Hard to Love

by K. Bromberg

  There was something comforting about listening to him. The professionalism and authority with which he spoke. Two things that I’m more than certain he treated me with but that I was too wrapped up in breaking all the rules—in numbing myself—that I dismissed it and him.

  And that was only a week ago.

  It feels like a lifetime.

  For some reason, I close my eyes when he approaches me from behind. Maybe I need a second more with my decision—more time for it to get set into motion—before I tell him and it can be stopped. Because that’s one thing I have to give him, he hasn’t pushed other than the grilled cheese night. Although I’m occupying his house and interrupting his life, he’s given me the space and distance I need to figure this all out in my head.

  I jolt at the sound of the splash and then startle seconds later as drops of water hit me. But when I open my eyes, Finn isn’t standing there in his pool smiling at me like I expected. Instead, he’s headed toward the other end of the pool. His hands slice through the water in powerful strokes, his broad back and shoulders rippling like the water and his legs kicking before his body folds in some sort of elaborate turn when he hits the end.

  And when he hits the near wall, he does the same flip turn without stopping to look up.

  He swims laps with a purpose that I can relate to. There’s efficiency to his movements that makes me think he’s not only getting his exercise in but is also solving a million problems in his head.

  I may be guilty of doing something similar when I’m conditioning. Going over conversations I need to have, rehearsing them with each step, or reliving a match in my head so I can learn where I messed up.

  I’m not sure how long he swims for, but I’m mesmerized by him as he does. Perhaps it’s because it gives me something to concentrate on other than my own thoughts, and perhaps because my body is reacting to the sight of him when it feels like it had died over the past few days.

  Or maybe it’s just because sitting on a deck that overlooks the beach while watching an attractive man exercise feels like something a normal twenty-four-year-old woman would do.

  And God, how I need life to feel normal.

  I emit a chuckle he can’t hear and lean my head back, eyes closed, so the sun that just broke through the morning clouds can warm my cheeks.

  The splashing stops at some point and for reasons I don’t understand, I opt yet again to keep my eyes closed. Is it because I’m embarrassed—he’s seen me at my lowest these past few days—or is it simply because the man clearly stirs something in me? Something that I almost feel guilty for feeling when so many other parts of my life need to be settled.

  “Can I get you anything?” Finn asks just like he has every time our paths have crossed in this house.

  “No, thank you.” I hold a hand up to cover my eyes and turn my head to look at him.

  Huge mistake, especially as I’m trying to concentrate on my own issues and not have them clouded by a soaking-wet Finn Sanderson. One who I might add has rivulets of water sliding down his tanned, chiseled torso, and who has been more than attentive and patient with me when I definitely haven’t deserved his compassion.

  His eyes meet mine after he rubs his towel over his hair. “You sure?”

  “Yes. I’m . . . sure.” I put my face up to the sun again and close my eyes—not because I want to be left alone but because the last thing I need to do is keep staring at him. The last thing I need to do is encourage my thoughts when it comes to just how he could sate that ache his presence has created.

  I’m sure he’ll definitely think I’ve gone totally over the deep end if I go from five days of not speaking more than a few words at a time to telling him the idea of a quick, distracting fuck is what he can do for me.

  “My mom left when I was four years old.” His unexpected confession cuts through the silence and feels like a knife to my gut. My thoughts shift immediately as I hear a pain in his voice I know all too well. “I have a blurry idea of who she was and what she was like, but I often wonder if they were from the pictures I stared at so long that I willed them into my memory.”

  “Finn.” I turn to look at him but he’s staring straight ahead, finding solace in the sea like I have over the past few days.

  He shrugs and it’s the kind of shrug that says it doesn’t bug him, but I know differently. “My dad said that one day she was there, laughing and happy and present, and then the next day he got a call from the babysitter asking him when she was going to pick me up.” His tone may sound stoic, but so has mine all these years. I know the turmoil I’ve felt within. “He had no clue she was unhappy.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “I don’t want you to be sorry. I just want you to know why I came back for you when you called me.” He turns and looks at me for the first time and the emotion that owns his eyes is equal parts heartbreaking and strength/determination. “I want you to know that every question you’ve asked yourself over the past few days, I’ve asked myself too. I want you to know that I understand how it feels to believe your own mother doesn’t love you enough to stick around and how much that can fuck with your head.” He rises from his seat, puts a hand on my shoulder, and squeezes. “I just wanted you to know.”

  He starts to walk away, and I stare after him dumbfounded with tears in my eyes because someone understands. We may not have walked the same path to get here, but someone understands what is impossible to put into words.

  “Finn.” My voice is a broken croak when I say his name, but he stops and turns back around.

  “Hmm?”

  “Thank you for telling me. For understanding.” I find words hard to come by all of a sudden, and I’m not sure why. “Earlier . . . earlier I contacted Kyle Katswa,” I say, and his eyebrows raise at the name of one of the most prominent anchors at ESPN. “I’m doing an interview with him tomorrow to put this all to rest.”

  “You are?” He takes a step back toward me, his voice surprised.

