Well Played

by Jen DeLuca

  “Hey.” Emily bumped me with her shoulder as we caught the end of the mud show. “Are you all right? You seem . . . distracted.”

  I wasn’t all right. Not in the least. But Emily was about twenty-four hours out from her honeymoon. She didn’t need to be worrying about me and my drama. What kind of friend would I be if I burdened her with my troubles right now? A pretty lousy one. So instead I pasted my smile back on my face and kept my voice light, my accent perfect. “Of course, Emma! Everything is fine.”

  “Hmm.” She looked over her shoulder behind us, then turned back to me. “I haven’t seen Daniel today. Is he around?”

  “I don’t think so.” My smile was starting to hurt, but dammit, I was going to wear it anyway. “I think he had to leave early.”

  “Hmm,” she said again, a noncommittal sound. “And you’re sure you’re all right? Because the hot mud guy almost lost his pants just now, and you didn’t say a word.”

  My laugh was a little too loud, but it could be blamed on me staying in character. “Perhaps I am trying to be a little more high-class these days, Emma, dear.” I nudged her with my elbow and flashed her a grin. Mollified, she smiled back, a genuine smile that said I had fooled her. As far as she knew, my heart wasn’t breaking.

  It was exhausting, keeping up that carefree persona for the entire day, but after what seemed like a hundred years we were at the front stage again, clapping along to the final act at pub sing, and then Simon, in his pirate character, was thanking the remaining patrons for coming and the day was finally, finally over. My new bodice was front-lacing, so I tugged the laces loose on the walk to my car in the volunteer parking lot. Once I was home and my breathing was unimpeded, I dug my phone out of my blue leather backpack. If I ordered a pizza now, it would be here by the time I was showered and in comfy clothes. Sure enough, I’d just finished putting on my most comfortable sweats and combing out my wet hair when the pepperoni and mushroom with a side of garlic knots arrived. The knock on the door coincided with a chime on my phone, and for a split second I froze, unsure which to answer first. But food won out, and once I’d gotten a soda out of the fridge to go with my pizza, I picked up my phone. It was an email notification, and the preview was enough to make me almost drop my drink.

  Daniel MacLean: I’m sure an email from me is the last thing you . . .

  I very carefully set down my drink, then my phone, since seeing his name made my hands shake. I didn’t like the way tears sprang to my eyes at the sight of his name, so I made myself take a couple of good, deep breaths before I went and got my laptop. I needed a bigger screen for this.

  There was no subject line.

  I’m sure an email from me is the last thing you want right now. Who knows, maybe you’ve already blocked my email address, not to mention my phone number. I wouldn’t blame you a bit if you did. But here goes nothing.

  I had no intention of misleading you. That may sound ridiculous now, but it’s true. You have to know that I don’t hang around at all the faires we work. Usually I show up beforehand, make sure all the arrangements are made, and help the guys set up. Then after the first weekend, if everything’s in good shape, I don’t usually stick around, and I certainly don’t hang out at the faire all day. The only time I do that is when we come to Willow Creek. It’s almost comical, the things I do to look busy while I’m there—running the merch, lurking at the back of the show to make sure the guys know what they’re doing. But I do it, because the longer I stay in Willow Creek, the more I get to see you.

  I’m not Dex. Believe me, that’s been drilled into my head my whole life. First by our family, who talked me into managing my cousins once they’d formed a band since I had no real talent of my own. Then by girls who pretend that they’re into me so they can get closer to him. No one notices me when he’s there, including you. You and I have always been friendly, but he was the one you had your eye on. So I never tried to make our friendship anything more. I’ve told myself every summer that being friends with you was good enough.

  When that first message came through from you on the band’s page, I thought you’d noticed me. At last. So I answered you, as myself. Truthfully and completely. Then when you wrote back, you called me Dex, and I realized that I hadn’t been on your mind at all. I won’t tell you what that felt like. But that’s when I passed your original message to my cousin, which was the right thing to do, even though it hurt like hell. And Dex . . . well, he already told you his reaction. He wanted me to “handle it.” Dump you, basically, on his behalf.

  And I just couldn’t hurt you like that. Then it occurred to me that, between Dex’s looks and my words, together we made the kind of man you deserve.

  I sighed at that point and picked up my glass, wishing my soda was wine instead. “Dammit,” I muttered. Simon was right. This really was some Cyrano de Bergerac bullshit.

  But I kept reading.

  I knew there’d be a reckoning at some point. Each time I emailed, or later texted, I told myself that I’d come clean the next time. That it was the right thing to do. But I never did. Because I knew coming clean would mean losing what we had, and I wasn’t ready for that.

  You asked me to give you a reason to stay. I wish I had one. I’ve been living on the road, managing this band, since I was nineteen. That’s who I am. It’s all I have. I don’t have anything to offer you but a life on the road. And you made it clear that you don’t want that. Of course you don’t, and I was wrong to even ask. You deserve so much more than a life like this.

