I’M STILL THINKING about what J.J. said a few days later. I’ve faked a headache and sent J.J. across Puget Sound on his own to attend the watch party without me. Lisa will assume I was too big of a wuss to face her while she defeats me. Most of the other wives won’t even notice I’m not there. Everyone except Whitney, but I’ve sent a couple of cupcakes along as a peace offering. J.J. is the only one who knows the truth. The look he gave me before he left told me as much.
After a couple of hours, I can’t muster up the interest to flip on the games and I can stand the silence in the apartment even less. Pulling on a jacket and my old pair of tennis shoes, I grab my keys and go for a walk. It doesn’t take long for J.J.’s question to pop into my mind once more.
“Do you ever wonder what would have happened if we’d gone home together that night?”
I hadn’t before, but now . . . now I can’t think of anything else. Not while I’m trying to imagine what would have happened.
I should probably mention that I’m not leaving my husband and the thought has never seriously crossed my mind. (Not even when he “accidentally” mixed the turkey gravy with my vegetarian last Christmas.) We’re not quitters. We’re in this relationship to win it.
Now it sounds like I’m saying that we’ve settled, so we’re stuck in this marriage, because we’re stubborn. That’s not it at all. I love my husband. He loves me. We’re committed to making our relationship work. We choose each other and this life.
I chose Brook, because I want to build a life with him. I’ve known that almost from the moment we started dating. Once I imagined a life with him, I didn’t want one without. It’s not because I need him or he needs me. It’s not because I’m starstruck by his professional status or even his all-around goodness. I want Brook because I want all of him—the good and the bad, which, let’s be honest, there isn’t much of, really. Our relationship takes work, but it’s also so much fun. We’re happy, we’re steady, we’re all in.
But . . . I have to admit, a thought did pop into my head the other day after J.J. and I talked. Maybe I was seeing him in a new light, what with him owning up to his shortcomings. Maybe it’s the lingering tension from Brook dropping the baby bomb. Maybe it’s my upcoming first annual twenty-ninth birthday. Or maybe I am just a mess—like J.J. said—and I don’t really don’t know how to be happy. Whatever it is, the idea popped into my head, and it won’t go away.
What would have happened if I’d had another round at the bar with J.J. that night two years ago?
We probably would have stopped at another bar for one more drink, or maybe grabbed some off-sale from the bodega down the street from his apartment. A bit drunk, I would have stumbled into his apartment and been awed by the open floor plan and modern designs he has hanging on his walls. For all his faults, J.J. has somehow always managed to have his apartment looking like something out of a magazine. Thoroughly impressed, I’d agree to the grand tour. Somewhere in the hallway, or maybe we’d even make it to his bedroom, his lips would have crashed against mine. I would have grabbed hold of his shoulders or arms and been even more impressed by the strength in them. It wouldn’t have taken much longer for our clothes to fall to the floor and us to tumble onto the bed.
In the morning, I’m sure I would have been satisfied, physically at least. There are only a few possible outcomes I can imagine from there. One, we’d both acknowledge what had happened was a one-night deal and said our good-byes after breakfast. Two, one of us—probably me—would’ve decided maybe this could mean more and the other—probably him—would have had to be a dick and insisted it wasn’t. That would’ve made work, and the league, incredibly awkward, and there’s a good chance I would have started looking at the want ads—or maybe even another transfer. Three, we would have decided to give a relationship a shot. After that, it’s even more unclear. I’m fairly certain it would’ve fizzled out in a few weeks, or maybe it would last till the end of the season, but it would have ended. I can’t imagine there would have been any future, and I would have ended up worse than I’d started off. However it shook out, the juice wouldn’t have been worth the squeeze.
I would have ended up alone, but isn’t that what I wanted two years ago? I was still reeling from the drama with my ex, and I just wanted time for myself. I kind of forgot all about that when Brook and I got to know each other better.