  “I am.” I nod. “I’m well aware that speaking will add fuel to her fire, but I also hope it smothers it too. You are right. It’s time I stop sticking my head in the sand and face this—her accusations, his death, everything—head-on.” I know it won’t fix the broken heart my dad’s passing left me with, but it’s one foot in front of the other and that’s more than I’ve been doing.

  “It’s the only way you’re going to be able to move forward.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m proud of you,” he says.

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves yet.” I chuckle. “No doubt I’ll still screw something up.”

  He gives me a slight smile and a nod before hooking the wet towel over his neck and heading back into the house again.

  STEVIE

  CLEAN CLOTHES.

  When I enter my room, my laundry is on my bed in stacks just tall enough so that the clothes don’t fall over and ruin their perfectly folded corners. The fresh scent of the detergent fills the space and makes me feel more settled than I’ve felt all afternoon.

  If it’s possible to be in love with Finn’s housekeeper any more than I already am, then I’m there.

  It’s the impending interview that has me unsettled. Sure, I’ve rehearsed what I want to say a million times, the main points I want to express, but what if I say something that opens me up to a slander lawsuit by Mary? What if I—

  Wine.

  I need wine.

  Sure, it’s nearing midnight but one glass might help to calm me down and settle my nerves. And if Finn happens to still be awake to run through things with, then I’ll do that as well.

  The lights are dim and I’m just about to the kitchen when I hear Finn’s voice near the front of the house. It’s a low rumble in hushed tones that I head toward, figuring he’s on the phone and is just being quiet so as not to wake me up, as he has several times since I’ve been here.

  “You don’t have to be qui—” I realize my mistake a moment too late when I see Finn at the front door, his b
ack to me, and hear a feminine laugh. “Oh. I didn’t mean to . . .”

  “It’s okay.” Finn retreats a step, turning so I’m met with a gorgeous brunette in a dazzling blue, sparkled dress. Her hair is a tumble of long curls and her features—eyes, nose, lips, boobs—are stunning. In that fleeting moment, insecurity rears its ugly head while I feel like she’s everything that I’m not even though, from this distance, I can’t even make the comparison. Yet the comparison is still there, front and center in my mind. “Kristen was just stopping by to . . .”

  I force a smile on my lips praying he doesn’t finish that sentence. “Of course. I’m sorry to interrupt. I was just grabbing a glass of wine and thought you might like to—never mind.” The thumb I hook over my shoulder dies midmotion so that I look like an idiot trying to hitchhike. “Nice to meet you, Kristen.”

  “My apologies,” Finn says turning back to her. “I forgot to introd—”

  “Nice to meet you too . . .” Kristen says, her eyes narrowing in on me, and I don’t exactly think it’s because she’s happy to see me there. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

  “It’s—”

  “Nothing,” Finn stutters before staring at me and willing me to go away. “Good night.” The curtness of the two words takes me by surprise and even worse is the catty smirk Kristen gives me from behind Finn.

  With a purse of my lips and a nod, me and my bruised ego head back to the kitchen to drink alone.

  My feelings are hurt.

  I know it sounds ridiculous but they are.

  If I wasn’t so stressed about the interview tomorrow, I’d take a step back and realize that maybe Finn wasn’t pushing me out of the way to make room for Kristen. Maybe he was pushing me away so that she didn’t realize who I was and let the cat out of her no-doubt gossip-y mouth about who I was and where I was staying.

  A rational me would have realized that.

  But this is the jealous me who knows that there is no other reason for Kristen to show up close to midnight in her party dress, which is probably sans undergarments, other than to make an in-person booty call.

  More to the point that this might not have been the first time she’s done it either.

  And I don’t know why it bugs me so much.

  Because you like him.

  Of course, I like him. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t, but having sex with him and scratching an itch is completely different than getting jealous when I think someone else wants to do the same thing with him.

  Completely different.

  “Sorry about that,” Finn says as he moves into the kitchen, as if I’m not sitting over here staring at an opened wine bottle and an empty glass stewing over a woman I shouldn’t give two shits about.

  “I’m the one who should apologize. I didn’t mean to interrupt you two. Obviously you had plans, and I didn’t think twice about how me being here affected those plans and—”

  “There were no plans, Stevie.”

  “Her heels and party dress on your doorstep at midnight say otherwise.” I snort.

  He chuckles. “She was quite obvious, wasn’t she?”

  “Just a little.” I finally pour my glass and take a long sip, not caring about the sarcasm in my voice.

  “Are you jealous?” he asks rounding the counter so he can see my face. I stare out the window instead, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “You are jealous.”

  “I am not. Why would I be jealous if she clearly came over for a booty call?” I roll my eyes. “We had sex. We were . . . nothing. So . . .”

  “So if I were nothing with her too, then it would be okay with you?”

  “I didn’t say that.” I snap the words out and then realize I can’t take them back. He clears his throat, clearly enjoying this invisible catfight over him. I make a show of draining my glass of wine to distract him. “I’m going to bed now so just in case you have her hidden outside the door, you can sneak her into your room now.”

