by S. J. Bishop
Annie shut the door and turned to me, her eyes wide with confusion and then understanding.
“No! Oh god, no. He didn’t do anything,” she said, shaking her head. “I mean, he’s still a dick. And I didn’t stay for my dinner with him, but…no.”
“What’s wrong then?” I asked. Whatever was upsetting her was the reason she’d cancelled on me for drinks. I suddenly felt much better.
“I can’t…I don’t want to talk about it with you.”
With me? “So you’d talk about it with someone else?”
Annie threw her hands up in the air. “Dash, that’s not the point.”
“Isn’t it?” I asked, feeling a sense of deadly calm come over me. “That’s the point I want to discuss. I want to know why you’re avoiding me. I get why you didn’t want to go to Virginia. I understand your reasons, but what harm is there in getting dinner with me in Boston? It’s not like I asked you out on a real date…”
“I know you didn’t!” said Annie, her voice raising. “Don’t you think that’s why I might be upset!?”
I blinked at her, feeling like an idiot. “To be honest, Annie, I don’t know why you’re upset. I get that we slept together that first night, and I acted like a jerk. And I get that the second night, I took advantage of a situation. Mea culpa. But I tried to make it right…”
“That’s what you were doing when you asked me to go to Virginia with you? Trying to make it right?” Tears were spilling down her face. Was she kidding me? What did she want from me!?
I felt irrational anger rise to the surface. “I just got out of a divorce,” I said, running my hand through my hair. “To your sister, no less…”
“You don’t have to tell me. I know! I know I’m a rebound, Dash. I get that you don’t know what you want from me. But I know what I want from you!”
I opened my mouth but could think of nothing to say. I was torn between desperately wanting to know what she wanted and knowing I couldn’t handle what she was about to say.
“I want all of you!” she sobbed. “I’ve been in love with you since the first day I met you. You want to know why I don’t date? I compare every guy I meet to you. And nobody matches up. I don’t want anyone but you. And what do you want, Dash? Do you want a relationship with me? Do you?”
Christ. How the hell was I supposed to answer that? A relationship with Annie? I couldn’t stop my head; it seemed to move of its own accord, shaking back and forth with disbelief.
“Exactly,” said Annie. “I’m a rebound. I’m someone who made you feel good after the divorce made you feel shitty. I’m not anything other than that.”
“I…” I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t come here prepared for this. What was I going to tell her, that she wasn’t a rebound? It wasn’t true, and we both knew it. “Annie…”
“Can you tell me that you love me, Dash? Can you tell me that you’ll be there for me when my family disowns me?”
What did she want me to say? I stood up and paced to the other side of the room, searching for words that might make this better. But she had me. Why was I here?
When I turned back to look at her, Annie was watching me with the saddest expression on her face. “I think you need to go,” she said.
“Annie…”
“You really need to go,” she repeated, shaking her head. “If you have something to offer me, Dash, then by all means, stay. But if not, I need you to go.”
I stayed a moment, trying to find something to say to her. In the end, I turned and left.
17
Anne
“Do you have a regatta this weekend?” my mother asked me, her voice tinny through the phone.
“No. We had one last weekend, and we’re off this week,” I said. My mom had called while I was on my way home after a Saturday practice. With only two more weeks of school left, I was in grading crunch time and wanted to talk to my mom before I settled down to lose myself in grading for the rest of the weekend.
“I’m thinking of coming down,” my mother said.
I blinked. Had hell frozen over? My mother rarely left New York.
“Wow, really?” It would be so good to see my mom. I’d been avoiding talking to her. I had no idea how to bring up any of the things that had been happening to me lately.
“Your sister is going to be in town…”
Of course. Mom wouldn’t fly down just to see me, but she’d fly down to see Becca. “Is she?” I asked, striving to sound neutral and not as hurt as I felt. “I haven’t spoken to her in a few months. I had no idea.”
“Yes; she’ll be attending the World Wildlife Foundation gala. You know she’s an ambassador there, right?”