  You gave me a second chance, that first day at Faire, and I blew that chance. It would be foolish to ask for a third. I’ll see that hurt in your eyes for the rest of my life and hate myself for putting it there.

  Of all the things I’ve said and didn’t say all these months, as myself or as my cousin, the most important words I should have said are “I love you.” I lied to you about who I was. I even lied to you about why I lied to you. But I never lied about how I feel about you.

  I’m not my cousin. I’m not Cyrano. I’m just me. I may not be The One as far as you’re concerned. But Anastasia, you were The One for me. You still are. You always will be.

  I don’t expect you to answer this. I’m not even sure if you’ll read it. But I hope that you have the life that you deserve, full of love from someone you can trust. I’m sorrier than you’ll ever know that it couldn’t be me.

  Yours. Always.

  Daniel MacLean

  It was the first time he’d ever signed an email to me, and his full name at that. I felt the significance immediately. He was saying goodbye.

  I swiped at the tears on my cheeks and tore into a semi-cold garlic knot. He’d said his piece, and I could respect that. Most of my anger had dissolved in this latest wash of tears, leaving sadness behind. I could email him back right now, but what would it change? He was off to the next gig. Gone, just like my best friend from high school, just like my job in New York. And I was still here in Willow Creek. Life moved on, and I stayed right here.

  I’d never felt so alone in my life. I reached for my phone, wanting to text Emily more than anything. I needed my best friend. But my best friend needed to be happy. She didn’t need to be worrying about me while she was on her honeymoon. I couldn’t come crying to her with this.

  I scrolled through my contacts and stopped, staring hard at April’s name. We were friends, sure. Book-club friends. Do-shots-together-on-New-Year’s-Eve friends. Laugh-together-as-bridesmaids friends. But I wasn’t sure if we were at the “cry on her shoulder because I lost the love of my life” level of friendship. Not yet. Besides, April was the definition of a strong, independent woman, to the point that she was almost intimidating. Knowing her, she’d roll her eyes at my distress.

  Social media wasn’t the right kind of venue for this black mood either. No, that was only for the happy times: the good things you wanted to share with friends and, let’s face it, ma
ybe make them a little jealous of your good fortune. You never wanted to tag your bad memories. I couldn’t post anything tonight. Not when my heart was breaking.

  No. I was alone in this, and all I could do was sit there with my cat and be alone.

  Just like always.

  Twenty-One

  The last day of Faire passed in a blur of hot sunshine, music, other people’s laughter, and the pounding of hoofbeats. Emily dragged me to the joust early that day, and I found myself circling back to the jousting field for the rest of their performances. Something about the power in the horses, and the way the costumed knights charged at each other, echoed the hard pounding of my heart and an intense emotion I barely knew how to name, much less express.

  I was so caught up in that blur that when I passed the Marlowe Stage, Dex had to call my name three times before I heard him. And when I did, I thought about ignoring him and just walking on by, but I simply wasn’t built like that. Instead I plastered on what was left of my smile and turned to him.

  “Hey.” He paused and looked around, as though that single word was all he had planned to say.

  “Hey,” I said back tentatively. I wasn’t in the mood for MacLeans right now, and I had no desire to make this conversation any easier for him. After an awkward few seconds he cleared his throat.

  “Listen, I just wanted to make sure that you’re cool.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “That I’m what?”

  “You know, that you’re okay. You seemed really upset the other night. At the hotel?”

  My lips twitched at the question. As if I’d forgotten Thursday night. “That’s because I was.” That was a hell of an understatement. What on earth was he going to do about it?

  “Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck. Dex clearly wasn’t an apology kind of guy, and he was totally at sea here.

  But it wasn’t my job to help him. “Did you need anything else?” I gestured back to the lane; I really wanted to be on my way.

  “Yeah. No. I . . .” He gave an exasperated sigh. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

  “That I’m okay,” I echoed, my voice flat. I was the exact opposite of okay. Would I ever be okay again?

  “That you’re okay,” he repeated. “Like I said the other night, I think you’re great, I really do. And if I said anything, or did anything, to upset you . . .” He shrugged. “Well, that wasn’t what I was trying to do.” His eyes met mine squarely, and I felt a jolt. His eyes were brown, like mine, not the startling green of Daniel’s. But there was something in the shape of them, and in his expression, that reminded me: oh, yeah. They were related.

  And he really was trying. To be honest, this was probably the longest conversation Dex and I had ever had, even during those summers when we were . . . well, I don’t think I could use the word together to describe what we’d been doing. Not anymore. Not when I’d been with Daniel, and truly knew what together meant.

  So instead of telling him where he could shove his inadequate almost-apology, I decided to take it at face value. “Thanks,” I said. “I’m not doing great right now, but I think I’ll be okay.” Sure, that last bit was a lie—but he didn’t need to know that.

  Dex’s expression cleared, like a puppy with a short attention span. “Good.” He gave me a gentle punch on the shoulder, which was probably meant in the spirit of camaraderie, but really just showed me that he had no idea how to relate to a woman he wasn’t actively trying to bed. “I gotta get back.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Show in a few minutes. But good talk, yeah?”

