by K. P. Haigh
So, I can't quite put my finger on why this feels like I'm stuck sitting in a box that has a thousand nails pounded into it. Every flinch, every breath feels like sharp metal piercing my skin.
I guess it doesn't matter if it's Facebook or some celebrity gossip site: no woman wants to see another woman’s arms wrapped around her boyfriend. I just got the pleasure of seeing it along with the rest of the public on the Internet.
This sucks.
I'm sitting on the couch with a half-empty pint of Ben & Jerry's when I hear the lock start to turn. I was planning on taking a shower and looking like a million bucks, but the fact is I don't actually give a shit that I have a trail of ice cream spilled down the front of my shirt.
And into my lap.
And probably on the couch too.
Nope. I could care less what I look like, because I'm pretty sure my outsides are matching my insides right now, which seems appropriate. There's no use fighting misery, even if she is an ugly bitch.
"Monty?" Baron's voice is soft and low. There's a beat of hesitation. He knows.
I take a deep breath. I'm not ready to have this conversation, but I know I'm not going to be ready even if I finish this pint as well as the bottle of wine that's sitting on the table.
This is not one of the times in life you want a football player whose main objective is to improve his speed. Nope. This is one of the times you want a lazy boyfriend who thinks getting up from the couch to get a bag of potato chips is a marathon. Baron walks over to me within seconds, and the conversation is staring me right in the face.
I'm going to continue focusing on my ice cream. I don't want to see his face. I don't want to see the guilt. I want to live in the space of self-pity and misery for a second longer before I move on to really, really pissed.
"Monty," he pleads. Points for him though—he doesn't try to sit down on the couch. "I'm so sorry. I don't know how that happened."
My head shoots up, and my eyes narrow on him. His face is long and heavy. Good. Because that's exactly how I feel right now.
I finally gave in and drudged through the Internet trenches last night. I typed in his name and went to town.
I can't decide if it was sillier of me to go this long or to break my streak.
It doesn't matter much now. I've seen the string of beautiful women Bear Richards has been attached to, and the list is long. Even if he only dated half of them, the final count would still rival the VIP list for a Taylor Swift birthday party.
And thank you, Internet. You so kindly provide me faces for all the names. We have brunettes and blondes. Cheerleaders and models. Famous actresses. Even a pop star. There are pictures of dates walking hand in hand out of clubs and restaurants. Arms linked in front of the sponsored backgrounds of red carpet events. Grainy photos of beach vacations.
This whole time I thought I didn't fit into the world of sports, but the real problem stared back at me from the endless results pages. It's not about whether I love Baron Richards or Bear Richards, or some combination of those two personalities.
No. It's about the fact that I am Montgomery Bell. I'm still the same person who showed up at a football field when someone told me the star football player had a crush on me. I'm willing to show up on the edge of the spotlight and wait for them to walk off and grab my hand.
And who wants to be the person waiting off to the side?
You want to be the person that takes a step into the light and owns it with them. If you're constantly standing off to the side, you're not living your own life.
And that's not me—not anymore.
I hit the end of the pint just as my sadness rolls over into a wave of anger.
"Are you going to say something?" I press. I finally want to hear it, whatever it is.
"They got the worst of it—the photographer. Nothing happened. That cheerleader walked over and asked me if I'd take a selfie with her to send to her little brother who loves the Hawks."
I watch his face with every single word, and my anger wants him to be lying. I want to unleash it on him because if I don't, I feel like it might consume me. But, he's not lying. The way his eyes crinkle at the edges with sadness and fear…it's not an act, and it makes me want to punch a wall.
"You should be more careful," I spit out, letting the flames of my anger lap at his ankles.
He nods his head slowly. "You're right. I give people the benefit of the doubt, but I live a public life. There are people waiting on the sidelines, ready for me to screw up."
"And you did screw up." I know I'm being hard on him, but I can't stop myself.
Baron drops to his knees and grabs my hand. My resolve weakens, and I hate myself for that. "I fucked up, and I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you, but I did, and it's not going to be the last time, but I love you. I'm yours. You have to know that."
My breath catches, and the fire that has been building inside me loses its oxygen. "You love me?"
He kisses each of the knuckles on my hand, and my breath skips with each tender touch of his lips to my skin. "Yes." His voice is low and soft, and it's like a thick blanket that stifles any of the lingering flames.
I close my eyes. I don't know how to keep myself and love him at the same time, but that doesn't stop the second part of the equation from being true. "I love you too."
He sees the white flag I just raised and pops up onto the couch. The cushion I'm sitting on dips toward me, as if physics wants to give me a little nudge. I sigh and move in toward him, and he immediately wraps his arms around me. I close my eyes and lean my head against his hard chest.
"I'm so sorry, Monty," he repeats tenderly, and then I can hear his smile almost before he continues. "Do you think six feet is enough for the restraining order?"
I lift my head up and see the laughter playing on his face. "What restraining order?"
"Against the opposite sex. I mean, I've got you. Between my family and you, I think I'm all set. So, six feet for the rest of them," he teases.
I can't help but let a smile peek through. More like six feet under for anyone who tries anything like that cheerleader did. I lean back into his chest.
