Table for Two

by Nia Forrester

  “Or he keeps you away from it.”

  “If you’re suggesting that Rand would have a double-life like …” I stop.

  Rand did have a double-life like SJ does. When he was with Faith.

  “Look, I ain’t tryna make this about you. I can’t speak for the next man, but all I wanted to do is show you that I’m not inventin’ stories to make it sound hard. It is hard. Men aren’t like women. We’re almost always distracted by the next shiny, new thing.”

  “You’re making excuses,” I say. “You aren’t easily distracted at all, Stephen. It’s something you’re telling yourself, to justify doing something you know is wrong.”

  “How you know I’m not easily distracted?” he challenges, sticking his chin out.

  Even with this look of defiance, he is an extraordinarily magnetic man. I can see why women are drawn to him. Sure, the NFL helps, but even without it, SJ would catch the eye of most.

  “You known me a hot second,” he adds.

  “I know because I’ve watched some of your game film,” I say.

  He looks taken aback.

  “I do my research. The way you run, and evade … guys all around you, trying to penetrate. And all your eyes are on, is the prize. The end-zone.”

  This silences him.

  “Maybe,” I say. “We just need to make it so you start to realize that Jennifer is your prize. She’s the end-zone you want. So, maybe all we need to do, is figure out how to get the focus back on her.”

  It’s an oversimplification. But sometimes, all it takes is a spark to get someone thinking about things differently, but with reference points they can understand. And, hopefully, in thinking about things differently, they can see a path to behaving differently as well.

  “You’re wasting your time in this work,” SJ says, his voice uncharacteristically somber. “You need to study sports psychology, for real. No joke.”

  I’m about to do what I always do when people say something like this, tell them that I’m exactly where I want to be. But SJ short-circuits that by pulling out his phone.

  “C’mon, coach,” he says, leaning in so his face is next to mine. “Let’s Insta-cam the moment.”

  I roll my eyes. Maybe I’m wrong about him having extraordinary focus.

  Before I can protest, SJ takes the shot.

  I fall asleep halfway through the ride back, and by the time I get home, and SJ walks me to my door, I notice that there are more than a dozen text messages on my phone. As I glance down at it, squinting in surprise, SJ laughs.

  “I got mad followers,” he says, sounding apologetic, and boastful at the same time. “I’ll hit you up about NYC tomorrow?”

  I want to tell him that I got a good enough picture after the DC trip of what his challenge is, but instead, just let myself in and tell him to enjoy the rest of his day. It’s still early, but the press of the crowd at the event, the noise-level, and the long drive have all worn me out. I collapse on my sofa and begin to review the messages.

  There are a few from Trudie, who very rarely texts me anymore. One is a screenshot of the Instagram photo of me with SJ. He is grinning widely, and I look vaguely perplexed. But we also look like we know each other very well. I study the picture for a while, considering how deceptive it is. We are crowded in together, like old friends, or even more.

  SJ included a long stream of hashtags associated with it, including one that says #coaching4life. I smile at that, because it’s actually a little clever. He’s also hashtagged my company name, and mine.

  In the text following that one, Trudie asks: WTF? Rand????

  A third message says: You all up in the ballers now?

  A fourth: Hello? Hellooooo?

  Then there’s a message from Corey Jones, asking if I’m “on Insta now” and how come he can’t find me. Another, sent a few minutes afterwards, asks whether SJ knows that Corey was the one who “discovered” me first.

  Then there are texts from two of my clients who I never would have imagined followed random NFL players on Instagram, a handful from friends I haven’t spoken to, or hung out with in a while, and a final one from Rand. His is the briefest, and the most ominous.

  I’m coming over, it reads.

  When I open the door for Rand, I instinctively look around him, but he is alone.

  “It was too late to bring him,” he says. His voice is flat, and his expression even more so. “But you should stop through this weekend. He was asking for you.”

  “He was?” I ask, not sure why I’m surprised.