I wasn’t in the mood to play nice. “Is she bringing that Angel’s Craving guy?” I asked, sounding more sarcastic than I meant to.
“Thankfully, no,” my mother said dryly. “I don’t know about you, but it’s too soon for me. I always loved Dash.”
“Mmm,” I said. What else could I say?
“Well, even if I don’t manage to make it down, you should call your sister,” my mother said. I sighed inwardly. Classic Mom: entertain the idea for a minute and then talk herself out of it. “Put the screws to her,” my mother continued. “Make her take you to dinner somewhere fancy.”
“I’ll give her a call,” I promised.
“Love you, Annabelle,” my mother crooned into the phone.
“Love you, too, Mom,” I said and hung up.
My parents had divorced when I was twelve, but I hadn’t been all that upset about it. Fernanda and George Brown had been terrible together. My dad was an academic; my mom worked for Lockheed Martin. My parents had both constantly travelled… Two years after their divorce, my mom had quit her job to become Becca’s full-time manager. They used to travel the world together while I spent a lot of time with my dad.
What I’d learned from their failed marriage was that some people just weren’t meant to be together.
I picked up the phone and called Becca. When she didn’t pick up, I left a message. “Becca, it’s your sister. Mom’s spilled the beans. I know you’re in town. You’re going to have to come and see me. I’ll even buy us dinner…”
I sent her a text saying the same thing. Then I called again. Then again. Then again.
“Jesus, can you be more annoying?” Becca snapped, picking up the phone.
“Yes,” I affirmed.
“I’m busy,” Becca huffed. “But fine. We’ll do dinner. And no, I’ll buy. We’re not going to one of your shitty burger bars.”
“Burger bars?” I said.
“You know what I mean.”
I smirked into the phone. “You tell me the time and the place, and I’ll make myself available, oh Self-Important One.”
Becca made a noise into the phone. “Please tell me mother isn’t coming down this weekend. She was threatening to.”
“I give it an 80% chance she doesn’t make it,” I said.
“Only 80%?”
“Who knows what she’ll do anymore? I didn’t think she was going to bring that house painter to grandma’s Christmas party…”
“Yeah,” said Becca, dryly. “All right. Gotta go. I’ll text you the info.”
When dining out with Becca, you have to bring your A-Game. She’d gotten reservations for us at the fanciest restaurant in town: Le Diplomate. Since I don’t have an A-Game, I went with a tried-and-true little black dress and gray suede heels.
Becca was late, but only by a few minutes. The hosts wouldn’t seat me until she showed up, so I waited awkwardly by the entrance.
Of course, when Becca showed up, it was an arrival. She was a supermodel; the world was her catwalk. A full head taller than me, she was wearing high heels, which put her over six feet. Her thick, golden hair had been set in beautiful waves. Her skin was sun-kissed (she had our mother’s skin; I couldn’t never get mine to tan), and her makeup was flawless. She wore a lacy, gray dress with black, strappy heels. Spotting me at the entrance, she s
miled, seemingly oblivious to all of the people who were now staring at her.
“Hey,” she said, ignoring the gaping host and bending to give me a light hug. “Sorry I’ve been so hard to get ahold of.” She didn’t sound sorry.
“No big deal,” I said lightly. “Divorces, new boyfriends, your TV show, the new Rolex campaign…”
“Hey, I’m a big deal,” said Becca, grinning. The host, gathering menus, apologized profusely for making us wait.
“I wasn’t the one waiting,” said Becca pointedly. The man stammered and hurried off to find our waiter.
“Next time,” I said, “I’ll just say to the host guy, ‘Don’t you know who I am!?’”
“And what will you do when he asks you who you are?” said Becca. Ouch. But she always did know how to shoot to kill.
“I’d make something up,” I said lightly.
