Not My Match

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  With trepidation creeping in, I bend over and gasp in air, then touch the laptop again. Just to make sure, because it can’t be true; it can’t. Dread piles up brick by brick, building a goddamn skyscraper in my head, as I scroll down, find a message from Dr. Benson, and read the first few lines—

  “What are you doing?” Giselle asks, walking in from the foyer. Her face is flushed from exertion, hair up in a ponytail. She’s in running leggings and a blue sports halter top, her hand clutching envelopes. “I went for a quick run and grabbed the mail downstairs.” Her breathing is erratic, her gaze wary as she watches me snap her computer closed.

  “Did it come in?”

  She shakes her head. “What?”

  “Your passport,” I grind out, nudging my head at the mail. “Saw the message on your laptop.”

  “No.” She swallows hard, her lashes fluttering. “It hasn’t arrived yet. Devon—”

  “Stop.” A harsh laugh comes from my chest as I put my hands up to ward her off when she takes steps and reaches for me. “Don’t touch me. You applied for a passport on Monday. For days you’ve been acting weird. You’re going to CERN. Yeah, I saw the email. When were you going to tell me?” My voice rises and reverberates around the place as she wraps her arms around herself.

  “Goddamn!” I stalk out of the kitchen to get away from her. I end up in the den, pacing in circles, my hands tugging on my hair, spiking it up. I stop and look at her. “When do you go? For how long?”

  “Sixteen days.” She gulps in air, her words rushing out. “I’ll be gone for a year—or longer.” Her blue eyes water.

  “So years?” I pinch the bridge of my nose.

  Her chest rises, a slow nod coming from her, dread etching her face. “Possibly. I . . . I didn’t know how to tell you.” She places her hands to her eyes, then drops them. “I wanted to tell you a hundred times, but I just couldn’t.”

  She just couldn’t . . .

  An important life decision that affects both of us?

  A turning point in our relationship?

  Days, weeks, months, years without her in my arms.

  Our eyes lock, the windows to our souls clinging.

  “I love you, Giselle. I fucking love you. And you . . .” My hands clench as I shake my head. Her eyes glisten, a tear slipping down her cheek.

  “I love you too,” she whispers.

  She doesn’t. She doesn’t.

  I’m nothing to her, a blip on her way to Switzerland, useless and unwanted.

  Haven’t I seen it enough now to know?

  They come. They leave.

  Same fucking shit.

  “I’ll be home for a few days at Christmas and two weeks in the summer,” she says in a small voice.

  I bark out a laugh. “I’ll be in LA for a game. Merry Christmas.”

  She flinches. “We can make it work long distance, Dev. We can chat online and fly back and forth, and when I get back, it will be as if I never left . . .” Her breath hitches as her face scrunches, fear shining in her eyes. Even she knows those words are a lie.

  Years. Years.

  She’s killing me slowly, piece by piece.

  “Don’t,” I say, my voice low and tight. “You can’t stop the clock on us and expect things to still be the same when you decide to come back.” Still not able to believe it, I fall back on the couch, shoulders bent as I try to tackle my emotions and get them under control. Every time we kissed, every time I made love to her for the past five days, she lied to me. She knew we were going to end. I clench my teeth. I was worried about what was wrong with her and if her strange behavior was my fault?

  What a joke.

  What a fucking joke.

  Would I have tried to change her mind if she’d told me? Grimly, I realize I would have. I would have cajoled and begged—hell yeah, because I’m greedy and hungry for her, my need fucking embarrassing. But . . .

  CERN is her dream, a nagging voice tells me. You knew it.

  She wants to go, and I can’t . . . do this.

  I stalk into the kitchen. “What do you want most in the world, Giselle?” I just need to hear her say it’s CERN, and then, maybe then, I can handle the aftermath.

  The air thickens, damn near suffocating. “I’ve messed up before, with decisions, and I want to make the right one . . .” Her voice trails off.

  “What do you want?”

  Her lashes flutter. “I don’t know.”

  She does know. It’s not me; she just can’t say it.

