beefcake?” She snickers even more.
“I’m having dinner with Sami on Christmas Eve. We’re both alone, no family in New York. Do I try to have sex with her?”
“I would play that one safe. It’s Christmas Eve, you’re a horny jock. Showing some self-control might be a nice little gift you could get her. Drinks and dinner and talking is about as far as I would let that go. Plus, she likes games and control, so—”
“You think this is a game?”
“She’s a girl, everything is a game. Don’t be daft. Anyway, she’s not going to put out. She’s going to want you to try, not actively but let it be known you want her. But don’t try to score. It puts the control in her hands, in her mind. But in reality the control is yours. You could have seduced her but you didn’t.”
“You’re kind of scary.” She really is.
“Jedi mind trick. Have a good sleep, you earned it. And word of advice, girls don’t like to find out the guy pursuing them has whores playing with their ding-a-ling. It lessens the odds of her playing with your ding-a-ling. Ding-a-ling.” She laughs and ends the call.
I hate that I can’t argue there are no more whores in my diet. Whore-free since first year college. I can’t say that after tonight.
Chapter Fourteen
The cheeseball platter for one
Sami
I pace back and forth again, glancing at my outfit as I pass the mirror. I last three minutes before I do the thing I promised myself I wouldn’t until after New Year’s. I tap in the number and press the phone against my face as I take up pacing again.
“Sami?” Linda answers.
“Hey, I need to ask something quick.” I hate that I couldn’t make it a week without calling.
“Okay. But it’s Christmas Eve. You know that, right?” she asks quietly. It sounds like she’s getting up to go into another room.
“Yes, that’s why I’m calling.”
“Did your parents go to London again?”
“Oh probably.” I brush it off. “But that’s not why I’m calling.”
“Do you remember what we talked about last Christmas, and the one before that?”
“Yeah, Linda. I’m not calling to talk about that. Seriously.” I hate it when she tries to shrink me. I’m comfortable with the level of dysfunction I have with my parents. “We’re having dinner tonight, together. Me and Matt. Alone. Like a date. Help.” I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath.
“I see.” She sounds confused. “So after that whole ambush we planned like teenagers would have, he asked you to have Christmas Eve dinner with him? Just the two of you?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh shit. No more games, Sami. This guy likes you. A lot. Guys don’t do Christmas unless they like you. Ever. So if you don’t genuinely like him, abort. Now. There are real feelings at stake here.”
“You think?”
“I know. It’s what I get paid the big bucks for. To know this kind of stuff. You need to call him and cancel if you aren’t ready to completely let your guard down and try to have a real relationship. Not one of your boy toys, where you string them along because you need a date for an event.”
I don’t want to tell her I like him too. I don’t want to jinx it. “Just tell me what to do.”
“I can’t do that. I have to tell you the truth, that’s our deal. How do you feel about him? Be honest. No Sami Ford bullshit.”
“I don’t know. I mean, he’s just different. I’ve been watching his hockey games and he’s really—”
“You watched his games? Jesus, Sami. This is serious.” Her tone is funny again.
“I don’t know.”
“Let’s focus on the important stuff. You watched his game; you clearly like him more than the other guys you’ve dated. And honestly, he’s the first one I’ve seen you act like this with. We’ve been talking about him for years. You dated that last guy for a while, and I can’t so much as recall his name, but Matt has been the one constant since you left high school. You need to think about that.”
“I am. That’s why I’m calling. This is important.”
“Well, Christmas Eve is a whole other ball of wax. This will be a pinnacle moment at the start or end of a possible relationship. Either this is the guy you finally let in or you will turn him away. The moment will present itself if he genuinely likes you and wants to know you. And in that instant you will have to decide if you want something more than the flirting and games.”
“Be vulnerable,” I blurt and almost throw up at the idea of it.
“No, Sami. Be brave and believe that there is real love in the world. Your parents have never shown you real love, and you’re a cold bitch because of it.”
“Happy Christmas, Linda.”
“Merry Christmas, Sami.”
I hang up, attacked by self-doubt, but I close my eyes and replay her words until I can imagine it.
He’s going to come to the door. I’ll smile and he’ll smile back.
He’ll be beautiful in something casual but still proper dinner attire, not going full suit because he’s technically still a caveman, but he won’t go full barbarian either.
