“Uhm…only that he thought I needed a chance at a ‘stable relationship.’ Wyatt said I deserved a guy who would be there for me all the time,” I mutter.
Laia throws a ‘See?’ glance at Cora, then strokes my hair. “This doesn’t sound like someone who doesn’t care. On the contrary.”
I meet her cat-eyes and shake my head. “No, sweetie. If he’d fallen for me like I did for him, he wouldn’t have given up on us. Period. He did what he did because his career was more important to him than I ever could be.”
Cora pulls her ponytail tighter. “That’s why my rule is to avoid guys whose wealth comes with associated fame. Notoriety takes away from the reliability factor and drags a man’s overall score into the orange-red zone.”
“Orange-red?” Laia’s mouth drifts into a confused line.
“It’s Cora’s color-code system to evaluate men,” I comment, relieved that we’ve left the painful topic of my heartache.
Cora flashes a smile at Laia. “Green means you can trust the guy won’t cheat on you and cause you financial trouble. In the orange category, one of these conditions is off. Like Wyatt. As a footballer, he’s bound to deceive you either with groupies or by putting his career in front of his relationship. And the red men will fail you on all possible levels. Like, according to my gut, Hope’s new flame.”
“Cora, you don’t know that.” I throw our friend a disapproving glance.
I also have some vague premonition about Mitch not being the best match for Hope, but who am I to judge that? I can’t even seem to get over a breakup I had years ago.
My roomie sighs. “I pray I’m wrong about that guy, believe me.”
“Isn’t it all a little too simplistic?” Laia’s forehead wrinkles. “Assigning colors to human beings and rating them based on that?”
“It’s simplistic, but it also helps making the right decisions a lot easier, hon.” Cora grins.
Laia shakes her head. “Devon used to be a player, so that puts him into your orange group, I think. But he changed. People can change.” She blinks at me. “Isn’t that right, Ellie?”
I nod. “Of course. My brother adores you.”
Laia tilts her head like a kitty who’s about to jump onto your lap. “Well then, maybe Wyatt has changed, too. Who knows? Perhaps you should consider—”
I put up my hand.
Laia’s wish to see the best in everyone is one of her greatest strengths, but at this moment, I’d love to do without it. “I didn’t tell you about my relationship with Wyatt to invite you to speculate about him and me. Whatever went down between us is in the past. And it has to stay there. So promise me you won’t tell any of this to Devon.”
“And Hope?” Cora asks.
“She can know since I shared it with you two. But my brother and Pete are never to learn about what happened, okay? I don’t want Devon to look differently at Wyatt. They’re best friends, and our story shouldn’t impact that.”
“That’s generous of you.” Laia gives me an admiring glance.
I shrug. “Yes. It’s water under the bridge now.”
“So you forgave Wyatt?” Cora inquires while kneeling up on her yoga mat.
I clear my voice. “Yep. It was silly to hold onto my grudge for so long. No wonder I never succeeded in any long-term relationships. I froze part of my heart.” As I say this, I grasp how right my words are.
We always teach patients that grinding on a hurt for too long, like it’s a piece of chewing gum, is counterproductive. The stinging flavor might evaporate the more you dwell on a past event, because the mind gets familiar with what wounded it, but still, the bitter aroma is never really gone. It sinks into the bones and smolders out of sight—making you become the hurt, and the hurt, you. The only thing that can release a person from this vicious circle is forgiveness.
Cora rubs her palms against each other. “Good, you realized this. Now you can focus on your lovely doctor then.”
“Right.” I smile, even if no anticipation brews in my stomach as I ponder my upcoming dinner with Bill.
It’s probably just because I’m exhausted after a week of hard work. Once I’m relaxed, the giddiness will surely kick in. Bill is a great guy, and our date will surely be fun.
Laia blinks at her watch. “Girls, I’m sorry, but I need to go. Eva and Nate flew in this afternoon, and Devon and I are taking them out to dinner.”
“But I thought you’d come with us to Daisy’s Creamery! We go there every week after Cora’s workouts to reward ourselves,” I say.
