Hard to Love

by K. Bromberg

  I just keep staring out the window as if the vastness will give me answers when I know it won’t.

  And I keep reminding myself that Finn came when I had no one else to call. He came to my hotel room and didn’t ask a single question. He simply gathered me up in his arms like a child before using service elevators to sneak me out the back of the hotel to a car he had rented so I didn’t have to deal with any other reporters.

  He came back even after he quit on me.

  The thought floats in and out of my memories so much so that it’s easier when we get wherever we’re going in San Diego to close my eyes and pretend to be asleep.

  The sky is overcast and the breeze smells like the sea, but I don’t want to talk or look anyone in the eyes so, it’s so much easier to keep them closed.

  To let Finn lift me out of the car like a sleeping child and take me inside. To feel his arms around me as if he were my protector. To not have to be tough right now when all I want to do is fall apart.

  And to allow myself the grace to do just that if I want to.

  STEVIE

  Vivi: I’m worried about you. Are you okay? Do you need me to come there?

  Jordan: We will be there if you need us, okay, hon?

  Me: I just need time to think.

  Vivi: We’re here for you. Always.

  Jordan: Love you.

  FINN

  “AGAIN, THANK YOU.” CARSON’S VOICE is soft, grateful, his concern evident in every word he’s spoken over the past two days.

  I walk farther out on the deck that overlooks the Pacific Ocean and away from where Stevie sits just inside the house. Where she hasn’t really moved from in the past forty-eight hours.

  “I couldn’t leave her there.” It’s all I say, and I’m still not certain what to make of those five words. My decision. Nor do I acknowledge how seeing her like a hollow shell of herself feels either.

  I glance over at Stevie sitting on the couch, her face toward the ocean. Her skin is pale, her cheeks look gaunt, and her eyes now look too big for her face. Her hair is pulled up in a topknot and she has the same tracksuit she had on when I picked her up two days ago.

  “We need to cancel all the events you planned for her. Give her downtime to—”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  The line falls silent as we both struggle with what it feels like to feel helpless.

  “So what now?” Carson asks, breaking the silence. “The story is taking on a life of its own without her making a statement.”

  “Hell if I know.” I chuckle softly, knowing she can’t hear me. “I figured I’d give her a couple of days to process then force her to address it in one way or another. Her phone is dead. She hasn’t picked it up since we left the hotel so I know she’s not seeing the chaos.”

  “Chaos that’s only being noticed because Stevie is who she is.”

  “Exactly,” I murmur.

  “What are your thoughts on this Mary Johnson lady?”

  “Don’t you know? I thought you’d be able to tell me.”

  “I know nothing about her. I called Liam’s lawyer for some insight. The same one who had informed me of Liam’s wish for me to manage Stevie after he passed.”

  “And?”

  “He’s handled Liam’s affairs for years. The man could have been full of bullshit when he told me he’d never heard of her—attorney-client privilege and all of that—but you know I can read people pretty well, and I genuinely think he was telling the truth.”

  “Shit.”

  “That pretty much sums it up.” He chuckles in frustration. “So what’s your take on this woman?”

  “My first thought was that Stevie needed to demand a DNA test but then I wondered what would that help? If she is her mom, will that only make the hurt worse? If she isn’t, then this whole farce could be over but Stevie would still be hurt.” I take a seat as a huge swell crashes on the beach below.

  “And the payments? She says she has records of them.”

  “Payments can be made for a lot of reasons—alimony, business reasons, to keep her out of his daughter’s fucking life because she’s a washed-up druggie needing her next fix. That’s my bet. That this is all about the money.”

  “Mine too. How do we make this go away?”

  “Let it die? Keep her here and let the news cycle move on? If we don’t give the fire oxygen, it will die. You’re the one who taught me that.”

  “You’re fine with her staying there? This coming from the man who walked away from her?”

  But I went back.

  “I can work from here and she can train away from the public eye. There’s a private tennis court here that Kellen can work with her on, and I have a weight room downstairs she can lift in. Her bodyguards have already taken up residence in the granny flat next door. I mean, is it ideal? No. But it’s going to have to work.”

  There is a beat of silence. “Why?”

  And I know that why means a million things. Why did I walk away originally? Why did I come back? Why have I let her get to me when I won’t admit it?

  “Because like with you, there’s just something about this woman—even at her wildest—that gets under your skin. Something you can’t put your finger on but that you can’t walk away from.”

  “I trust you.” It’s three words, but ones I’ve never heard uttered from his lips. And they simultaneously fill me with pride and terror that I’m going to mess this up.

  We finish talking about a few more things and when I hang up, Stevie is still sitting there like a ghost on my couch.

  I move toward her. Her eyes track me until I take a seat beside her but she doesn’t say a word.

  “Can I get you anything?” I ask.

  No response. Nothing.

  I’m not good with emotional women. Tears unnerve me. Hysteria annoys me. But there is one thing that Stevie has taught me—a lack of emotion terrifies me.

  You don’t know what the other person is thinking or feeling. You don’t know how to react or respond and you spend every interaction second-guessing if you did the right thing.

