by Sarina Bowen
“Not a damn thing.” I thread my fingers into her hair and kiss her.
Bess eats three enchiladas, which is almost as many as I do. She’s finishing up her beer when I ask if she wants to watch a movie.
“Maybe,” she hedges. “But there’s something I need to ask you first. It’s uncomfortable for me, though.”
“Okay?” I take a gulp of beer. “Ask me. Anything.”
She sets her bottle on the coffee table. “This thing that we have is perfect. I don’t need to change anything right now. I’ll never tell you that your schedule is a drag, because mine is a drag, too. I’m just really happy to see you when you’re in Brooklyn.”
“Same to you, lady.” But I’m a little lost. “And we already discussed our parameters, right? You’re all the woman I need. You should have seen me counting the minutes until I could climb the stairs and peel you out of my rival’s T-shirt.”
She gives me a happy smile. “I may have worn that just to taunt you a little.”
“I noticed.”
“This is a good color on a redhead, though.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
She smiles again, but then it fades as she takes a deep breath. “When I moved to Brooklyn, it was because I wanted to think about my future. My personal life, not my business. I hired Eric so that I could eventually spend more time on me and less time on the road. That won’t happen for a while, though. It’s a long-term plan.”
“Yeah. Sounds like a great goal.”
“And then there’s you, and you weren’t part of my plan. But I care about you and I am willing to make space in my plan for you. So much space.” She gives me a nervous smile, and I really don’t know where this is going. “You just got out of a marriage, and the timing of my question sucks. But someday I’ll need to know if you could trust someone again and share your life. And, if so, am I the kind of girl you could love?”
“Bess—” Hell, does she really not think she’s lovable?
She silences me by raising her hand. “You don’t need to answer. In fact, it’s too soon. But this is the question of my heart. I’m falling pretty hard, here. So if you just see me as a good time, I need to know that. I’m thirty, Tank. Eventually, I’ll run out of time.”
“Out of time,” I echo as my heart drops hard and fast. Now I understand where this conversation is headed. “You want to have kids.” The last word practically gets stuck in my throat.
“Eventually,” she repeats. “I have a few years, though. Five, probably.”
“Five,” I repeat stupidly.
The problem is that I already know how this works. And five years isn’t enough. That’s sixty months of potential disappointment, followed by tears, and distance, and regret.
For some guys, no amount of time is enough.
Suddenly, the living room is too damn small. I grab my plate off the coffee table and stand up quickly. I carry it into the kitchen and rinse it off. I know I shouldn’t have left the room. But a familiar chill is wrapping itself around my heart.
I rinse that fucking plate very carefully and tuck it into the dishwasher. So this is how it ends. This is why I can’t fall for anyone. I should have known this would happen.
Bess is waiting for me when I come back, a shattered look on her face. “I knew it was too soon. I knew it, and I asked anyway because…” She swallows hard. “Never mind. I’m sorry to ruin a nice evening,” she says quietly. “But it wouldn’t be fair for me to have an agenda and not mention it. Say something.”
I walk over and sit down beside her. But I feel cold inside. My heart already resembles the same lump of granite that it became at the end of my marriage. For a while there I’d thought Bess had chased it away.
But I was fooling myself. She can’t fix this for me. And I’m an asshole to ever think she could.
“Honey,” I rasp. “Having a family isn’t in the cards for me.”
“I see,” she chokes out. She’s trying not to get upset. And I’m trying not to howl at the sky.
Her disappointment is like a knife through the tattered remains of my heart. “It’s not you, okay? I just can’t go there. My marriage was…not good.” A stronger man would provide all the gory details. Then again, the end result would be the same. So I don’t really see the point.
“I know,” she grits out. “You told me, and I didn’t listen.”
“This is not your fault.” I stand up again. “I should go, Bess. I’m sorry I’m not the kind of man you can make a future with. I wish I was that guy.” And why the hell did I not see this coming? “I’m sorry,” I repeat. “You didn’t do a thing wrong. And you deserve better.”