Daisy’s Creamery is an iconic little store close to Encanto Park, which is quite the walk from our condo. I’ve been addicted to its treats ever since moving to Phoenix. Besides the conventional choices, they also feature mega-tasty, mean flavors like my favorite, sweet avocado cayenne.
My mouth is already watering at the idea of my regular scoop.
The creamy avocado and crackling cayenne blends on the tongue in perfect harmony, but besides the satisfying taste, I also adore its color—a bright, neon green.
Also, the ice cream parlor’s staff never looks at me weirdly when I ask to switch their usual too-thin napkins for the more absorbent paper napkins they use for mopping their counters, which is a significant plus for me. I hate how the serviettes becoming soggy when I wipe up an ice cream spill.
“I’ll be there next time, okay?” Laia stands and rolls up the mat she’s borrowed from us. “I’ll see you both later.”
I jump up and hug her. “Have fun with your cousin. And please, don’t forget”—I pretend to zip my mouth, close a lock, and throw away the key—“no word to Dev.”
Laia’s jaw tightens. “Okay. Although I hate keeping anything from him, this secret is yours, so I’ll do what you want. But are you sure that Wyatt isn’t perhaps interested in—”
Before she can continue, I nod. “I am. And even if Wyatt had other intentions, I couldn’t care less. I have a date on Sunday, did you forget?”
Laia gives me a doubtful glance, then nods. “Okay…fine. You know that I love you. I’ll support your relationship with any men you dream of.”
She picks up her bag and scurries to the door.
While I stare at her back, my dream from last night comes to mind. An uneasiness settles in the pit of my stomach as I recall Laia’s last words. It was just an expression. She didn’t mean it literally. Besides, I can’t influence whose face my brain conjures while I’m asleep, can I?
I shake my head and blink back at Cora. “So, it’s just the two of us then. Ready to go?”
“Uhm…” Cora peeks up at me with a guilty expression, her long lashes batting like a hummingbird’s wings. “I can’t come either. Andrew’s mother is in town. He bought last-minute tickets to the opera for all of us.”
I debate about pointing out that Cora loathes classical music and gets headaches whenever Hope listens to Chopin or Ravel at home, but I decide against it. Though I prefer keeping our routines intact, it’s not the end of the world if I have to go alone to the ice cream parlor.
I wave and opt for a cheerful tone. “It’s okay. I’ll just get an extra cone and eat it in your honor then.”
Cora wiggles her finger. “Don’t you dare. You need to fit into the dress I’m planning to lend you for your date with Dr. Dazzling Smile.”
I giggle. “Okay, I’ll show some self-discipline, I promise.”
Chapter 15
(Wyatt)
As I exit Devon’s cool condo at the Willo district, the hot evening air engulfs me with a cheeky embrace. The sky dances in the same reddish hue as the protein shake I drink on Wednesdays, when I add pomegranates and beetroot into my usual mix.
Did my buddy and I chat this long?
When I arrived at Devon’s place, it was still early afternoon. I guess it just proves that when you spend time with the people whose company you enjoy, time becomes a relative concept.
Like during my sessions with Ellie.
Each time she announces that our time is over, I
can hardly grasp that we were together for hours and not minutes.
A car honks nearby. The shrill beep yanks me out of my thoughts. I blink up just as a red Chrysler passes by. Its windows are rolled down, and from the backseat, a guy with glasses gawks out, his face a sheet of utter boredom. When his eyes zero in on me, his features reanimate. He leans out and waves at me frenetically while screaming, “Go, go, Kites!”
I’ve been made.
I give a thumbs-up to the young man, but after the car disappears around the corner, I drop my head to my chest and scurry to my Corvette, which I parked behind Devon’s building. I open the trunk and grab a baseball cap I keep there for occasions when I want to conceal my signature blonde curls. After I shove it right down to my eyes, I straighten.
I rarely dodge fans, but right now, I’d just like to have a quiet walk on my own.
It might feel as if time had wings when Ellie works with me, but she sure drains me with her exercises. And it’s a different exhaustion than I’m accustomed to dealing with.