  But Stevie looks so damn sad. So confused. So I sit back next to her, wrap my arm around her shoulder, and pull her in close to my side.

  She doesn’t say anything at all but rather rests her head against my shoulder. I don’t know how long we sit like this, with me giving comfort I’m probably not suitable to give, but at least I don’t feel as helpless as I did.

  At least I feel like I’m trying to do something.

  Time passes in waves crashing on the beach and the buzz of my cell phone on the table across the room, but we don’t move, nor do we speak. It’s a peaceful sound. Odd how I’ve never stopped long enough to notice that in all the times I’ve been coming here.

  The waves have just been there. A constant in the background. But now . . . now they’re soothing. Peaceful. Exactly what Stevie needs as we sit here, somehow giving each other something that we can’t quite pinpoint but know we need nonetheless.

  “Thank you.” Her voice is so quiet it’s almost as if she’s forgotten how to use it.

  I don’t need her gratitude. I need her to stop being a ghost of herself.

  “How about you jump in the shower and get some clean clothes on?” I press a kiss to the top of her head. “It won’t fix anything but it might make you feel a bit better.”

  She nods.

  “I think all your clothes are dirty. Do you mind if I have my housekeeper wash them and get the Las Vegas smoke out of them?” I’d thought about it yesterday but didn’t want to go through her stuff without asking, and since this is the first time we’ve actually interacted, I figured it was worth a shot. “She can take the clothes out of your bag if that’s okay, and I can give you a T-shirt and shorts to wear in the meantime.”

  She nods and looks up at me. I can’t help but wonder what’s going on in that mind of hers. If the trouble in her eyes is any indication, there’s a whole hell of a lot.

  “Maybe after a
shower and you get something to eat, we can talk?”

  Wariness etches in the lines of her face but she nods before rising from the couch. She stops at her luggage, which has been sitting untouched outside her door since we arrived, and digs through the front pockets for what looks like shampoo and conditioner before heading toward her bedroom en suite.

  I head to the bags and begin to lift them when a piece of paper falls out from underneath them. I’m only being semi-nosy when I pick it up to see what it is. It’s a small, white folded card with the words Cards O’ Fun handwritten in block letters at the top and “Have a one-night stand” written in cursive in its center.

  I don’t know why I stare at those five words on the card for so long, but I do know this is the reason I met Stevie that night. This is the reason we are where we are right now.

  For some reason I put the card in my back pocket and then lug her suitcases toward the laundry suite for Faith, my housekeeper, to wash them.

  It’s silent as Stevie picks at her grilled cheese sandwich from where she sits across the table from me.

  “I know my cooking isn’t great, but you can’t exactly screw up a grilled cheese,” I say to try and lighten the mood.

  Her smile flickers momentarily. I’ve missed that smile, even if it’s only a hint of the ones I’ve seen prior. I study her as she plays with her food. Her wet hair is up in a clip and there’s slightly more color in her cheeks now. She’s wearing one of my T-shirts, her tan legs crossed like a little kid on the chair where she sits.

  “Stevie.” I say her name and hate that she seems pained to meet my eyes. I don’t understand her silence. I don’t understand it, because I’d be so full of fury I’d burn everything down.

  And that’s what I thought she was trying to do and why I was called in by Carson . . . so this about-face is odd to me.

  “I know I need to deal with it, but what if I don’t want to?” she asks like a child seeking approval.

  “You can’t stick your head in the sand on this. She needs to be dealt with.” I take a bite of my own sandwich and follow it up with a sip of wine.

  “I’m ignoring her. Ignoring this.”

  “Just like you’ve been ignoring the passing of your father by trashing your reputation and almost your career?” She winces like I just slapped her across the face. I can’t take my words back, nor do I think I would if I could because someone has to wake her up. Someone has to make her realize this isn’t going away and she has to face it.

  “Leave my father out of this,” she snarls and the fire that flashes in her eyes is so damn good to see.

  Fire I can handle.

  Temper I can combat with.

  Anything is better than her endless silence and haunted eyes.

  “You’re the one who called me, Stevie. I’m the one who showed up.” That fire sputters with my words, and I struggle with what to do or how to do it. “Do you have a place of your own you’d like to go instead? Somewhere that you’d be more comfortable?”

  Tears well in her eyes once again as she shakes her head. “Not yet. He still feels like he’s everywhere there.”

  “Okay.”

  “Plus, when I’m there, everyone knows where I am, my routine. The press, the fans, the . . . just everyone. I’ve lived my life in front of the cameras. Every hiccup, every victory, every mistake. Can’t I just have some time not to? Can’t I just have clear space to breathe for a bit?”

  “Take all the time you need.” I lean back in my seat and look out toward the moon in the darkened sky above before looking back to her. “There’s a private tennis court down the street that I’ve secured for you. Kellen is on standby should you want to train . . . or it would be perfectly acceptable in this situation for you to pull out of the Open next month, citing a strained back or muscle or something of the like. Of course that means your rank would fall . . .”