So, so much better.
“You have to do what you have to do,” she says in a low voice. “I knew it might come to this.” Her face is red, but she doesn’t cry. Instead, she lifts her chin and straightens her spine. That look of determination is something I’ve always loved about her. But now I realize she looks that way because she’s had a lot of practice at facing disappointment.
And I can’t believe I’m the kind of asshole who’s only brought her more.
She doesn’t say anything further. She just regards me with an expression that dares me to disappoint her again with more of my shitty apologies.
I walk behind the couch and grab my jacket off the hook on the wall. Then I lean down and drop a kiss onto the top of her head. She smells like lemons. I can’t believe I’m walking away from her right now. I don’t want to.
But I can’t give her what she wants. And every moment I linger in her life, I’m preventing her from going after the future she desires.
So I do it. I leave. Three seconds later I’m jogging down the staircase of her apartment building. When I hit the bottom I wrench the door open and rush out onto the sidewalk, breathing hard. I’m wearing sneakers, so it’s easy enough to just break into a jog and head toward the path along the river.
There’s no distance that’s far enough, though. Some troubles just can’t be outrun.
Twenty-Five
The Trouble with Grumpy Defensemen
Bess
December
The next month is difficult for me. I watch a lot of hockey and eat a lot of ice cream. But I do it alone. The Bruisers are winning, which is nice. But I avoid their games, choosing other times and places to see my clients.
Eric is gentle with me at work. He really deserves that plaque on our office wall. He and Alex invite me over for dinner a couple times, which is lovely. I get to eat gourmet food and snuggle Rosie in the midst of their obvious domestic bliss.
Zara is taking it hard, though. “I guess I’m not cut out to be your agent,” she says, her voice full of regret. “How do you do this? What do you say to your clients when they don’t get what they want?”
“I tell them to dig deep and go after the next opportunity.”
“But I don’t think we’re ready for that step,” Zara muses. “First we eat all the carbs and watch Bridget Jones’s Diary on repeat.”
“Carbs?”
“I’m sympathy eating. For two,” she explains.
God, I love Zara.
And I suppose there’s a silver lining to breaking up with Tank. Now I don’t have to tell my brother that I’ve been dating a hockey player.
I do, however, tell my girlfriends. Over margaritas, I fill Becca and Georgia in on the fact that I’m in love with him, but that we are not together.
It’s a good decision, too. Because the moment I share my pain, these two circle the wagons. Every week they invite me out somewhere new. They’ve more or less adopted me, and I am grateful.
* * *
That’s how I come to sit one weeknight in a brand-new massage chair at Becca’s newly opened salon. Georgia and Becca flank me on either side. And at my feet, a nail technician fills a foot bath with ginger-scented water. Meanwhile, the salon manager hands me a flute of Prosecco.
“Thank you!” I say as cheerfully as I can. “I think I could become a c
onvert, here.”
“See?” Georgia says. “I love getting a pedicure, but it doesn’t have a thing to do with the way my nails look.”
“I get it,” I say, relaxing against the leather. “I was a doubter like you. But I’m coming around.” A sip of bubbly wine helps, too. Not that my mood is easy to improve these days.
“That’s why you have me, babycakes,” Becca adds. “To save you both from a lifetime of imperfect toes.”
“I’m just here for the foot massage and the wine,” Georgia says with a shrug.
“And the gossip,” Becca adds. “Don’t overlook my true purpose in life.”
“I like how you think.” This is just what I need, too. Soft lighting, classical guitar music on the sound system, and the company of women. “Remind me how you decided to buy this place? It’s so pretty now.” The glass tiles sparkle beneath the paint job and the new upholstery.
“We used to come here in the middle of the day,” Georgia explains. “When work was stressful, we’d run in here on our lunch break, because we knew we’d be alone.”
