by Holly Kerr
“She moved out, Mrs. Gretchen.”
“But you just moved in!”
“Evelyn moved out. I’ll be staying. For now.”
Mrs. Gretchen stops her relentless roll down the driveway. “Well, that’s a good thing. I don’t want to get used to any more new neighbours. The last ones were too loud.”
“I’m sure I’ll be quiet enough for you.”
She continues to roll and I walk alongside her.
“So what happened?” she presses. “I thought you were getting married.”
“Turns out she didn’t want to get married.”
“Well, a woman has a right to change her mind. I don’t know why she would—that girl’s getting long in the tooth and needs to get married.”
“I think she changed her mind about marrying me.”
Mrs. Gretchen looks me up and down and shakes her bluish-grey head. “Silly girl. I’ll bake you some cookies.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Of course I do. Come see me tomorrow.” Her bossiness makes me smile, as does the thought of cookies. “You know, I always thought the girl was a bit picklish,” Mrs. Gretchen adds as she bumps her walker up the front step
“Picklish?”
“You know, with a pickle up her bum.”
I’m still laughing as I let myself into the house, but any humour dies away as the stillness of the place greets me.
Living alone needs some getting used to. Before Evelyn, I lived in Buffalo and Portland and there had always been two or three roommates. And before that, I had three sisters to fight for the bathroom with, so I’m not used to being home alone.
Now alone is all there is.
I’ve agreed to take on more shifts at the training facility and talked to the convenor of the local baseball league to see if they need any coaches. When I first moved to Toronto as an out-of-work ex-baseball player finishing rehab, I didn’t have many career options. Evelyn had done everything she could to sway me into a non-active, office-type career, but I couldn’t handle sitting behind a desk all day. Clay had introduced me to the owner of The Baseball Zone and I’ve worked there for the last year. It’s fun as well as rewarding helping younger players realize their potential.
Evelyn hated me working there. Now it makes no difference what she thinks.
I do my best to push her from my mind, which only means the thoughts of her creep in at the worst times. Like during the game tonight, when I caught sight of the girl in the stands with the same jacket. Or when I’m in the shower and run out of shampoo and reach for Evelyn’s expensive bottle of Aveda that makes my hair smell like mint.
The first time I went grocery shopping without a carefully printed out list was a heady rush of freedom. Buying chips and pizza, chicken wings and loaves of thick white bread, with packages of processed meat made me smile for the entire trip around the store.
I’m getting over her but it’s a slow process, lengthened by the lack of closure.
That’s what my sister tells me. I talk to Polly almost every day, either by text or Facebook messenger. I know she’s worried about me, and parts of me chafes at the realization, but another part of me welcomes talking to her. The only other conversation I have is with Clay, and after tonight, the rest of the guys on the team. Good guys, but after living with Evelyn for two years, I miss talking to women.
I miss other things about them.
Whenever my thoughts drift to sex, I think about Flora.
She never got hold of me. I can’t be surprised since it had been a bad night for the both of us, but I can’t deny my disappointment. It was a one-night stand, which Clay tells me is essential to getting over Evelyn. Maybe that’s true, but I wish I was more in the mood. I might miss sex, but I can’t be bothered meeting anyone. Being the master of my own domain is enough for me right now.
Still, I take perverse pleasure leaving my dirty dishes in the sink and crumbs on the counter. I put my iPod into the docking station and turn up my music as loud as I want to.
Maybe not that loud. I don’t want Mrs. Gretchen to complain.
Taking a beer, I settle onto the couch with the new Battlefront on the PS4. I’d had it for months but never found time to play with Evelyn around.
Maybe being alone isn’t so bad.
Chapter Ten
Flora
“I’m getting my haircut,” I tell M.K. after we settle in our regular booth, and Kelsey, our usual waitress, brings us margaritas.
I lean back against the fake leather seat, breathing in the smell of onions and cheese. It’s Monday, just over a week since the debacle of Las Vegas, and I’m finally feeling like things are getting back to normal.