In high-season, it’s an exception to have a day that doesn’t end with my cells screaming for mercy. Usually a good night’s sleep, nutritious dinner, and a Thai massage are enough to wipe the slate clean and get me back into my game the next day. But right now, it isn’t my muscles that are depleted, it’s my mind.
Facing all those flashbacks from my childhood has left my brain crowded with images and questions. Not to mention those sensations that Ellie’s closeness stirs up in me.
I need some space to process it all, and I hope that wandering aimlessly on the streets might allow me to do that. Without making a conscious decision about where to go, I begin ambling.
After a few steps, a sign for Encanto park draws my eyes, and the memory of an ice cream parlor comes back to me.
I’m tempted to suppress it as soon as it surfaces. I know I shouldn’t remember that period. That was one of Ellie’s conditions. But before I can pull the brakes, my mind has already conjured the vision.
I see Ellie standing on tiptoe, her curls bouncing as she turns her head to take in the colorful buckets of creaminess. Her face is a mixture of excitement and concern as if she were pondering the fate of the world. Her expression makes me laugh, because I know that no matter how long we stay glued to the long glass case studying the tags that stick out from the flavors, she’ll end up picking the same one she always does.
Is Daisy’s Creamery still open?
It’s worth checking out. Ellie’s beloved flavor, which also became my favorite—whether for its actual taste or because of the ecstasy with which she used to devour the cone—is full of healthy fats. A double scoop of it could serve as a meal on its own, and I still haven’t had dinner.
I turn on the corner and bend onto West Encanto Boulevard. After passing by several large villas, I cross to the other side and cruise along the park’s perimeter. Soon Encanto’s big attraction, the Enchanted Island, comes into sight. Children with flushed faces intercept my path—their loud protests about not wanting to go home mix in with their parents’ soothing voices.
I zig-zag among them until the street is clear again.
I continue toward the park’s clubhouse, beside which my destination should lie. I spot the blinking pink lights before I can even see the contours of the ’50s-style ice cream shop’s white building. The tiny parlor is nestled between palm trees, giving it the feel of an oasis.
My phone rings.
I retrieve it from my pocket, fearing that it might be another unwelcome attempt of my father to reach me, but as I look at the screen, my brows arch.
Mom?
It’s an unusual time for her to call. Without knowing why, my stomach hardens; I hit the reply button. “Hi, Mom. Is everything okay?”
“Of course, why would you think it wasn’t?” she answers in an upbeat tone that’s just a tick off. “I just wanted to know how you’re settling in?”
“Fine, all is good. I unpacked all my luggage.”
“Ah, that’s great.” Her exaggerated cheerfulness reminds me of the times she tried to camouflage my father’s drunken state.
The uneasiness that had dripped in my stomach spreads to my chest. “Aren’t you supposed to be meeting your book club tonight?”
She coughs. “Ah, yes. But the meeting got…uhm got canceled. Devon’s mom and father are leaving for Cape Cod tomorrow, so we postponed it. This way Diana can prepare for their trip.”
“Are you sure?” I ask while advancing toward Daisy’s Creamery.
“Yeah.” Her soprano gains a strained edge.
I stop in front of the chalkboard menu listing this week’s specialties, but I can’t seem to make sense of the colorful lettering.
Why is Mom lying to me?
The buzzing whir of a blender filters out of the ice cream shop, so I saunter a few steps farther to the nearby palm tree and rest my back against its trunk.
I clear my voice. “I just visited Devon, and his mother called while I was there. She seemed rather eager to share her last cozy mystery read with all of you tonight.”
“Oh.” After this one syllable, Mom grows silent.
“Mom, what’s going on? Why did you skip your meeting? Did something happen?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on, spill the beans.” I shift my weight, and the fibrous threads covering the trunk between the tightly stacked bases tickle my shoulder blades through my cotton T-shirt. “What are you not telling me?”
Mom draws in a deep breath. “I got a call from your father.”
“Whaaat?”