  “Yeah. He used to see you almost every day, and now not so much.” Rand walks past me, looking around like someone trying to find something to criticize. I don’t need to ask what’s bothering him, of course. I know.

  “You hungry?” I say, heading for the kitchen. “I didn’t cook, but we could order something.”

  “I’m not hungry,” he says. “I want to know what’s up with …” And just as I expected, he pulls out his phone and shows me something. I don’t bother looking at it. “This.”

  “We’re working together.”

  “On?” Rand says.

  “He’s a client,” I amend.

  “It’s not even football season. So, what could he …?”

  “You know I’m not going to tell you that,” I say quietly.

  “You’ve told me other stuff. About other clients. Why’s he any different?”

  “I’ve told you things about people whose names you don’t know, yes,” I admit. “But I’ve never broken anyone’s anonymity. And since you know SJ it would be much worse for me to even hint at anything he’s told me.”

  “So, he’s ‘SJ’ now.”

  “He always has been. That’s what he told me to call him when we met. On the plane out to LA. You’ve heard me call him that before.”

  “Where was this at?” Rand demands, stabbing a finger at the image on his phone.

  “We were coming from DC.” It sounds bad, so I add more. “It was a charity event where he was speaking. For his foundation.”

  Rand wipes a hand over his face, and takes a deep breath. “And you went with him?”

  “Don’t … just … stop interrogating me. You know nothing is going on with me and SJ. Why are you being so …?”

  “This is the ‘stuff’ you have to take care of? The reason we need to ‘have some space’? You tryin’ to be a celebrity counselor now? Be on Instagram taking selfies and shit?”

  “It’s work, Rand,” I say. “Work. That’s all. And if it leads to more work, why would you be mad at that?”

  “I’m not mad!”

  “You sound mad,” I say quietly.

  “You know what happens now, right?”

  I say nothing. He’s begun pacing the living room, and pent-up energy radiates off him.

  “SJ put you out there, so now you’ll get to your office tomorrow and your voicemail’s going to be full. Every damn professional athlete who chokes at the three-point line, or throws too many interceptions, or … or …”

  I go toward him and place a hand on his arm. He looks at me, and I move in closer, getting up on my toes to kiss him on the bulge of his Adam’s apple. He swallows, and I kiss him again in the same spot, but softer. I put my arms up around his neck and feel his shoulders relax.

  “Stop,” I whisper against his skin.

  On my toes, I can just reach his jaw with my lips, so I kiss him there as well, feeling the roughness of his facial hair graze my lips. Rand sighs and leans his head against mine. I take his hand, turn, and lead him into the bedroom.

  Once there, I pull him toward the bed, reach for the hem of my shirt and take it off, drop my skirt and step free of my underwear. Rand watches me unfasten my bra and remove that as well. Then I undress him. He helps, but leaves it largely up to me.

  Everything I know about lovemaking, Rand has taught me. I know how to read my body, and the only male body I am familiar with is his. I know that sometimes hard is good to him, sometimes soft. Sometimes slow, s
ometimes fast. And I know that sometimes it’s all about relieving a physical need.

  Tonight, though, is about emotional expression.

  There is something he fears, that he doesn’t know how to name. He needs me to reassure him, but doesn’t want to hear words of reassurance. He just wants me close.

  So, when I hold Rand, and guide him to enter me, I am looking him in the eye with an unbroken gaze, speaking without words. We move that way as well, feeling every sensation in a singular way—the slow slide as he fills me, the reluctant pull of my body as he leaves it; the flutter of his eyelashes against my neck when he buries his face in my neck, and the clench of his haunches when I grasp them in my hands.

  I lift my legs high on his back and Rand grabs me behind the knees, shoving them up higher so I am almost folded over into myself, and my heels rest on his shoulder. I surrender; not pushing, or thrusting, but just letting him have me.

  And it’s only once I do, that I feel just how much he needed for us to connect like this. He doesn’t talk, like he usually might. He is groaning and breathing hard, staccato breaths, but Rand doesn’t say a single word; not even once he, and I, are spent.