He's mine. It's messy and confusing, but it's my mess, and I'll take that for now.
The next game comes way too fast—like six days later too fast.
I get a call from Georgie in the morning, and I'm only halfway into my coffee, so my resolve is only halfway up its daily rollercoaster.
"Come to the owner's box with me today? Please." Georgie adds the last word with a lingering puppy dog whine.
I press the warm ceramic mug to my lips. I smell the coffee, willing it to work its willpower magic, but it's caffeine, not pixie dust. "Fine," I mumble.
Georgie squeals, and we make plans to meet an hour before the game starts.
I still don't understand how people do this on a regular basis. Sitting at home or at a bar watching a game is a four-hour event. Going to a game? That's at least six hours of daylight. Shot. Gone. Poof.
And I'm dating a player. Attending games is practically written into the unofficial code of conduct rulebook for relationships. People who do this for fun? Color me baffled.
Hours later, I'm standing in the box. Again. Listening to the people around me talk about the game, the team, their little kids' travel teams.
Does everything involve sports? If it does, please tackle me now. I'll take the concussion.
Georgie walks back over to me after getting sidetracked by conversation when she went to grab a snack. I've been trying to pretend I'm enraptured by the game below us for the past twenty minutes, and I don't know how much longer I can keep it up.
I tucked my Kindle in my purse just in case, but something tells me whipping out a book in the middle of the owner's box is more than just abnormal behavior, it's downright offensive.
"Sorry about that. Daphne was asking about my dress from the event a few weeks ago. We got talking and…" Georgie pauses. "You know, I should just introduce you. She's super nice. Come on." Georgie
reaches out to grab my hand, but I pull back.
"Umm, that's okay." It's an awkward response, but it's the best I've got. I'm at my max, which seems to be getting lower and lower every time I show up to one of these things. I am peopled out, and we're not even halfway through the game yet. I need a bubble bath and like five hours all to myself to recover.
I'm already wedged into a corner in an effort to make myself as off to the side as possible. This isn't my cup of tea, and I would rather sit over here like an outcast than walk around pushing myself to my breaking point by trying to fit in.
Georgie nods, but her mouth is pulled tightly to the side. You could throw her into a room full of vampires, and she'd not only walk out with her porcelain skin intact, she'd have business cards and favors lining her pockets.
"We can just stay put. That's fine." The way she says it, I know she doesn't mean it, but she's not going to drag me around by my ponytail, trying to pull the extrovert out of me.
Which is good, because I don't think there's any sneaking around in there. The introvert strangled it and buried it out back years ago.
We turn back to the game in silence. It's a heavy truce, but it'll hold.
We hit the end of the third quarter, and my legs are starting to ache from standing for so long. I wiggle my knees, realizing I've kept them locked this whole time.
"I didn't know the third quarter came with a dance break."
I grimace at the voice, turning around to see Rochelle's halo of blonde curls. I swear her hair is a weapon of mass destruction. It makes you think there's an angel standing in front of you when it's the devil instead.
"Hi Rochelle." And so we begin our next round of social torture. Kill me now.
"You're still here, Monty? Hmm, I would have thought you'd have run off by now." Her voice is sweet like honey, but it's laced with poison.
"Still here."
"Well, geez, Baron better put a ring on it soon. If you want to have any chance of getting your body back after having his offensive line worth of kids, you better get moving."
The way her eyes sparkle when she speaks, I know she’s just swinging to see if she can hit a mark. Little does she know, she just threw the ultimate sucker punch.
I don't know if I want kids. I'm not the type of girl who's dreamed of being a mom since she was old enough to ask for dolls for Christmas.
I feel like an idiot. How could I have moved out here without knowing the basics? What's your mom's name? Most embarrassing story? Do you want to have kids?
The signs were there. They were staring me in the face like a stop sign outlined with Christmas lights. What kind of man wants to buy a house on a bunch of property and build furniture? The kind that wants to have a litter of children—not one or two, a whole friggin’ team of them.
He came from a big family, and everything he's ever said about his childhood has been filtered in sepia-toned nostalgia. Of course he would want to replicate that experience.
I don't know if I can sign up for having a big family, and my vagina is definitely not along for that ride.
I'm so lost in thought, I don't notice Rochelle staring at me like I'm a wounded swimmer in her shark-infested waters until I've handed over the keys to my destruction. They're written on my face.
"Oh, you didn't know Baron wants a big family?"
"Um, we haven't talked about all the details." I should walk away from this conversation, but I'm trapped in the corner—literally. Rochelle is standing directly in front of me, and Georgie's on the side with a frown taking up half her face.
"I mean, what's there to talk about? You either want kids or you don't." She stops and looks at one of her nails, and I wonder if it's to decide if it's sharp enough to spear me right now. Newsflash: I think even her collarbone is sharp enough to cut me. "You don't want kids, do you?" she asks with one eyebrow raised.
"I don't know," I answer sheepishly.
Rochelle turns to Georgie, and I take a deep breath when her gaze turns off of me. I would be scared for Georgie, but I know she can hold her own. Instead, I grasp at the momentary reprieve like it's a glass of cold water. I'll drink every last drop, and hopefully it'll help my brain figure out an exit strategy.