The waiter showed up and demanded to know our drink orders. For a moment, I thought about not ordering a drink at all, but I knew that might raise Becca’s suspicion. I ordered a glass of Pinot Grigio. Becca ordered a glass of red. I knew she would only drink half of it. Wine wasn’t on her diet.
“So,” I said. “It’s been months. I want to hear what you’re up to.”
Surprisingly, getting my sister to talk about herself was difficult. Don’t get me wrong, she loves to talk. And she’s her own favorite subject. But she doesn’t like to talk about anything personal. As she went on, she spent a good twenty minutes talking about the photographer on her latest shoot and then went on at length about some feud she was having with Karli Kloss.
I tried a few times to get her to talk about the divorce. The third time I mentioned it, she became exasperated. “If you must know, Dash practically gave me an ultimatum,” she said. “He wanted a family. I didn’t want one with him.” Becca shuddered.
She didn’t want one with him? “So you divorced him?”
“I’d been planning it for a while. Dad knew because I used one of his friends as my divorce lawyer.”
“But why? I thought you loved Dash?”
“Who doesn’t love Dash?” asked Becca, breezily. “But Dash is difficult. He’s more needy than you think he’d be. He’d get angry because I was busy. And because I didn’t want the things he wanted. I was sick of feeling guilty about it, honestly.”
When the waiter came, Becca ordered the Tuna Carpaccio and the Vegetable Tagine. I had to avoid seafood and ordered the mushroom tart and the lamb.
“Care to tell me about Gil?” I asked, once the waiter had left.
“Why? So you can report back to our mother? No thanks. Tell me about your love life.”
There wasn’t anything to tell. However, I knew Becca; she had turned her attention to me and wouldn’t rest until she was satisfied. So I talked about Pete and about our episode in Boston, making sure to exclude Dash from all mention.
“And that was what, two weeks ago? Have you spoken to the guy since?”
“Nope,” I said. And I didn’t care to.
Once the food started coming out, conversation died down. Becca and I don’t have much in common, and neither of us had seen our parents recently. Becca had met Dad’s new girlfriend, and I peppered her for information. Apparently, she was dumpier than mom, which somehow was important to our mother.
“Can I ask you a personal question?” asked Becca, eying me with a strange expression. But before I could deny her request, she continued. “I noticed you haven’t touched a drop of your Pinot. They had scallops and mussels on the menu, but you didn’t look at them twice. You love fish. You didn’t even try a bite of my tuna. Are you pregnant?”
Leave it to Becca to notice those things.
When we were younger, I liked to believe that I was the smart one, that Becca was just the pretty one. The reality? Becca was sharp as a tack. She hadn’t needed to go to college, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t finish a New York Times Sunday crossword in under a half hour.
“No, Miss Marple, I’m not. I drank a lot last night, and my stomach is off,” I lied. “Went out with Abe last night and puked up oysters. So I’m off fish, too.”
“Did you get sick because you’re pregnant?”
“I got sick because I drank too much.”
Becca wasn’t buying it; I could tell. She was looking at me as if she was a bloodhound and could smell that I was lying.
Getting through the rest of dinner with her was painful. I was too aware of her eyes on me, too aware that not only was I pregnant, but I was pregnant with her ex-husband’s child.
18
Dash
“You need me to come with you?” asked Burke, who was seated across from me at the diner, his mouth full of hashed browns.
“Naw, man, I can handle this on my own,” I said, taking a sip of water. To be honest, I would rather get a root canal than see Becca again, but we had a meeting with our lawyers to discuss asset separation. I had to go.
“I know you can, but that doesn’t mean you have to.”
I shook my head. “Thanks, though, I appreciate it.” The last thing I needed was the paparazzi getting a photo of me being escorted to my lawyer’s office by the enormous tight end. I might be able to sneak in and out of the lawyer’s unnoticed, but not if I went in with Burke. The guy was six-foot-seven and looked as if he’d just stepped away from filming the 13th Warrior.
“All right,” said Burke, looking unhappy. “This is the last of these meetings, right? Then you’re done with her? No offense, bro, but I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t be,” I said.