I haven’t heard a word from Thomas, even though he’s been by the house to pick up a few of his things. He didn’t leave a key, so I expect a second visit and it varies from day to day whether I want to be there when he comes back.
I haven’t heard a word from Dean, not that I expected to. He has no idea where I live or even my last name. It was a definite one-night stand; not only do I not expect to ever see Dean again, I have no way of doing so.
I keep flipping from Thomas and Dean like watching picture-in-picture on the TV. When I’m tired of dissecting the behaviour of one, I turn to the other. By the end of the week, they’ve kind of blended in together.
“Are you planning on getting it cut right this minute?” M.K. asks. “Because it’d be nice for us to have a few nights without excuses.”
“Ouch.” I wince. “But well deserved.”
M.K. and I try to go out once a week, but excuses and postponements had been an unfortunate occurrence, especially in the last few weeks since Thomas had moved in.
M.K. inclines her head. “That’s my last bitchy comment.”
“I’m sure you’re due a few more. I’ve been a very bad friend but that stops now. Drinks on me!” I raise my margarita. Fajitas and margaritas have been our thing for the past few years. “I’m lucky you’re so patient,” I add seriously.
“Yes, you are. So haircut. Is this because you think a physical change is what you’re supposed to do after a breakup?” M.K. takes a sip of drink, grimacing at the salty rim but going back for another one.
“That’s what you did.”
“That was four years ago.” She fingers the ends of her dark bob.
“I like you with short hair.”
“Are you going to dye it as well?”
“Not sure yet. I’m not sure what colour. I bought a new bed, too. It’s pillow top and memory foam and all but rocks me to sleep at night. The only thing it doesn’t do is promise mind-blowing sex, but I think I might have to pay extra for that. Not that I’m looking for mind-blowing sex.” I hold my margarita glass with both hands, licking the salt from the rim of the glass before taking a sip. “Who am I kidding? Everyone’s looking for mind-blowing sex.”
After sleeping in the guest room for the last few nights, I broke down on Thursday and bought a new bed during my lunch break. It was delivered Saturday and after a few nights of better sleep, I feel more like myself.
M.K. scoops up a small mountain of guacamole with a chip. “Speaking of which, have you heard from that guy from Vegas?”
I raise my eyebrows. “That’s an interesting transition. Why do you expect me to hear from him?”
I still haven’t told M.K. or Ruthie about how I had thrown myself on Dean’s maple-syrup-smelling-mouth like an idiot. It’s not like me to keep secrets. M.K. was the first call I made only minutes after meeting Thomas for the first time, and we had a marathon text session after he kissed me. She knows my list of partners better than I do.
I’m not sure why I didn’t tell her I had sex with him. Maybe because I felt guilty that it was me and not her and Clay.
“I Googled him,” M.K. admits without meeting my eyes.
My hand stops midway to my mouth and a glob of guacamole falls off my chip with a plop. “You what?”
“Not Clay–Dean Coulson, because I
know his last name. I found all sorts of baseball stats, but nothing personal. I couldn’t find him on Facebook or Twitter.”
I shut my mouth with difficulty. “You’re stalking him on Facebook?”
“I couldn’t find him on Facebook,” she corrects, waving a chip, causing her own clump of guacamole to fall onto the table.
“I really wish you hadn’t done that.”
“Why? You were getting along with him. I thought he was nice.” Her face falls, and when she pushes her hair behind her ears, I see her scar, faint pink and running down the side of her face. “I liked Clay. He seemed nice too. I thought if you got in touch with Dean, then me and Clay… Anyway, it’s been a while since I’ve met a guy, nice or not.”
“Well, I can fix that,” I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. “Starting next week, we’ll find you a nice guy. We’ll go out and do things nice guys like, such as going to the library and biking and maybe we’ll try rock climbing or a salsa class.” I’m rewarded when M.K. laughs, chasing the forlorn expression off her face. “Or we can find you a not-nice guy, like the sort of guy who frequents bars and pubs and clubs.”