  I blinked a few times as he all but bounded away. “Yeah,” I said after him. “Good talk.” I strode down the lane, away from the Marlowe Stage as fast as my feet could carry me. I needed to get the last day of this topsy-turvy Faire season out of my system; I could start fresh next year. I twirled the dragonfly pendant between my fingers as I walked. Dragonflies meant change, Daniel had said to me last summer. I’d had a little too much change.

  At the same time, I’d had no change at all. Back to work on Tuesday. Book club later that week. I’d stayed up late a couple nights finishing the book since I was supposed to lead the discussion, which left me overtired and irritated. The little sleep I’d managed was fragmented and interspersed with dreams that hinged on the plot of the book I’d just read—a woman finding herself and moving on after a breakup. Or were the dreams about me? I was too tired to try and figure it out.

  By the time I got to book club that night I’d had three cups of coffee too many and a bad day at work. The last thing I wanted to do was talk about some fictional woman’s problems. But I forged ahead anyway, helping Chris’s daughter Nicole arrange the chairs in a circle, setting out the wine and snacks as Emily and I always did.

  “So, what do we think?” The bright smile on my face belied my churning insides as I consulted the book club questions provided by the publisher. “When Molly chooses to leave her old life behind to renovate the farmhouse in the Midwest, what does that symbolize? Does anyone have any thoughts on that?”

  On my right, April shrugged. “I’m not a symbolism kind of person. Can’t a farmhouse just be a farmhouse?”

  Chris snorted and popped another cube of cheese in her mouth. “I don’t know, I could go either way with that. I think I can see where the author was going with the symbolism. Scraping off the old paint as a way of showing how Molly sheds the skin of her old life.”

  “Right.” My mom leaned forward, clearly interested in this line of discussion. “She talks about the house being vulnerable before the new coat of paint goes up. Maybe that’s how Molly feels herself, being between relationships? Raw, like a layer of herself has been scraped away? And once she gets into that new relationship, with the guy who helps her put the new coat of paint on the house, she feels strong again.”

  “But why?” April made a tsk sound. “Why does it have to be a guy, or a relationship, that makes you feel strong? I don’t like that message: that a woman can only be strong if she’s with someone. Why can’t Molly have painted the house on her own?”

  “I agree,” I said. “What kind of message is that, that you’re nothing without a guy? That’s crap. There’s nothing wrong with being single. In fact, it can be liberating. You’re not dependent on anyone else to make you happy, you can just . . . live your life. Right?” I turned to April, who looked a little amused by my vehemence but was also nodding in agreement.

  “Well said.” She held up her hand and I high-fived her.

  “There’s also that theme of starting over,” Nicole said. “Speaking of liberating. Molly goes to this whole new part of the country where nobody knows her, and she’s able to start over, reinvent herself just like she’s reinventing that farmhouse. I mean, when I started college, that’s one reason I went out of state, you know? I wanted to go to a school where I wasn’t going to classes with the same people I knew in high school. I wanted to see if I was the same person when I wasn’t around the same people.”

  That was a really astute thought, and any other time I would have actively engaged her on it, delved deeper into that idea, which was the kind of thing you were supposed to do at a book club. But I was high on exhaustion and caffeine and sadness. So I latched on to the exact wrong thought. “Must be nice.” Oh, no. My voice was bitter and there was nothing I could do about it. “Must be nice to just . . . leave town. Start over. Be able to pursue your dreams and chase the life you want, instead of getting stuck, while everyone else goes on and lives out their dreams. . . .” I stopped talking because I realized, to my mortification, that I was crying. Everyone in the circle looked at me with varying degrees of confusion, pity, and what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-her.

  “Okay.” April plucked the paper with the discussion questions out of my hand. “On to the next question. Weather. What did the freak snowstorm in September represent?” She looked around the circle as I fled to the back room to get
myself together. “Other than climate change and we’re all doomed, right?”

  * * *

  • • •

  Mom was silent during the drive home from book club. It wasn’t until I turned into the driveway that she spoke up. “Do you want to talk about it, honey?”

  “Talk about what?” By then I had my regular smile back on my face, but for once my false cheer wasn’t fooling her. I probably wasn’t fooling anyone anymore.

  “Is it that boy?” She unclipped her seatbelt, and I had to smile at the thought of Daniel as “that boy.” Did Mom not realize I was pushing thirty, and he was past it? Maybe in her eyes I would always be seventeen. “Is he . . . Was he . . .” Her voice trailed off. Mom didn’t have the language to ask if he’d been nothing more than a summer fling.

  “He was just here for Faire, Mom.” My car chirped as I engaged the lock, and I followed her into the house. I was too tired to deal with the steps leading up to my apartment.

  “Hmm.” Her voice was noncommittal as she filled up the electric kettle. “He was over here an awful lot the past couple weeks for someone who was just here for Faire. Not that I’m judging,” she hastened to add. “Quite the opposite. It’s about time you had someone over. I was about to give you a vibrator for your birthday.”