  I am just opening the townhouse, when my phone rings, and I see that it’s Rayna. As much as I’d like to ignore the call, I can’t. Because the paternity test results are still hanging around out there, like an anvil over my head, poised to crush me. Since just after I took the test, I haven’t heard from her, which I consider a good sign. This call, on the other hand, is not.

  “Rocket,” she says.

  Something in her voice stops me.

  “I got the results,” she says.

  “You did?” My voice is a croak. “What’d they …?”

  “That’s the thing,” she says. “They don’t.”

  “What the fuck does that mean, Rayna?”

  “They were inconclusive.”

  The townhouse door is open now, and I slump against the doorframe, sitting in the doorway.

  “What the hell does that mean? Either I’m her father or not!”

  “It means they have to do another test,” Rayna says in a rush. “They need to get my sample as well, and then they’ll know.”

  Exhaling, I run a hand over my head. “What do I need to do?”

  “They’ll want you to come out and give a fresh sample. Or send it from a lab, or … I don’t know,” she says. “They’re going to call you.”

  “I need to use my own lab,” I interrupt her. “I’ll find a place here, close to me, and we need to do a test there as well.”

  “How are we supposed to do that? I’m all the way …”

  “I’ll fly you and … you and your daughter in. And we’ll figure this shit out once and for all.”

  There is a long pause. “Fine. You set that up, and then call and let me know.”

  When we hang up, I sit there for a while more. I stare at my car in the driveway, and my impulse is to get back into it, and drive back home. I want to see Dani, and tell her everything. I want to confess just how fucking scared I am, that this will make me lose her. That I am already losing her.

  This time, coming to Bristol alone doesn’t feel like the respite it used to be. I wish I’d brought my son with me. I wish I’d brought my girl with me. I wish I didn’t feel like crawling into a bottle and disappearing, just like I used to do in those dark days just after Faith died.

  Just as I’m contemplating where the nearest liquor store might be, and whether I could drink just enough to mellow me out—despite the fact that drinking before filming will make me look puffy on camera on Sunday—my phone rings again. This time, I answer without looking, because shit, the worst has already happened, right?

  “Rand.”

  Dani’s voice is worried.

  “Why would you do that?” she demands.

  “Do what?” I ask, confused.

  “Just leave? I wake up and you’re gone?”

  “I was supposed to leave last night, anyway,” I tell her. “I just stopped in because …”

  “But I was planning on coming up with you,” she says.

  “You were?”

  “Yes. Because that stupid Instagram photo … I don’t want you to think … Anyway, after last night, I figured you might need me, so I was planning to come.”

  “Then, come,” I say, feeling relief wash over me.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Because I do. Need you.”

  ~14~

  Rand was right. The avalanche of phone calls and messages came almost immediately.

  Apparently, SJ was more than happy to answer questions when people asked who the woman was that he was all “boo’ed up with” on Instagram. Then he explained that no, Jennifer hadn’t dumped him; and I was just his life coach. He likes that for some reason—letting people know that he has “coaching for life, as well as for the game.” Within the first week, I had six consultations, and in three weeks, I had four new clients, all of them professional athletes.

  Now I’ve begun exploring getting new business cards made, and a new website with SJ’s phrase as a tagline that I will use to target even more athletes as a niche market. I’m busier than I have been in a long time, and for the first time in ages, am not worried about money.

  Two of my new clients asked whether I needed a retainer. A retainer! I had never even considered such a thing. But now I am. And more than that, am having an old college friend who’s a lawyer, look into whether I need a contract. In the meantime, she drafted a newer, more explicit disclaimer that spells out that I am not a psychologist, nor purporting to be in the practice of psychology. When I read it, it made me think: but why not? Why shouldn’t I practice psychology? It would mean a little more school, but I could do it.

  I am so busy that I have not seen Rand since the time I drove up to Bristol, late on that Saturday afternoon, when he said he needed me. When I got there, he told me the news—that the paternity test was inconclusive, and that he was going to arrange for Rayna and her daughter to come East, to get a more comprehensive test done here, in a lab of his choosing.