  “I’m not sneaking her anywhere, Stevie. I haven’t seen her in over six months. She saw me when I went out for a jog the other day so she decided to stop by.”

  I turn to look at him and shrug. “Not my business. Good night, Finn.”

  “Good night, Jealousy.”

  “Good night, Jerk,” I mutter to myself with a healthy slam of my bedroom door.

  I don’t like him.

  I don’t.

  He can be sexy and good in bed and sweet when he needs to be all he wants, but that doesn’t mean I have to like him.

  Not one bit.

  So then why am I lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking of ways I can make him chuckle like that with me?

  FINN

  SHE LOOKS NOTHING LIKE THE woman who stood in my kitchen last night jealous over—yes, she was right—a booty call standing at my door.

  The irony was that while nosy (and desperate) Kristen stood on my stoop all but throwing herself at me, it was Stevie I was thinking of. The woman who unexpectedly walked out in her pajama shorts and tank top sans makeup, who looked a hundred times sexier than Kristen in her party dress and heels.

  The same woman who now is sitting behind a laptop and a ring light with a crisp, white blouse, smiling as Kyle Katswa gives an introduction to their interview. Her smile might be big, but what the camera can’t see and I can, is how she’s twisting her fingers in her lap.

  I walk away from the room and head to my office where I have the television on so I can watch it objectively like a normal viewer would.

  “So let’s get right to it, Stevie,” Kyle says with a warm smile. “Welcome to the show. How are you doing today?”

  “I’m fine, thank you. Thanks for having me.”

  He sighs with a genuine compassion. “I’m not exactly sure where you want to start, so let’s begin with your father. He was a driving force in your life and your career, how are you doing since his passing?”

  Jesus. Talk about hitting with the emotional question right off the bat. But at the same time, it’s a brilliant opener because it’s something she’s comfortable talking about. Something that will endear her to fans.

  And as if on cue, Stevie draws in a slow, measured breath before responding. “It’s been hard. Some days I wake up and reach for the phone to call him, others I don’t want to get out of bed. And to be honest, to cope, I’ve leaned on a few vices more than I should have over the past two months, and I’m not proud of that. Sometimes, all I’ve wanted to do is forget even though in hindsight, I know it’s not the right way to deal with grief. If that even makes sense.”

  Her words take me by surprise. The raw honesty in them is unexpected and yet, I know this is the woman Carson had so much faith in. This one right here laying her mistakes and possibly truths bare for all to see.

  “I think most of us who have gone through the death of someone they’re close to can relate.”

  “They can, but social media these days makes it easy for all your mistakes to be put on display for all to see. Especially when you’re someone in my position and so, for all the parents out there who were upset with my missteps because their daughters look up to me, I want to apologize.”

  Kyle looks completely taken aback by her comments as am I. Where is the balls-to-the-wall, fuck-everybody Stevie who I first met? Was she given a media etiquette class that I wasn’t aware of in the days since she’s been here?

  “Forgive me for being harsh when you’re being so blatantly honest, Stevie, but how do the viewers, the fans, myself, know that your remarks aren’t part of a publicity tour to repair your image? To try and regain back fans you’ve lost?”

  “You don’t.” She shrugs. “All I can do is be honest and hope that you believe me.”

  “Why now? What suddenly made you want to talk to the media when you’ve blown them off for weeks?”

  The blessing and the curse of the press. They’re there when you don’t want them to be, but when you need them, they’ll come right back.

  She’s handl
ing this brilliantly and even I’m amazed at how sincere she sounds.

  “As you know, recently there have been some allegations made to other media outlets that I’ve yet to comment on. Added to the loss of my father”—she clears her throat and looks down at her hands before looking back at the camera— “to say they devastated me is an understatement.”

  “Understandably.” He nods. “And that’s why you agreed to this interview.”

  Stevie nods. “For me, my first reaction was to want to run and hide—which I’m not very proud of—but that’s what I did. But the hiding not only allowed me, but also forced me to really think and put things in perspective . . . such as my recent behavior.”

  My phone is buzzing like crazy in my pocket, but I toss it on the sofa in my office, completely entranced by the woman on the TV in front of me.

  “And that’s why we’re here.”

  “Yes. In the past, my father was the one who handled all of this kind of stuff. With him gone, facing these things forced me to grow up.”

  “When you say your father—”

  “He was my father,” Stevie asserts. “I don’t care what this lady—”

  “Mary Johnson.”

  “—says. Liam Lancaster was my father every second of every minute of every day. For her to insinuate that he isn’t or wasn’t, is probably one of the cruelest things someone could ever accuse or attest. To try and take that from me after his death is not something a mother would do to her child.”

  “Since you brought it up, let’s go there. Do you believe Mary Johnson is your mother?”

  “I don’t care if she is or isn’t. She might even be the person named on my birth certificate. While my father, Liam, was there every second, she wasn’t. Even if I did a DNA test to prove her allegations to be true, that she is in fact the woman who birthed me, she would still mean nothing to me. A true mother would move heaven and earth to see their child if they wanted to. She didn’t.”