“I mean, can you imagine hockey players coming here?” Becca adds, sipping her wine. “It was always our little oasis.”
“But that was before Becca turned this place into an actual oasis,” Georgia adds. “The old decor was a little shabby. We didn’t mind. But this is so much better. Becca picked out all that glass tile herself.”
“You’ve got game. But it’s risky to buy a place that’s going out of business.” Although it seems to be doing fine tonight. When I walked through the door, every manicure table up front was occupied.
“Yes and no,” Becca says. “There was a citywide scandal that shut down a whole bunch of nail salons. Apparently they weren’t paying their workers a fair wage. When I told Nate how upset I was at the loss of our favorite spot, he didn’t even hesitate. ‘Buy it,’ he said. ‘Renovate. Raise the prices and reopen. You can hire back everyone who worked there at a fair price.’”
“Genius,” I say as the technician eases my feet into the warm, bubbling water.
“I’m not used to thinking like a billionaire,” Becca says. “But Nate feels good about investing in this neighborhood. And it doesn’t even feel like an indulgence, because I have nine people on the payroll, here, including the new manager, who’s a single mom. Ooh! Xue!” She waves to a young woman. “Over here!”
The young woman sashays toward us in impossibly high heels—the kind that I could never walk in. “Would you like a strawberry dipped in dark chocolate?” she asks, leaning down to offer each of us a treat.
“Oh my goodness.” Georgia reaches for one. “Becca’s influence is everywhere.”
“Damn straight.” Becca takes a berry, too.
As I reach for mine, I’m hit with the Cinderella tingles. This is my life—pedicures and bubbly wine. I’m still lonely for Tank, but I refuse to work late into the night, hunched over my phone. The five-year plan is back on. I can nurture female friendships without a man. I’m in a good place.
Tonight, anyway.
“Becca for president” I say as I bite the juicy end off the strawberry. I can feel my sadness lifting by a tiny amount. “Are you sure that bright purple toes are a good idea, though?” The technician is shaking the bottle of polish that Becca chose for me.
“Purple is the right move,” Becca says seriously. “No boring toes on my watch. Plus, it’s the Bruisers color. I had that shade specially mixed. Now I need Georgia to tell me how worried I should be about the upcoming game against Dallas. Did practice go okay today?”
“It went fine. We’re going to beat Phoenix this weekend. And that will build confidence before Dallas.”
“You’ve got Castro back in the lineup,” I say between bites of strawberry and dark chocolate. Castro had a muscle pull, but it turned out to be no big deal. “The doctor cleared him.”
“Excellent. That deserves a toast. To healthy men and smooth ice!” Becca angles her glass first toward mine and then Georgia’s. We all toast.
“Crikey is healthy, too,” Georgia adds. “And…” She turns to me, hesitating. “Am I allowed to talk about hot, grumpy defensemen?”
“Go ahead,” I say. “Hot, grumpy defensemen are my living.”
“Okay. Then here’s the skinny on the blue-liners,” Georgia says. “Loneliness must be good for defensive strategy, because Tank has been playing like a beast these past few games. Our offense is still a little baffled by him, but the other D-men are coming around. Anton has figured out how to work with him. And now I think Coach is going to try O’Doul and Tank on shift together.”
Becca whistles under her breath. “They could be an unstoppable pair. The dream team.”
“Right?” I agree, and my voice only wobbles a little. Even though I’m hurt, I want the best for Tank. That’s how you know you love someone.
Isn’t clarity a bitch? On the one hand, I regret trying to have a relationship chat with Tank before he was ready. On the other hand, his reaction taught me everything I needed to know about my own feelings.
It was possible that a little more time might have sorted him out, but it was just as likely that he’d never see himself as a relationship guy again. It hurts, but I needed to know that. Waiting around and hiding my feelings wasn’t ever going to end well.
“Tell me more gossip,” I say, begging for a change of topic. “How’s Leo doing? Are you spending Christmas with his family?”