  Her back stiffens. It’s good to see it. The sight is such a juxtaposition to the meekness I’ve seen over the past few days and the sadness in her eyes. “I’m not pulling out of the Open. Don’t bring it up again.” She scoots back from her plate that she’s barely touched, her voice softening. “Thank you, Finn. For bringing me here.” She stands, her head down looking at her clasped hands. “I’m sorry for bringing you into this.”

  And with that, she leaves the dinner table and heads to her bedroom. I watch her until the door clicks, and I’m left with just my thoughts and the crash of the waves on the beach outside echoing through the house.

  I finish both of our sandwiches, clean up, and am headed to my office with the rest of the bottle of wine. When I pass her room, the unmistakable sound of crying comes through the door.

  I’m in complete indecision whether I should knock and offer comfort or leave her alone. I stand there for some time, my hand poised to knock, before I continue on to my office.

  But even when work should fill my thoughts—new clients, merchandising deals, contract negotiations—I’m left looking out into the darkness of the night, wondering how exactly I let Stevie Lancaster get to me.

  Because I did.

  And I’m not quite sure what to do about it.

  STEVIE

  “YOU’VE REACHED LIAM LANCASTER. LEAVE a message and I’ll get back to you when time permits.”

  My body aches with the deepest type of sadness when his voice fills my ears.

  Then there’s the beep.

  “Hi, Dad. It’s me. It’s been a shitshow as of late—what I’ve been doing myself and what my supposed mother has told the world. I’m sorry. That’s all I can say. You would be disappointed in me, but after beating Greshenko the other night, I realized I miss the game. There’s something about it—the routine of it, the everything about it—that makes me feel closer to you.

  “But more than anything, I called because I want you to know that I don’t care what Mary Johnson says or doesn’t say. You’re my father. You always have been and you always will be. Our bond is so strong that I dare anyone to tell me we’re not related.”

  There’s a beep ending the message but I keep talking.

  “I’ve taken a few days for myself this week and have done a lot of thinking. About who I am and who I want to be now that you’re not at my side. You’ve always told me it’s the hardest thing in the world to look at yourself and to see and then to face the truth. I’ve faced it, Dad. I realized that I was so busy resenting you that I forgot I still loved you.” I barely choke the words out. “I realized that you did what you did to make me a better person and a stronger tennis player. I may still think of you as a tyrant some days, but I know you were busy pushing me to be everything my mom wasn’t. You were trying to make me be the best me because you knew you weren’t going to be here someday. So, thank you. For your sacrifices, for the nights you went to bed with indigestion because you knew you were too hard on me, but because you knew it was how I learned.” I hiccup over a massive sob. “What I’d give to hear you say, ‘Game on, Stevester,’ one last time. I love you.”

  The tears come.

  One after another.

  The thoughts ebbing and flowing with them.

  With how much he gave for me. How much I took for granted. It’s only after this Mary lady has shown up that I realized how much he dedicated his life to give me mine. How much he sacrificed went unnoticed, because I was too busy focusing on what I was missing out on. I never thought of him.

  The tears slide down my cheeks and my hands grip my phone and, slowly but surely, I feel lighter.

  I call his voicemail again. Just to hear the message.

  Just to hear his voice one more time.

  STEVIE

  MY DAD WAS THE ONE who handled the heat of the media for me. He’d interrupt the harsh questions, stop the errant interviews, and protect me from the negativity.

  He handled all the tough decisions about my career. The contract negotiations, the fees to be charged for endorsements, and the day-to-day management of my training.

  He thoug
ht for me when I didn’t want to think so that all I had to focus on was the game of tennis. The next match. Perfecting my stroke. Learning my opponents’ weaknesses and strengths.

  If there is one thing I’ve learned in the past two months—hell, in just sitting here and being forced to listen to the noise in my own head during the past five days—it’s how much, in fact, my father did do for me.

  And now it seems he also tried to protect me from the woman who birthed me but never cared to mother me.

  I couldn’t sleep last night after my tears had dried and my resolve had replaced them. Instead, I moved to the railing of this deck and watched the moon reflect off the froth of the waves and forced myself to feel.

  The pain of losing my dad.

  The anger regarding my supposed mom.

  The fury over her coming forward and starting bullshit that after sitting back and thinking about it, changes absolutely nothing other than if she is my mom, she’s made her desires more than clear—money. At no point has she attempted to reach out to care for me. To love me in my loss. She’s just asked for money.

  I forced myself to feel all the emotions when for the past two months I’ve numbed them with alcohol and by surrounding myself with people who wouldn’t leave me alone too long so that I could.

  I took the mental steps to take my life back.

  And I will.

  With a soft smile, I sit in one of the lounge chairs with my eyes closed and hope I didn’t just make a huge mistake. It’s taken me a few days and a lot of tears, but it’s definitely time I face everything head-on. It’s only then that I can move forward without it hanging over my head. At least I hope so, because I can’t undo the steps I took moments ago. The phone call I made is over and done with.

  Maybe that’s why I did it. There’s definitely no turning back now.

  I hear Finn before I see him when he steps out on the deck. In fact, I’ve been listening to him in some way or another all morning as he’s moved from one phone call to the next with Zoom meetings in between. There was a call to calm a client down, another to help clean up a mess someone made, and a third to introduce and possibly recruit another athlete to his firm.