He’s going to kiss my cheek and maybe linger for a second but not try anything else. Mostly because this is a night of talking and getting to know one another, being vulnerable and not sexual.
Then we eat and we laugh, in candlelight.
He reaches across the table and takes my hands in his and tells me he likes me a lot.
Maybe we kiss under the mistletoe before he leaves and when I open the door it’s snowing.
I’m a cheeseball . . .
I exhale loudly and open my eyes again, terrified. But seeing my reflection gives me one more chance to double check the outfit.
The push-up bra beneath my blouse has just enough cleavage going on that the buttons look strained but not like they’re going to burst, sending button shrapnel everywhere.
The skirt is short but still respectable. It’s church short.
My heels are comfortable, in case he wants to do an after-dinner stroll in the park.
My hair is perfect. Nadia left my locks long, in soft in beachy curls.
My makeup is natural. It appears as if I’m hardly wearing any, even though there’s a cake on my face. And the glossy lips are pouty and swollen from the Buxom gloss. I have a mild allergy to the ingredients so it works even better.
Remembering everything Linda told me, I leave the room chanting, “Be brave.”
“It’s after seven.” Nadia pokes her head around the corner as I click my way to the stairs.
“He’s late? Shit. I didn’t even look at the time. Is he fashionably late or late late?” I slump. “Oh my God, what if he’s going to show up later, like sleepover later and just want sex? Is this another booty call?”
“That doesn’t even make sense.” Nadia doesn’t bother with the usual formalities on this one. “He’s coming for Christmas Eve dinner and asked you to make food. He wouldn’t stand you up; that’s a big request. Go wait in the parlor and we’ll show him in when he arrives. The lasagna is likely ready. Wait five minutes and then take it out. Let it sit on the counter for fifteen minutes before you cut it or it will fall apart.”
“I still can’t believe I cooked it.”
“You did great. It looks tasty.” She smiles. “Repeat after me: take it out in five minutes, let it sit for fifteen, then cut.”
“I got it.”
“If you say so.”
“If he doesn’t come we’ll be eating it for days,” I grumble. “At least I learned something in all of this.”
“What?”
“I hate cooking.”
“Well, at least you won’t have to do it again.” She rolls her eyes and goes back to whatever she was doing. She’s gotten a lot sassier in the last couple of years.
Every step I take down to the main floor has me more depressed.
When I make it to the parlor a knock at the door and men’s voices in the hallway stop my heart.
I spin, staring at the doorway, waiting for him.
“She’s in here, sir.”
His footsteps sound loud, building my suspense. When he gets around the corner and into the doorway, my mouth hits the floor. “Sorry, I’m late.” Matt grins but I can hardly tell if it’s him or not. His eyes are tiny slits, his nose is bulbous and cut, his cheek has a gash, and his lips are both fat. The bruising and disfiguring swelling is disgusting actually. He looks hideous. Like really, really hideous.
“Hey!”
“Oh my God!” I take a step back, shaking my head, lost in the sight before me. “What happened? Are you okay? Was there an accident?”
“No, a fight. You should see the other guy.” He chuckles and saunters in.
“Uhhhhh, is the other guy a grizzly bear?” It takes me several heartbeats before I bounce back and speak again, “What the hell happened? Were you attacked by a gang? Who fights? Like you were mugged?”
“I’m fine, honestly. It’s way better today. I can see out of this one now.” He lifts his bruised finger up to the left eye. “Yesterday was nuts.” He walks to me, trying to act like he hasn’t just taken a shovel to the face, many, many times.
“I don’t even know what to say. What kind of fight?”
“Hockey.” He just shrugs. The fight at the end of the game flashes in my mind, but there’s no way he was beaten like this in that. He won the fight. He went full savage on them. My nickname for him, Beast, made perfect sense in that moment.
“After the game?”
“No.” He is seriously acting as if everything is normal. “How’s it going here? Smells good.”
“Fine,” I answer blankly, still lost in the harshness of the wounds as he gets closer. “Can I get you anything? A plastic surgeon?” My great plan of how things would go ignites in flames. There won’t be any kissing or laughing and talking unless it’s at the emergency room.
“Really, I’m good. It was just the game. It got a bit rough. I got into a fight—”
“When the benches cleared I knew it was bad but the cameras didn’t show these kinds of wounds—” I pause as his constricted eyes attempt to narrow more.