“Yeah, but you don’t seem happy, man.”
I snorted. “Speak for yourself. At least I’m getting sleep. At least I don’t have a newborn waking me up at all hours of the night.” I only wished I did.
Burke cracked a yawn but grinned all the same. “Better to deal with it now than during the season. Hopefully, by the time August rolls around, the kid will be sleeping through the night.”
“One can only hope,” I agreed.
“Let me buy today,” said Burke. “You’re going to be late.”
I looked at my watch. Yes, I was.
Since Becca had started dating Gil Thrasher, the guys on the team had formed rotating shifts, taking me out and checking in on me. I should have been irritated by it, but I was grateful. I was lonelier than I wanted to admit. Plus, I was getting a lot of free breakfasts.
During the last few weeks, it had been easier to keep my mind occupied. Last week, we’d had the NFL draft, and the Pats had picked up a few interesting guys. Coach had me scheduled all week, working with rookies and helping to plan the mini-camp before the whole team met for preseason work. When I wasn’t in meetings, I was at the gym or at the trainers. I found that the busier I was, the less I had to think about the Brown sisters.
I’d not been looking forward to today. It’s hard to ignore the Brown sisters when one of them is in your face, dividing your life in half.
But I needn’t have been so anxious. Seeing Becca again wasn’t as hard as I’d thought it was going to be. She looked incredible and had dressed for the meeting in a pencil skirt, blouse, and high heels. I’d seen a lot of her and Gil in the magazines lately. I’d seen a lot of myself, too. The magazines had taken my beard as a sign of depression. Really, it was a sign of freedom. Becca hadn’t liked me wearing a beard.
The asset separation went smoothly. We both made comparable amounts of money, so nobody owed anybody alimony; we had no kids and no animals, so there was no nasty custody dispute. Becca was willing to sell me her half of the house if I wanted it. She planned on moving out to New York, or maybe even LA, to be closer to her new beau. In the end, we decided to sell the house and split the earnings.
“That was well done, I think,” said Becca, approaching me after the lawyers had left the room.
“I’m glad about it,” I said. We’d split everything. There was nothing else for us to talk about. For the first time in months, I felt warmly toward my ex-wife. I’d
always been enamored of Becca. She was smart, beautiful, and resourceful. While she was completely insensitive most of the time, and could often be a real bitch, I’d loved her.
“Do you want to grab lunch?” she asked me, clearly on the same page as I was. “I’d love to hear how you’re doing.”
We went to a bistro nearby and received quite a few looks from the other diners. I knew our photos would appear on social media later, but I didn’t care. Maybe if we looked cordial enough, people would stop speculating that Becca had divorced me so that she could start dating Gil. Had she? I didn’t want to know. It didn’t matter.
We both ordered salads, and Becca asked me questions about my upcoming season and about some of our new pickups. “I’m going to miss going to the games,” she said.
I returned her polite question about the season by asking after her family. I realized I was holding my breath and forced myself to exhale.
“They’re fine,” she said. “I met my dad’s new girlfriend.”
“Irina?” I said, trying to remember the Jazz singer’s name.
“Irena,” she corrected. “Yes. She was okay. I think he can do better.” Becca and Annie had always worshipped their father. I’d never understood that. Mr. Brown was fiercely intelligent and epically patient, but he had the need to be the smartest man in every room.
“And your mom?”
“Dating around,” said Becca. “She almost came to DC when I was there last week! What a nightmare that would have been.”
“What were you in DC for?”
“The WWF gala and a speech to congress on their behalf,” said Becca, casually.
“Did you see your sister while you were there?”
I hadn’t spoken to Annie in over a month, not since she’d asked me to leave her hotel room. To be honest, I still didn’t know what I wanted from her. Until I figured it out, I was going to stay away.
“Yes. She’s doing okay. Actually, I’ve got a little bet going with myself on Annie’s behalf. I keep checking my phone to see if she’s left me a message.”