  She rubs her eyes. “You mean everything to me. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. Since the moment I saw you on TV, I wanted to know you, to discover who you are. You’re part of me, and somehow in this crazy world, fate brought us together. We’re connected, and it’s . . . killing . . . me . . .” I hear the desperation in her voice, the brokenness, the deep sadness.

  My eyes shut, and I let out a long exhale, wrestling for control. My shoulders dip, and I sit down on a stool, just breathing, breathing, in and out, low and slow. I will my heart to slow its fast pace. Steadily, a desolate calm sinks into my bones, sticking and adhering to my body, giving me strength as I methodically take my raging emotions and pack them away. I need to say the right things. Treat her the way a good guy would. I’ll take care of my bumps and bruises later. “Giselle,” I say and wince at the wreck my voice is, need for her scratching to escape from my raw throat. “What we have is incredible. We had a . . .” Baby, you’re the best fucking thing in my life . . . “Good time.”

  She whimpers, and I steel myself, hands tight on the edge of the counter, anchoring myself.

  “And now you have an opportunity to go to CERN.” My chest aches to crack again. Not yet. Wait until she’s gone. “I wish you’d talked to me. I wish you’d trusted me. I wish you’d let me in.” I suck in a shuddering breath. “I would have freaked out, yes, but it’s your dream . . .” I can’t finish.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’ll . . .” Be devastated, ruined, inconsolable. “Be okay. Don’t worry about me. I want you to be happy.”

  She cries silent tears, her shoulders hunched over. “Devon. No. You’re breaking up with me.”

  Agony spears me, and I gasp. “Yes. You should absolutely go to CERN without entanglements. I’ll be honest; I can’t take knowing if I might not see you for a week or a month, much less years. I didn’t even want to spend one night without you on the road, Giselle. It’s not fair to either one of us, and just dragging it out would kill me.” I exhale. “This is why we never should have been together. I saw it coming, shit, from a mile away and still went right over the cliff.”

  “Devon . . .”

  “Go and be well, and get the fresh start you’ve talked about. Go and be the awesome, smart, beautiful girl I love.” The words are torn from me, and I rack my head for more, to be the positive she needs before leaving me for a whole new life, but I can’t think of another goddamn thing to say without breaking down. There’s nothing left anyway. I want to run. I want to go and hit something. I want to—shit, I don’t know. Crawl away and hope I feel like getting up tomorrow.

  She stands too far from me, her tears silent, but I feel each one like a nail in my heart.

  She’s really leaving me.

  “I love you, Devon. I have for a long time. I knew for certain that night in the garage with Cindy. The words just slipped out, but they were true.”

  Yeah? Maybe love isn’t enough.

  The enormity of how far she’ll be away from me claws at my chest.

  No more her. No more kisses. No more laughter.

  Her weeping destroys me, and I shove away my anger, leaving only gnawing grief. Groaning, I scrub my face and look at her. “Baby, come here.”

  She eases in closer, and I stand and pull her against me, slow and easy, as I wrap my arms around her. I kiss the top of her head and inhale her vanilla scent, rubbing my cheek against the strands. I should have told her how I felt days ago, not that it would have mattered. This is w
hat she wants regardless.

  Shoving back my own pain and the primitive instinct that battles to try to change her mind—it wouldn’t be fair—I say the things I should.

  “I fell for you that first night at the barn. Best kiss I ever had,” I say, my voice ragged. “Felt that zing every time I looked at you, and I couldn’t stay away. You’re everything I never knew I needed. You’re perfect; you know that?”

  And not mine anymore.

  Someday she’ll find someone better. Maybe a guy at CERN. That image hurts, cutting like a knife, and I push it away.

  “It’s gonna be all right. You’ll be okay,” I murmur, yearning to soothe her as my fingers drift up and down her back. “You’re going to go over there and kick some serious ass. Wear those bobby pins.”

  She clutches my shirt, lips trembling, anguish on her face. “I have no right to ask you to wait for me—I don’t—but there’s no one else for me but you. Can’t we try?”

  I stare down at her, misery and heartache echoing around us.

  Getting pieces of her when I want everything?

  When every day without her would be razor blades to my heart?

  No.