That’s another thing. If I’d gone home with J.J., any chance I had with Brook would have been over before it began. That much I know. Despite their competitiveness and bickering, they’re like brothers. Brook is way too loyal to ever poach on a friend’s territory or even date an ex. That’s why J.J. was so thrown off when Brook and I did get together (even though there wasn’t anything between J.J. and me). It’s why Wade was scared to ask Amelia out until he had Brook’s blessing.
The thought of missing out on a life with Brook hurts. It hasn’t been completely smooth sailings, but it’s still been wonderful and he makes me happy. In my heart, I know I made the right choice. That doesn’t stop my head from wondering. That makes my heart want to kick my head’s ass, because even wondering feels so disloyal to Brook.
J.J. probably was right about me. I don’t know what to do with myself. I have two dueling natures. One who wants to control everything and be organized. The other who can’t figure things out. They’re at war, and in the meantime, I’m punishing myself by mentally sabotaging one of the best parts of my life.
I reach the edge of the market and stare out at Puget Sound. It really is something. The water is a color I can’t quite describe. It’s not blue so much as turquoise. With the trees and mountains surrounding it, nature has painted one of its prettiest pictures right here. It almost doesn’t seem real. Even though this place has been my home for months, it doesn’t feel like it. It’s like I’m on vacation, and I know I’ll have to go back to reality soon.
Maybe I’ve had enough thinking for one day. Regardless, I should head back. The team meetings are over by now, and Brook will be on his way home. With J.J. away at the watch party, it will be the first time we’ve had the apartment all to ourselves since our talk last Monday night. I pull out my phone and cue up a podcast, hoping the drone of pundits talking about how crappy most of the players on my fantasy teams are will drone out my terrible thoughts.
I listen all the way home and on the climb up the stairs to our apartment. I pause outside the door, removing my earbuds, and stare at the note taped to the door. It’s addressed to me. Intrigued, I unfold the crisp sheet of white printer paper and read the message.
Mrs. M,
I’m calling a truce. Please retire immediately to the bathroom where you will find further instructions. Do not let the orange feline distract you in your mission no matter how hard he tries. (I’d also encourage you to close the bathroom door before he can sneak in, but the choice is yours.) No stealing any peeks at the kitchen on your way. (Again, it’s ultimately your choice, but you’ve made it this far, why spoil the surprise?)
Love,
Mr. M
My lips curve into a grin even as my heart sinks. I never realized it was possible to feel so much delight and self-loathing at once. I married a good—no, great, amazing, practically perfect—man. I need to stop letting my imagination run wild. From now on, no more questions.
Following the directions, I slip inside and close the door. I bend to give Blitz some affection, which is actually more like a thirty-second love fest that involves him rubbing his face against mine and meowing incessantly while I squeeze him close. Once we’ve each had enough, I set him back down and head toward the bathroom.
Though I move quickly and try not to look around too much so as not to spoil any surprise Brook might have arranged, I’m pleased to note our place is tidy. Not just tidy, but clean. Like someone has just dusted and vacuumed. How he found time to clean and write me a sweet note in the few minutes he’s been home is beyond me. Again, I shouldn’t overthink it and just be glad—grateful—it happened. I also can’t he
lp but notice the table is set, complete with candles and our good dishes, on my way to the bathroom. In there, I find one of my dresses and another note.
Mrs. M,
Put this on, please, and join me in the kitchen. I thought we were overdue for a date night, even if it’s a date night in.
Love,
Mr. M
He’s giving me a date night. With everything going on in his own hectic work world, he knows what I need. We might not be on the same page with everything, but we are on this point. We both need this time to be together and just be. There’s no question. I made the right choice two years ago. There’s no need to even consider otherwise.
Week Seven Recap: Team Harper (Finally) Finds Her Place on the Board
It’s about time. After six consecutive losses, Team Harper finally managed to accomplish the seemingly unthinkable. She won a game. In a stunning—or at least adequate—display of playing the game, Team Harper defeated her opponent 98-76.
