She picked up on the first ring. “Up at ten o’clock? What’s got you burning the midnight oil, grandma?”
“Don’t freak out.”
Eleven
Jackie
The first six weeks after I left the league—in between physical therapy and media dodging and grief—I slept. Long, welcomed depression naps that ate up time in the day and helped me forget hunger, and my rapidly filling inbox, and how to be a person. When I wasn’t sleeping, I was moving slowly, like my own world had been filled with molasses while an eighteen-wheeler of existential dread and panic plowed through me.
I was right back there, moving without feeling.
But this wasn’t then, this was now. I wasn’t that wet-behind-the-ears rookie faced with a barrage of negative press for the first time. I wasn’t that kid shocked and devastated to find the women I’d thought of as family hated and blamed me for losing them a championship after years of stealing the limelight. I wasn’t dumb and in love with a woman who didn’t give a damn about me, having freshly lost the one thing in life I knew I was good at and gave me meaning, and knowing everyone could read it about all the sordid details with a keystroke.
This wasn’t that, but it felt close.
As soon as I got Gwen’s call, I was out the door and moving. Waiting for the Lyft to show up was torture. I kept going back to the email Gwen had sent me with the link to the story and hovering my fingers over it only to close out and repeat again. I had to know, but I couldn’t. I needed to see, but I’d rather do anything else.
Just as I went to try again, a text message from Lorne popped up on the screen: Call me ASAP.
When I jogged up to Gwen’s apartment, I had to pause to catch my breath. When I realized the meager pulls of air I had been struggling through weren’t going to make things any better, I gave up and knocked.
Gwen opened the door and stared at me. She clutched her kitten-themed mug in her purple-striped fingers wordlessly. Her prized blue silk bathrobe was wrapped around her and, despite the time, she had a full face of makeup on. Like war paint.
She silently stepped away, and I slipped inside. The sound of the door closing seemed to jump-start my mouth.
“What?” was all I could ask.
Gwen sighed and inspected the plaster beside my head. “Our communication’s director emailed me the thing. Apparently some overzealous paparazzo desperate to make rent was lurking outside the restaurant because someone tipped them off that one of those kids from the vampire movies would be there.”
She spoke briskly and evenly, the way I sometimes heard her speak over the phone when she was in campaign mode. Anger flared up inexplicably alongside the barely concealed panic warring inside of me.
“Don’t—don’t sound like that.”
“Sound like that?”
“Like it’s not a big deal.”
“It’s not a big deal. Do you know who reads the Conservative? Lowlife alt-right basement dwellers and geriatric Fox News regulars. Legitimate political media barely acknowledges its existence. It’s TMZ for bigots.”
“Well I’m glad this won’t affect your campaign, because clearly that’s all that matters here.”
Dark eyes flicked to me briefly, then away again. My fists clenched as a sea of helplessness crashed over me. Why wouldn’t she just fucking look at me?
Gwen wiped her finger over an orange lipstick smudge on the rim of her mug and sighed. “That’s not—you have no idea how I… God, Jackie, soI didn’t check any of the sports sites. I wouldn’t even know where to begin looking. I’m sure it’s fine.”
A laugh that sounded more manic than mirthful bubbled out of my mouth. “Fine? Sure, okay, it’s fine. Lorne is blowing up my phone right now because it’s fine.”
“Well, what do you want me to do? Shut down the internet?”
“I told you why I want my privacy. I told you how shitty the media’s treated me. This might seem insignificant to you, but something like this can bring all the shit that happened to me back up again.”
For the first time since I stepped inside, Gwen’s expression morphed into something other than calm indifference. Her lips thinned and her jaw tightened. She scoffed and turned her brown eyes on me.
“You’re acting like I wanted this to happen,” she said, her voice tinged with something dark.
I reeled back. “I’m not—no one’s accusing you of anything.”
“So why are you acting like I’m the bad guy here?”
“You’re not! You’re not, okay? But what’s happening right now is because of one of those political journals.”
“The Conservative hardly counts as a political journal—”
“And I feel like I’m crazy because I’m the only one taking this seriously.”
“I am taking it seriously, I just recognize that this isn’t the end of the world.”
I felt like screaming, but all I could work out of my mouth was, “Well it certainly feels close.”
Gwen drained her cup of coffee and walked briskly out of the room to refill it. “You’re being overdramatic.”