  I cup her face and kiss her, my mouth tender. She tastes of salt and regret, and I end the touch, taking a deep breath as we pull away and gaze at each other, her blue eyes on my green ones.

  Goodbye, baby.

  Chapter 28

  GISELLE

  “Dear, it’s eleven o’clock. Your phone is pinging. You need to get up.” Myrtle’s soft voice breaks into my reverie.

  “I’m awake,” I say and wince, my throat raw and sore from the tears over the past three days. I’ve been awake since five this morning. I barely slept. Swinging my legs to the floor, I sit up on her couch, my bed since I left Devon’s on Friday. My fingers pluck at the sheets she laid out for me, trailing over the white material, thinking about Devon’s bed, his fluffy down comforter; then I’m lost in images of him. I suck in a breath as fresh emotions hit me all over again, and I close my eyes and plop back down, putting my hands over my face.

  A tidal wave of regret drowns me, and I don’t want to move. I turn and face the back of the couch, pulling the quilt over my shoulders.

  “Giselle. Do you have class?” Rustling sounds come as she walks in from the kitchen area and settles in a flowered armchair a few feet away.

  “The fellowship takes care of my classes,” I say dully.

  “Your mama called again. I told her you were okay.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Should we go shopping?” she asks in a gentle tone.

  “For what?”

  “You’re going to Switzerland. It’ll be colder there, especially when fall gets here. You’ll need warm sweaters, a raincoat, thermal underclothes, maybe some scarves and gloves. You still haven’t picked up your things from the cleaners.” She sighs.

  “Yeah. Okay. If you think so.” I draw circles on the flower pattern on her couch.

  “Have you made flight arrangements?”

  “I’ll do it today.” I blink away tears.

  “You said that yesterday.”

  “Did I?” I don’t remember. I can’t recall much of the past seventy-two hours. Memories play back in my head: me leaving Devon’s, grabbing my laptop and a few things while he told me to keep Red until I left, but I said I couldn’t do that and caught an Uber to Myrtle’s. I walked into her apartment, spilled my guts, then crawled onto her couch and tried to forget the world. I missed his pregame. I didn’t reply to a text from Elena asking where I was. I didn’t go to Mama’s yesterday for lunch, too tired to put myself together and face them.

  “You need a shower. Pookie is offended. Not me, of course.”

  I huff out a laugh, running a hand through my matted hair. “I’ll get up.” In a minute.

  An hour goes by. And another. Myrtle comes and goes, offers me lunch—“No, thanks,” I say, and I drift off, my body bereft, my heart split open, my muscles and my brain so very tired.

  What do you want most in the world?

  Why can’t he wait for me? My hands clench, and I punch a pillow. He’s right; it isn’t fair to ask him to wait for me, to commit to a long-distance relationship when we’ve been together only a brief time—but when you know, you know—yet I’d barely see him. Sure, my parents made it work, but it was a different time, and my dad was gone only for months, not years.

  Our phone calls would get fewer and fewer, him with football, me researching. I’d fly home at Christmas, and we’d have to scramble to see each other. The summer? Sure, we could meet, but what’s that brief time compared to being with him for real? I longed for him when he was in Miami, watching him with bated breath on TV, just to see his face, and I think I can go a year or more? Please.

  I flip over and stare up at the ceiling fan. He’d let me go and move on, and I guess I would too. Someday. Would our threads bring us back together in the years to come? Maybe. Fate is fickle. Threads may cling to a true love’s heart, but with enough time and distance, they choose other people to love.

  “Giselle! How could you let it get this bad?” Myrtle calls as she hobbles into the den from the bathroom.

  “What’s wrong?” I cry out, throwing the covers off and sitting up so fast I get dizzy. My stomach rolls, nausea bubbling. Might be a good idea to eat something. Myrtle has been pushing food at me three times a day, and I’ve picked through it. A throbbing pain shoots through my head, and I grimace as I cling to the edge of the couch. Okay, okay, three days is enough time to wallow. I have to be better.

  She points to her roots. “Gray!”

  I squint and walk over to her in one of Devon’s shirts. I couldn’t leave it behind and stuck it in my bag. The fact that it was clean when I took it killed me. I miss his smell. God. I miss his eyes. His wicked grin.