“Oh, definitely,” Georgia says. “I love his family. Except lately his mother can’t go an hour without asking when we plan to have kids.”
“Oh, brother,” Becca groans. “Nate’s mom has been dropping some hints, too. And we’ve only been married a few months.”
“Shouldn’t we be taking bets?” I ask. “Which of you two is going to be first?”
“Georgia is,” Becca says. “Leo has been angling since ten minutes after they got married. And Georgia doesn’t hate the idea, either. Trust me.”
“We’re still negotiating the number, though,” Georgia says. “I’m an only child, so I think one or two kids is plenty. But Leo thinks three is the minimum.”
“Leo just wants to have lots of baby-making sex,” Becca points out.
Georgia snorts. “Leo’s appetites are great, that’s true. But isn’t baby-making sex the same as any other nookie?”
“No way,” Becca argues. “I mean, I haven’t had any baby-making sex, so I’m just guessing here, but there should be trumpets and an angel choir. If you’re making a human life, that has to be beautiful.”
“The angel choir might mess with my concentration,” Georgia says, and I choke on a sip of Prosecco.
“You okay?”
“Sure.” I cough. And then I blurt out my strange question. “I wonder if the choir shows up at the fertility clinic I went to yesterday.”
There’s a stunned silence. “Omigod. Hello, mic drop!” Georgia yelps. “Are you having a baby? Did we bet on the wrong horse here?” She waves a hand over the three of us in our massage chairs.
Even the woman who’s buffing my cuticles looks up in surprise.
“I’m investigating the possibility,” I admit. “This was just a preliminary consultation. But I’ve been thinking about it a long time. And if Tank and I aren’t going to be together, maybe it’s time to take matters into my own hands.” The idea of going back to Tinder makes me want to curl up in a ball and howl.
“Wow,” Becca says. “You are impressive. So how does it work? Do you have to have a bunch of tests?”
“There will be a couple of tests. But then there are choices to make. IVF versus artificial insemination. IVF sounds a little intimidating, honestly. You have to inject yourself with a drug.”
Becca shivers. “I hate needles. But I guess I could stab one into my own butt if it meant I could have a baby.”
“Thigh,” I correct. “And I hear there’s no angel choir.”
Becca reaches over and squeezes my hand. “I just want to slap Tank.”r />
“And then give him a firm shake,” Georgia agrees.
“He can’t help it,” I say, jumping to his defense. “The man’s wife asked him to move out, and that was only seven months ago. He’s not over it.”
“He’s not,” Georgia says quietly. “Some people never get over it. Maybe you two are star-crossed.”
“It sucks,” Becca says. “And if you need someone to go to the clinic with you, I’m there.”
“You’re the best. Seriously. Getting pregnant in a doctor’s office does seem kind of weird and lonely.”
“When you’re holding a baby it won’t seem weird, and it won’t be lonely,” Georgia points out.
She’s totally right. “When I think of myself rocking a baby, it all seems worth it.” We’ll be a small team of two players. “I really want a baby.”
“Does Dave know you’re doing this?” Georgia asks.
“Not yet. Zara does, though. And the second I decide to go through with it, he’ll be my first call.” I can’t predict how he’ll react, either. He loves his child, and he’d want me to have one, too. But he’ll probably worry about me.
“We’ll be your second call,” Becca says, draining her Prosecco. “And then we can start looking for a bigger apartment for you. I can’t work my magic in that rental you’ve got now.”
“Okay. It’s a deal.”
The nail technician begins stroking Bruisers purple onto my big toenail, and—for a moment—all is right with the world.
Twenty-Six
Woo Woo Shit
Tank
“Nice goal last night.”
“Thanks. Every goal counts.” Grudgingly, I take my seat in front of Doc Mulvey. These sessions continue to be a waste of time, but the shrink is paid to talk to me, so here I am.
“So—did you visualize that goal ahead of time?”
I snort. “You know I didn’t. What is your point?”