This is what his “another way” meant, darn it.
My yell is so loud that an elderly man who’s walking his dog—a sort of medium-sized, twisted, dirty mop—stops and glares at me. He shakes his head, then continues his stroll.
I follow his animal’s grayish dreadlocks with my gaze, but every fiber in my body is alert and waiting for my mother’s explanation.
“Mason called just as I was about to head over to Diana’s. Our chat stretched out, so I skipped the book club,” Mom mumbles.
Stretched out? “How long did you speak?”
“I don’t know. Twenty minutes. Thirty, maybe?” Mom’s voice shakes as if she’s afraid of admitting this.
I need all my energy to suppress the bestial growl I want to make. “Let me get this straight. He calls you out of the blue, and you, instead of sending him off to hell in a handbasket, prattle with him for half an hour?
Mother sniffs.
“What did you even speak about?” I count silently to ten. Ellie said that doing such an abstract task will allow my limbic system and frontal lobe to connect—or something along those lines—and bust my instinctive flares of fury.
Mom sighs. “Life. You. A lot about you. He was so interested to know about your career. In fact, he said he’d like to—”
“I don’t care what he would like to do,” I snap, quitting my exercise at eight, “and you shouldn’t either.”
“Your father sounded different on the phone. Calm and caring. I think he might have changed.”
“Men like him don’t change. They just don’t,” I bark, not even trying to count anymore.
“Please, don’t get angry with me,” she whimpers.
“I’m not angry with you.” Though the pounding in my ears and my curling fingers definitely contrast this statement.
How can my mother be so naïve?
The man who mistreated and abandoned us didn’t develop a conscience.
“Your father only wants a chance to atone,” Mom says. “Perhaps we owe him that…”
“We owe him nothing. Nothing. Dad doesn’t want forgiveness. He’s probably motivated by some selfish need. Perhaps he needs money to paint the town red. I don’t know, and I don’t care.”
“Then why did he call me, then? I don’t have any money to give to him,” Mom says.
“Because I refused to take his calls, that’s why. You were surely just a gateway for him to get
to me.”
“Your dad’s been trying to reach you, and you didn’t tell me?”
Mom’s voice is accusing, but I don’t feel guilty for keeping the truth from her. Dad isn’t after redemption. He doesn’t want to make up for all the pain and suffering he caused us.
“Yes, he’s been pestering me with messages and calls. But, unlike you, I didn’t answer him.” It’s hard to keep the blame from my voice.
Mom gasps. “I can’t believe you kept me in the dark about this.”
“Because I feared you’d react like you are now. You never saw Dad for the scumbag he is, even after he left you. If he’d stayed, you’d still be serving him as a slave.”
A choking sound echoes in the phone.
Shoot, I’ve gone too far.
It’s not my mother’s fault. She’s got a good heart, and she believes firmly in the Bible. That’s why she’s so ready to forgive my father.
The only one to blame is me.
I’d been too stubborn, or perhaps even ashamed, to admit that my father could still trigger such a bitter emotion in me, but clearly, he’s still able to do that.
You’re obviously very angry at someone.
These were Ellie’s words during our role play, and she’d been right.
Didn’t I just shout a hurtful phrase at my mother because she admitted that she spoke to Dad? Didn’t I punch Rodriguez because he made a joke about my father?
Frustration seeps into my bones, but this time it’s directed only at myself.
I should’ve answered the darned phone the first time my father called and unleashed my resentment on him. Maybe then he would’ve never dared to go as far as disturbing my mother, and I’d never have given a five to my teammate’s kisser, no matter how snarky he got with me.
As these sobering thoughts flash through me, I realize I’ve just made a breakthrough in my therapy. I associated my random act of violence toward my teammate with its proper cause—my father.
What would Ellie think about this?
Her memory makes me recall the delicious coconut and orange blossom scent that surrounds her all the time. This sensory detail tames the raw emotion bubbling in my chest, and my heartbeats become more even.
Law #3: Don't Fall for the Athlete: Sweet Second Chance Romance (Laws of Love) Page 13