Much of that credit goes to Chad Baker. The eighth year quarterback performed like a total stud throwing three touchdowns. Kicker Giles Hart attempted and made five field goals, including one from more than 50 yards. It’s not often we say this about a kicker, but damn, Hart. You’re a stud. Ben Bell (wide receiver) had his personal best, scoring two touchdowns and racking up more than 120 yards. He’s finally starting to show that star-power potential we’ve been expecting all season.
The bad news is the rest of Team Harper’s team continued to underperform. Unless they can get their act together—or Team Harper can bribe her fellow league members into trading her someone decent—this could be her one and only victory. She’d better enjoy it while she can.
Mega Ballerz Record: 1-6
Chapter Fifteen
I ARRIVE HOME ON THURSDAY ready to double-check my lineups and watch a little football. I’m greeted by the unexpected—and frankly, unprecedented—scent of cooking. What is it? I inhale more deeply and detect something spicy like cumin and chili powder. I take one more sniff and catch yeast and cinnamon.
Someone other than me is making dinner. Brook is still at work, so he’s out, but J.J. doesn’t cook. I’m not even sure he knows how to turn on a stove or oven, let alone put them to work. Did someone break into our apartment to use the kitchen? No, that’s insane. People don’t do that—at least not in real life. Maybe I walked through the wrong door and into someone else’s home. Except that’s our wedding photo on the end table. That’s our second-hand sofa, complete with scratch marks from the day Blitz lost it when a dog started barking outside our door. And that’s Blitz about to run through the still-open door.
On a swear, I drop my purse and chase after him, cutting him off at the top of the stairwell. “Gotcha.”
He lets out a cry of protest, but once he’s settled in my arms, it turns into a friendly chirp.
With my cat safely contained, I return to the apartment intent on uncovering how I came home to find dinner in progress. Maybe J.J. struck gold at last with one of the women he’s been meeting at the bars. He hasn’t said much about it, but he’s gone often enough he must be meeting someone. I know Brook wasn’t particularly fine with J.J. bringing women home, but if it means me not having to cook, I’m all for it. I’ll wait to reserve judgment on if she can come back based on how her cooking tastes. My mouth is watering already, so we’re off to a decent start.
I poke my head into the kitchen and come to an abrupt stop. J.J. stirs a pot, re-covers it, and opens the oven to check on whatever is baking in a motion too fluid to be unpracticed.
“What are you doing?”
He glances over his shoulder and waves a wooden spoon in greeting. “Dinner will be ready in a few.” He glances at the chrome clock on our wall. “It should be done by kickoff.”
Still somewhat mystified, I perch on one of the barstools to watch him work. “What are you making?”
“Chili and cinnamon rolls.” He turns off the burner and grabs a red bag from the counter and hands it to me. “I put this in it.”
“You’re making chili. With tofu crumbles in it.”
“It’s no big deal. Just don’t go telling the guys.”
“My lips are sealed.”
I can’t get over it. J.J. is cooking. I’ve never seen him do more than grill at a cookout, which I suppose is an acquired skill, too. But based on the smattering of open cans and spices littering the kitchen, he might actually know what he’s doing here, too.
“I didn’t realize you cooked.”
“I’ve been living on my own since I was twenty-two. I had to figure out how to make a few dishes or starve.”
I nod and go back to my watch. It’s a little strange to be here, alone, with J.J. Ever since our talk last week—ever since he asked that question that sent me on a mini emotional crisis—I’ve done my best to avoid spending any real time alone with him. That hasn’t been an easy feat. For one, we basically live together. He might claim to be a houseguest, but after two months, you’re more of a tenant than a guest, right? For another, we’ve been without our buffer now that Brook has taken up part-time residence at his office.
He’s apparently making a peace offering of sorts tonight, though. It’s like some attempt to say, “Are we cool?” The least I can do is be appreciative of his efforts and a friendly dinner companion.