  Even though, after he shared that news, we carried on with the weekend—cooking and talking, making love, and even sometimes joking around and laughing—but something felt different for me. And I know Rand could tell. Because he hasn’t pressed the issue of where we are in our relationship since.

  I think he is letting me, let him go. Letting me off the hook, in case I want to say something that will be difficult for me to say, and difficult for him to hear.

  It was just that the idea of Rayna—and the child that could very well be Rand’s child—in my territory was too painful to face. And it made me wonder how prepared I could possibly be, if that really is Rand’s baby, and Rayna becomes a part of his life, by association, for years to come. I don’t know that I’m ready for that, or that I would ever be strong enough to accept it.

  So, I’ve been working like a demon. And running like one, too. I see Eric now, more than I see Rand.

  And when I do see Rand, it is because I am going to see Little Rocket, who is now going through changes of his own, seeing the behavioral therapist to help him manage his emotional outbursts. When we’re together, Little Rocket clings to me, and follows me from room to room, talking a mile a minute, trying to fill me in on all the things I have missed since I saw him last, which is usually a lot, since I only ever see him about once a week now.

  I sometimes have weepy, desperate thoughts while I’m lying in bed alone with a glass of pinot; thoughts like: maybe I should cut it off. Maybe I should stop pretending to this poor, sad kid that I will be in his life for much longer. But I love him so much, I can’t make myself do anything of the sort. And so, there are those visits, once a week, where I go see Little Rocket, and play with him and talk to him and let him follow me around from room to room.

  And a short distance away, Rand watches us with a bittersweet smile on his face. Apart from a kiss in greeting, and a kiss goodbye when I leave, he do
esn’t try to persuade me to stay longer, come more often, or just … not leave at all.

  I don’t think we’ve “broken up” whatever that means. But it doesn’t feel like we’re together.

  I can’t make myself ask that question any more than I can walk away from Little Rocket. Because I love Rand, too. That much hasn’t changed. Not even a little bit.

  Bristol is not the most happening place in the world. But it’s starting to grow on me and Little Rocket. It’s gotten us out of our rut. Now, I’m used to not dropping him off at Freya’s all the time. I mean, I probably should have gotten used to that a while ago, but now I finally am. And since I don’t see much of Dani, going back home every week isn’t really a priority anymore.

  There’s lots of playgrounds and stuff for him to do outside here in Bristol: nature trails to do short hikes on, and a backdrop of a mountain range that we don’t have back home. Lots of fairs and festivals come to town, and there are small, independent bakeries, and bookstores that have reading hour for toddlers, and scavenger hunts and events like that.

  So, that’s what me and Little Rocket do now.

  I come up with him on Friday nights, and all day Saturday, we explore the town. We eat lunch out, and I take him on tours of the ESPN campus. And on Sunday when I’m working, he’s with his sitter, who has grown on me, and is growing on him as well. I told him that since he didn’t see his grandparents, she was going to have to be his stand-in grandmother.

  That seemed to pique his interest, because all his friends talk about their grandmas and grandpas, and he doesn’t have much of an understanding of what that is. It makes me think that now, the time might be right, to reconnect with Faith’s parents, so that they are more than a birthday present in the mail, or occasional images on FaceTime, or holiday greeting cards. They live in Florida now. And I haven’t been particularly accessible to them these last couple of years. But more and more, I’ve been thinking lately, that that needs to change.

  So, that’s how it is now. Rocket and I stay here in Bristol, sometimes for the entire week. There’s a preschool in the townhouse complex that I take him to, where he says he has “away friends” by which I guess he means, they’re different from his “home friends.” Far from being unsettled by the movement back and forth, Rocket seems to be warming up to the variety, the excitement of it, and the sense of being special and different from his friends. The fact that he has another home that he goes to sometimes, has given him some cache among the other three-year-olds, most of whom I guess come from two-parent homes.