M.K. groans. “No, then Ruthie would come with us and I can’t handle getting arrested again.”
“Can you believe that?” I bend over my drink to hide any expression of relief. “What a bizarre night.”
“It was. It would have been better if we’d hooked up with them.” My head whips up. “It has been a while. That’s another thing you’re supposed to do after you break-up. Have mind-blowing sex with a hot guy.”
I put my head on the table with a groan. “You’re killing me.”
“Talking about sex? We always talk about sex.”
I scoop up a mouthful of guacamole on a chip and cram it in my mouth to stop the explosion of words that’s bursting to come out. I did not want tonight to be true confessions, I wanted a nice, relaxing evening with my bestie without a word about men.
I should have known it was too good to be true.
“I hooked up with Dean,” I say through a mouthful of chips and guac.
“Pardon?”
I chew slowly, avoiding M.K.’s gaze at all cost. “When we were in Las Vegas, after we got back from jail and Ruthie was there and you stopped yelling at her so we could go to bed, I couldn’t sleep so I left. I bumped into Dean on the street so we went to get pancakes and he kissed me, or maybe I kissed him and it was bad, really bad, even though he tasted like syrup and I really have a thing for his beard, but I left because I was crying but then he found me in the hotel and he came in and we had sex but then he was gone when I woke up.”
“Say that again,” M.K. demands.
I tell her twice more before she fully understands. “You went out in Las Vegas in the middle of the night, alone?” she says, her voice rising with every word. “Without telling me?”
“That’s your takeaway from all of this?”
“Anything could have happened to you,” M.K. insists. “What kind of friend am I to have let you go and wander around willy-nilly when I’m sleeping?”
“You’re the best kind of friend,” I assure her. “But can we move on from the wandering the streets part of it. That’s the boring part.”
“I’m processing one thing at a time.”
“You have to process faster.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” M.K. says in a firm voice. “About all of it.”
“I’m telling you now?” I give her a hopeful smile, but relent at the no-nonsense light in her eyes. “I know I should have told you as soon as it happened. That’s what we do. But this one—I was embarrassed. I spent what would have been my wedding night with another man. A strange man. C’mon. It’s not my best moment.”
“Maybe not, but still.” She touches her chest. “M.K. BFF.”
“M.K. BFF,” I repeat.
“There’s no sense being embarrassed—I’ve seen you do worse.” From her tone, I know M.K. has already processed and moved on. It’s a handy part of her personality; she never wastes time on dwelling or wondering or trying to adjust. If something bothers her, she fixes it. If she wants to know something, she asks. And in our twenty-five year friendship, I’ve never known her to think a man would change for her. Or watch her change for a man.
“I don’t know about that. It felt wrong.” I stare fixedly at a nearby table until I realize the customers sitting there are gazing back at me with annoyance. “Actually, it felt really right with Dean, but who does that?”
“He really left without waking you up? No note or anything?”
“He bought me a rose in IHOP and he left that on the pillow. But no note.”
“Are you sure? Maybe it was in the bed?”
“I looked all over the bed.” I don’t mention that it had been a search to find my underwear, which I had finally located shoved in the pillowcase. “I would have seen a note.”
“Maybe it fell on the floor?”
I shake my head, even though my heart stutters at the thought of maybe there had been a note and I just didn’t see it.
“I mean, the rose was a sweet gesture and he really didn’t seem the type to dine and dash?”
“Dine and dash?”
“What do you call a guy who runs out after sex?”
I take a mouthful of guac. “How am I supposed to know? It’s not like it’s a frequent occurrence for me. I’ve had exactly,” I hold up a finger. “One-night stand.”
“I’ll ask Ruthie,” M.K. decides.
“I’m sure she’s made up a name for it.” I glance around, wishing our fajitas would show up. “So what did you find out about him?” I scoop another mound of guacamole on a chip while there’s still some left, trying to sound casual even though I’m all ears. I know I won’t see Dean again but it doesn’t mean I don’t want to.