“You watched the game?” I don’t like his tone. He sounds annoyed.
“No.” I lie too fast. “I mean, I watched like a couple of minutes. I was scrolling.” I act like it’s nothing. “Not like the whole game or anything.”
“But you were watching hockey?” He leans against a pillar next to the baby grand piano. “Do you like hockey? Is this a thing for you? Hockey players? Is this something I should know about?” The way he asks it makes me uncomfortable, as if I shouldn’t bring up the hat trick and how cool it was to see the ritual of everyone throwing their hats onto the ice. He sounds crazy. Maybe it’s the brain damage from the beating of a lifetime he apparently took.
“God, no! I don’t even understand it. I literally watched a couple of minutes at the end when the benches cleared.” I lie like a rug. “I thought maybe if I caught the ending I could see you, like if there were awards or something at the end.” I say the dumbest thing I can think of. It’s an actual thought I had when his first game ended months ago.
“Oh.” He laughs, mimicking a scary mafia thug. “No. No awards. Just one at the very end of the season but it’s more of a trophy.”
“Cool.” I know what the Stanley Cup is, but the smug way he’s talking now makes me think I need to keep that a secret, which is weird. I would have thought he’d be excited about playing, not ashamed. “Can I get you a drink?”
“No thanks. I’m on some meds and shouldn’t have booze with them. I had some drinks the night it happened after the game and it was the wrong choice. I slept through my morning flight. I was really drowsy all day.”
“Drugs for this?” I wave my hands in front of his face.
“Yeah. I need to bring the swelling down. We have another game on the twenty-eighth and I need to be in tip-top shape for it.”
“Oh, so soon?” Like I don’t know the entire schedule. I hate that I have to lie to him about this. I thought hockey might be something we could talk about, since it’s an obvious passion for him.
“Yeah. A game every second day for the entire season. It’s aggressive. It’s why I don’t date or have relationships with anyone but friends who understand they’ll sometimes go the whole season without seeing me.”
The last sentence hits me right in the gut. He’s telling me he doesn’t want a girlfriend, but he’s asked me for Christmas Eve dinner. I can’t even with him.
“Seriously.” He turns and glances at the hall, changing the subject, “It smells great in here.”
“Right!” I turn and hurry to the kitchen, trying not to focus on the comment about not having relationships. “The lasagna.” I click along the wood floors to the oven, turning it off and opening the door.
“No smoke and no burnt smell. Must be all right.” He mocks me.
“Otherwise we’re getting takeout. Because if this tastes gross, I don’t expect you to pretend it’s fine. I’m not going to pretend yours is fine if it’s not.” I point at the weird-looking container on the counter. I can only assume it’s his. It wasn’t here when I made the lasagna.
“You don’t have to be scared of mine. I’m actually not a bad cook.” He strolls over to the oven and plucks the hot mitts from me, pulling the casserole dish out for me. He attempts a grin but it’s terrifying.
“You look like the scary guy on that
weird movie, The Goonies. Natalie made me watch it. She’s a fan of eighties movies.”
He wrinkles his puffy forehead. “I never saw that. Is it bad?”
“Yeah.” I don’t try to sugarcoat it. “Super bad. You look like you got hit by a car.”
“No, just a couple of huge defensemen.”
“I don’t want to think about that. It must have been terrifying.” I shudder and tilt my head, flashing back to the other thing he said. “Did you just say you can cook?”
“Yeah. My grandma is a great cook, and she loved to let me help her in the kitchen. She said it was so I could survive college, but I don’t think she understood what college was like for me. I never cooked once.”
“That’s weird.” I glance between the lasagna and him. “Why would she cook?”
“My dad’s family isn’t rich. They’re farmers in Kentucky. Like real cattle farmers. As in, they shovel shit and grow their own food.”
“Ohhhhhhh.” I shudder. “When Carson said your dad’s family had farms I imagined it was more like plantation farming where they have a mansion and lots of workers who sort of stay on their side of the fence and sometimes on Sundays they do those weird civil war revivals and shit.”
“Not quite.” He scowls and it’s a bit disturbing with all the swelling and bruising. “Revival is more of a church thing. I think you mean reenactments.”