  “You’re pretty as ever.” I push out a wan smile and fluff her brown hair.

  She tsks. “You should have told me how old I look. With the fire and the renovations, I haven’t had time to get it done. Lordy, John is already younger than me! I need all the tricks! He might get tired of the sex and take a good hard look at me. Can you drive me to your mama’s? You think she’ll fit me in?”

  “I’m sure Mama or Aunt Clara will fit you in. Mondays are never busy.” I sigh. “I know what you’re doing, you know, trying to get me up and going.”

  She shrugs. “There’s no shame in my game.”

  I swallow and nod. “All right. Let me grab a shower—and take some Tylenol. You call Mama, see what her schedule is. I’ll get us an Uber, and we can pick up my car at the body shop, then head to the beauty shop.”

  “Good plan,” she says in a voice that smacks of victory. “Glad you thought of it.”

  “Uh-huh.” I trudge off to the bathroom.

  Two hours later, we pull up in my white Camry and park in front of the Cut ’N’ Curl. The only bright spot in this day is that when I went in to pay for my repairs, Harold was working the cash register at the body shop. He gave me a wide-eyed look and begged me to not tell Mama about our recent meetings. Apparently, once he got Garrett’s payment taken care of, he resigned his other job.

  My head pounds, even after the Tylenol, and I dig around in my bag to see if I have some extras. Instead, my hand clenches around my birth control.

  “What’s wrong?” Myrtle asks, her hand on the door. “You just went white.”

  I jiggle the pill pack, showing it to her, seeing her eyes widen. Licking my lips, I say, “I took my last active pill last Sunday, which means I should have started my period three days later, which was Wednesday. I don’t take the inactive ones usually . . . so . . .” My brain freezes, then unfreezes, as I count . . . “I’m five days late.”

  “Oh my,” she says in an oddly serene voice. “Is that normal? I don’t know anything about birth control these days.”

  “No, it’s not normal. I’m always on time . . .” My voice trails off as I set down the pills and yank my phone off
the console and search for articles about my prescription, my fingers tapping.

  “Are you pregnant?”

  I shoot her a look. “I never missed a dose.”

  “You’ve been having sex every day, a thousand times a day, right?”

  My body clenches at those memories. I keep reading.

  “His sperm is so mighty it defeated your pills.”

  My stomach swirls. I hold my phone up. “It says here that stress and changes in diet and exercise can cause me to miss my period. That qualifies. That’s me. I’m under stress. I didn’t run for days, then picked it back up with a vengeance. I haven’t eaten a full meal since Sunday, and that was fried chicken and corn bread.”

  “Are you nauseated?”

  “It’s grief nausea.”

  We look at each other.

  “You gonna go with that, huh? Just trust an article?”

  Butterflies flip-flop in my stomach. “Let’s go in,” I say, dropping the topic as I grab Aunt Clara’s Chick-fil-A and get out of the car. My head swims, tendrils of something I can’t name pricking at me. What if . . .

  We walk into the shop, and just as I thought, it’s empty except for Mama and Aunt Clara and Elena.

  “Bless your heart; you look awful!” Mama yells and gives me a hug, then holds my cheeks in her palms. “Poor baby.” She searches my face like a hawk. “You need to eat. That’ll make it better.” Her shoulders slump. “That Devon, he broke your sweet heart, and now you’re leaving me for Switzerland!”

  I lean into her, tears roaring back. Seems to be a new normal. “I’m going to miss you so, so much.” My head lies on her shoulder, and I breathe her in, peppermint and sweetness.

  She pats my back. “There, there, it’ll be okay. We’ve already planned a girls’ trip to see you on Thanksgiving. We’ll stay in a fancy hotel and eat out.”

  My eyes press shut. I want turkey and dressing at Mama’s, her fall decorations and fancy plates and napkins with little squirrels eating acorns. I want Aunt Clara sneaking rolls during the passive-aggressive prayer. I want Elena and Jack kissing when they think no one is looking.

  “Thank you for my lunch,” Aunt Clara says, taking the bag but not opening it, just pouting at me, then huffing and giving me a hug. “I’m going to miss your face.”