“Stuff about his career, how he got injured. He was diagnosed with medial epicondylitis, otherwise known as thrower’s arm two years ago. I looked it up.”
“Of course you did,” I murmur, my voice tinged with affection.
“And with surgery and rehab he should have been fine. I went into some of the fan forums from back then—”
“Are you serious? They have fan forums on injured players?”
“There is a forum for anything you can think of on-line,” M.K. says seriously. “Some are really interesting. This one wasn’t—they said some mean things about him.”
“Mean things about Dean?”
“It sounds like after he was injured, he started having a bad attitude about things. Demanding.”
“That doesn’t sound like him. Not that I know him.”
My heart goes out to Dean. He probably worked his whole life to make it into the major leagues, only to get there and get injured. I understand all too well what it’s like to have your dream ripped away from you.
M.K. lists the various teams Dean had played for. According to her, he spent most of his time within the Blue Jays organization, playing on their farm teams before making it to the big leagues. “I always like hearing about Canadian boys playing for the Jays,” M.K. finishes. “He’s from Edmonton.” M.K. takes another chip. “Maybe that’s where they live now. Him and Clay. Because they were friends, good friends. I wonder if Clay played ball too? It wouldn’t be bad if they lived in Edmonton. That would be doable. It’s not that far.” I wait a beat before replying, and M.K. laughs self-consciously. “Okay, maybe it’s a little far.”
“I really don’t think you should start obsessing over a guy who lives halfway across the country.”
“Edmonton isn’t half,” M.K. corrects. “Halfway across Canada is…” She pulls out her phone to Google it while the waitress brings over the sizzling pans of fajitas.
I happily dig in. I’d been living on Kraft Dinner and cereal since we got back, which, according to Thomas, are not the type of meals suitable for an almost thirty-year-old. But I like both and vow to eat more of the orange pasta after I get some healthier food in my system.
“Apparently the centre of Canada is Yathkyed Lake in Nunavut,” M.K. informs me. “But no one knows where that is so they say it’s Baker Lake. But the east-west point is this spot about thirty kilometers from Winnipeg. Edmonton is thirty-five hundred kilometers from Toronto, so it’s a bit more than half.” She puts down her phone triumphantly and reaches for a tortilla shell.
“Thank you for clearing that up,” I say patiently. “Edmonton is too far to like a guy.”
“Did Ruthie go back to Niagara?” M.K. heaps spicy chicken, onions and peppers in the middle of her tortilla, adding salsa and cheese before expertly wrapping it up. For someone so small and delicate, M.K. can really pack away a meal. I’ve been forever jealous of her metabolism that lets her eat all the burgers and chicken wings and fries she wants and still stay so slim.
Not that I really watch my weight, because Thomas had done it for me.
I add more sour cream to my fajita.
“Ruthie said she’d come in next weekend. Maybe. I think she’s planning on taking us out.”
M.K. winces. “Should we put a lawyer on retainer?”
I laugh, realizing it was a first since I’d come home that I’d found anything funny. “I think I’m too old for that.”
“You’re twenty-nine. Ruthie would tell you to stop behaving like an old woman,” M.K. chides.
“I’m older than you!”
“By six weeks. And if you really want to hit the thirty mark before I do, I’m okay with that,” she says primly before finishing her fajita.
I smile at my best friend. M.K. has been with me through everything. “Thank you for sticking with me through the Thomas years,” I say.
M.K. frowns. “Like there was a choice. You loved him. What was I supposed to do, give up on twenty-five years of friendship because I didn’t like your boyfriend? Not that I knew him enough to like or dislike. I only met him a handful of times. He really liked to keep you to himself.”
“I’m sorry about that. But aren’t you glad that you didn’t get to know him?” I force a smile, hating to hear how much of an idiot I’ve been. Why hadn’t I insisted Thomas get to know M.K.? “Now you don’t have to go through best friend boyfriend withdrawal.”