"What do you think, Georgie? Should someone who doesn't know if they want kids be with someone like our dear Bear?" I want to smack Rochelle. I'm not a second-class citizen because I'm on the fence about my procreation status. I am not any less of a woman because I may not want kids, not one single ounce less.
Georgie doesn't look at me, and it's my first clue that something isn't right. I start to step in. I don't know what's going on, but Rochelle doesn't need to drag Georgie into this. "Lay off it, Rochelle. This isn't your business."
Rochelle doesn't even look at me. She stares at Georgie like she's trying to snap a branch with the power of her mind.
And Georgie breaks. I hear the soft snap in her voice. "No."
I only have to turn an inch to face Georgie, but my head moves so fast, I swear I have whiplash. "Georgie?"
"I'm sorry. He wants kids, Monty, really wants them, and you can't do that to a man—not a good one like him." I see a tiredness in her eyes I've never noticed before. Where did that come from?
Rochelle turns back to me with a victor's grin. "See, Monty? Even your friend agrees."
I hear the emphasis she places in that sentence, and it's like a rusty nail hammered deep into my open flesh. I feel like that sophomore in high school; I vowed I would never feel that way again, but here I am, standing by a football field, just as tormented as the first time around.
Probably more. I don't belong here, but this time, I made the mistake of letting a crush turn into a full-blown romance. It's not just embarrassment anymore.
It's devastation.
I have enough dignity left to flee. I can't stand up for myself, and no one else is going to stand up for me. Honestly, I don't know which hurts more right now.
A cheer ripples through the box. I don't give a shit what just happened, but everyone else does, including Rochelle. She turns back toward the wall of glass to see what everyone is so excited about, and I take the opportunity to slip to her side, bumping her slightly as I exit my corner.
The Hawks may be winning, but I feel like I just lost everything.
I walk out of the stadium and head straight for my apartment, wrapping my arms around myself. I feel as if the only way I can hold myself together is if I physically brace myself with my own two arms.
I am an idiot. The phrase repeats itself in my head over and over again, like a bad soundtrack to an afterschool special.
Girl meets boy. Boy shows interest. Girl reluctantly lets him into her life even though they are polar opposites. Girl ignores warning signs and falls head over heels. Girl finally realizes they want fundamentally different things. Girl feels like someone just took a picture of her heart, ripped it into tiny confetti pieces, and blew it right out the window.
I can't believe we never talked about having kids. It's just not something I think about. I'm twenty-three, not even remotely close to the shriveling-ovaries years. I'm not trying to find someone to pull the goalie with before I run out of time.
My thoughts about procreating are limited to a daily alarm to take my birth control and the feeling of relief when Aunt Flo appears on the dot every month.
I don't look at kids and think Oh man, I can't wait to have you someday. I don't even look at them and think Oh man, I hope I don't have you someday. I generally think Oh man, cute kid, wish I could get away with wearing a fox on my ass too.
I'm twenty-fucking-three. I am way too selfish to think about having a family. I'm so wrapped up in steering my own life in the right direction, there's no time to think about being the captain of someone else's.
But, I have to admit, there's always been a tiny voice tucked away in a deserted little corner of my brain. I imagine that voice is rocking a Mohawk and a Live Free tattoo on her forearm. She's shaking her head and saying, "I don't think
you're going to have kids, ever."
And she's okay with that, but she's a loner. There's nobody else standing in her corner. No one even wants to acknowledge she exists, let alone agree with her, and that's always been okay because the spotlight's not on her anyway.
But Rochelle just brought in all the gear—the flash, the reflectors, the white background—and made this a whole production. There's no more voice chilling out in a lonely corner. All the attention has been shifted in her direction, and now she has to speak up.
I walk through the front door of our building and head toward my studio. It doesn't feel like home. How could it, when I've barely spent any time here?
Fortunately, there's beer in the fridge, and that's all I care about right now. I grab a can and sit down on my couch, pulling my legs into my chest. I don't know how to move forward, but I have a feeling life's going to come to me right now, whether I want it to or not.
Two hours later, it does.
There's a heavy knock on my door, and I don't have to pull it open to know who it is. The deadbolt is set, an automatic reflex after living around drunk college kids for several years. They may not want to steal your stuff, but that doesn't stop them from stumbling into your apartment because they forgot where they/their boyfriend/their hook-up buddy lives. Lesson learned.
I shift the bolt to the left and turn the knob, pulling it back slowly. Baron has one hand up on the frame of the door. I'm struck by how much I want to kiss him right now. I never understood what people were talking about when they said someone knocked their socks off, and then I met Baron. His broad chest fills the space like he's a full-size picture standing in a frame. He looks almost like James Dean in his white t-shirt and jeans, but there's something so Midwestern about him, you know he's more kind soul than bad boy.
And that breaks me. I want to kiss this man, and I don't deserve to. He needs someone who's going to be there for him for all the parts of his life, not just the convenient ones.
"You haven't answered any of my texts or calls. What's going on?" Baron's eyes are full of concern.