“Chili and cinnamon rolls. Such a Nebraskan meal to make.” And one that has me feeling a twinge of homesickness for the Cornhusker state. “I’ve been missing Nebraska a lot lately. It’s kind of funny when you think about it.”
“How so?”
“I barely lived there. Not even two years.” I take the spoon he offers me and sample the chili. It has a kick to it—just enough to make it appealing, but not so much it’s inedible. “Somehow it became home, though.”
“It’s not that strange. Your brothers are there. Your nephew. It’s closer to Brook’s family and your parents.”
“I miss the people in general. Maybe I haven’t tried hard enough, but I don’t really have any friends here. Except for you, Whitney, and Brook, but you’re only visiting, which lowers my average.”
“Have you told Brook you—”
“I can’t tell him I’m homesick. He’d feel bad.”
“But if it’s how you feel—”
“I don’t want to give him one more thing to think about right now. Not when he’s constantly worried Griggs or O’Dwyer is going to snap and fire him.”
“I get it.” He removes the cinnamon rolls from the oven and glances around trying to find a place to put them. I hop up to tidy a space on the counter and set down an extra potholder a second before he winces from the heat. “I also get what you mean about Nebraska. I’m from SoCal, but I went back after the pros didn’t work out. It’s where I’d made my home. In five years there, I made a lot of friends.”
“And fans.”
He cracks a grin. “That too.” Sobering, he continues. “But every year a few more friends move away. A new crop of players comes in and wins over the fans. That’s just the way it goes.”
“Life goes on, I suppose.” And I suppose this is what he meant last week when he said we understood each other. On this point, it seems, we’re completely on the same page. “It’s hard growing up.”
“You’re still a baby. Talk to me when you’re thirty.”
“Hey, I’ll be thirty in another year.”
“See. Plenty of time.” He opens a can of frosting and I hand him a spatula. “Are you excited about going back for a visit next week?”
“I am.” Even though my brother Christopher’s fiancée, Meg, has a full itinerary planned for me. It’ll be nice to see everyone. It will also give me a chance to talk to Amelia about this book plan in person.
J.J. and I fall silent as we work side by side, but this time it’s more companionable. He frosts the cinnamon rolls, which he apologetically explains came from the freezer section of the grocery store. He’ll get no complaints from me. A cinnamon roll is a cinnamo
n roll, and a cinnamon roll will hit the spot. I do my part by picking up the mess he’s made so there won’t be much cleanup after dinner. I get out dishes and drinks and haphazardly set the coffee table in the living room. We’re parked on the couch with heaping bowls of chili and a plate of rolls to share before the game begins. He waits for me to take the first bite. I’m prepared to fake enthusiasm in case my second bite isn’t as good as the first, but it isn’t necessary.
“This is so good. I had no idea you were such a good cook.”
He shrugs again, but he grins into his bowl.
By halftime, we’ve each had seconds. (J.J. also had thirds and fourths.) I’m more than halfway through a bottle of wine and he’s working his way through his case of Busch. We also have our laptops set up in our traditional fantasy football war room so we can track our points and projections for the upcoming games this weekend. It’s never too soon to contemplate a lineup change. I’m taking extra care now that I’m out for redemption with the Real Coaches’ Wives.
I’m also trying out a new scarf I’d like to include in the Team Stitches book, if it ever happens. If not, it will at least be some new, original content for the blog this winter. Maybe it’s the wine, the feel of the yarn wrapped around my fingers, or even the home-cooked meal made by someone other than me, but I’m feeling more relaxed and at ease than I have in a while.
Until J.J. sucks in a breath, and I turn sharply. “What? What happened?”
“New post on that Sounds parody blog.”
“What?” I’ve already tossed my crochet hook and grabbed my laptop before he can answer.
“It’s the preview for the next game.”
“But it’s a bye week.”
“I guess he’s early with this one. It’s kind of harsh.” He frowns. “Really harsh.”
I tap my fingers, impatiently waiting for it to load. “Is Brook in it?”
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