Another near-hysterical laugh bubbled out of me. “Overdramatic? My privacy’s been violated! You know, your campaign isn’t the only one this thing can have an effect on. Just when I’m about to step back into spotlight, I turn into another headline, do you know how that feels?”
She turned around and pinned me with a glare that might have leveled me had I not been buzzing with emotion. “You’re not pissed because your privacy’s been violated. You’re pissed because now you might not be able to play in a stupid no-stakes charity game with people you don’t even like,” she spat.
I reared back. Her words were a physical weight pushing against my chest, pulling the air out of my lungs.
Gwen had always been honest to a brutal extent. It was terrifying. It was sexy. It was refreshing and too much and exactly what I needed most of the time. Right now, it was the last thing I wanted to hear.
The coffee maker beeped to life and slowly filled the mug. She didn’t speak again until it was finished, making each second more maddening than the last. Always so calm, always so in control. My world might not have been ending, but right then, it felt like she wouldn’t have cared if it were.
When the coffee maker beeped again, Gwen picked the mug up, but didn’t take a sip. She was back to not looking at me.
When she spoke again, her voice was quietly condescending. “The sports rags are going to pick up on this. Fine, okay. But then someone’s going to get into a fight, or their baby mama’s gonna get pregnant, and then they’ll forget all about this—about you—again. You’re not even in the league anymore. Ask your agent, she’ll tell you that if you lie low, this whole thing will blow over. There’s no limelight for them to stalk you in.”
“And what about you? What about Jeffrey’s campaign? Gwen—”
She rolled her eyes. “Like I said, you’re overthinking this.”
“Maybe this was a mistake.”
The words were out of my mouth before I could process them. I wanted to bite them back in my mouth, but it was too late.
I could pin the exact moment Gwen shut down completely. Her face smoothed out, deceptively expressionless. She took a slow sip of her coffee, her eyes locked on mine.
“You know what? Maybe this was,” she said coolly.
I took a step forward and reached out to touch her, but couldn’t make myself bridge the distance between us completely. “I didn’t mean that. All I’m saying is, whatever this is—”
“Obviously it wasn’t much,” Gwen cut in swiftly, monotone yet somehow cutting.
And past tense.
Annoyance warred with the guilt and panic, causing my fingers to clench. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend like this doesn’t matter.”
“It doesn’t. I already told you this isn’t a big deal. I had to spend god knows how long explaining that to a group of easily spooked career politicians. Don’t make me explain it to you, too.”
Her nostrils flared as shifted into full bulldozer mode, eyes guarded and defensive. “It will. So, what, you got caught with your sugar momma fuck buddy coming out of a bar, and now a Fox News reject of an online community got their hands on it. It will blow over. Don’t be such a coward.”
My face flared hot. I wanted to put space between us, but I couldn’t bring my legs to move.
“I am not a coward. Not wanting my name plastered all over everything so people can discuss my life and trash me all over again doesn't make me a coward.”
Gwen was starting to look just as mad as I felt. “I’m running a campaign with everyone breathing down my back, and I’m still going. Why can’t you? This was supposed to be fun, Jackie. Why make this—us— difficult?”
“Because I’m not like you. I don’t have a single-minded focus to say ‘fuck you’ to everything that gets in my way. I can’t not care.”
Something soft flickered over Gwen’s face. “I care.”
“Yeah? You sure got a shitty way of showing it.” The corners of my mouth twitched up even though I felt anything amused. “You know, I’m starting to think I really do have a type. I just can’t seem to stop falling for women who won’t hesitate to step on me to get what they want.”
Gwen flinched back as if I’d physically struck her. Through the dark pump of pain in my chest, I stupidly felt I pretty much had.
But Gwen was nothing if not in control, and her face was back to neutral indifference before I could process the pain in my heart. She took another sip of coffee and hummed. “I was right about it blowing over, you know. Especially now that you and I aren’t going to be seeing each other anymore.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded. “You’re probably right.”
A flicker of emotion crossed her face too quickly for me to catch. A cool mask of disdain settled over her features. “I guess that’s that, then.”
She brushed past me and to the front door. She opened it wordlessly. I forced my feet to move. I didn’t—couldn’t—look at her. The cool air outside did nothing to sober the mess of thoughts in my head as she closed the door behind me. I just stood there, staring at the glinting pavement below, as the hole inside me expanded.
There was nowhere to go, so I headed home.
The moment I got home, I face-planted into the couch and wondered how long it would take the faded cushions to suffocate me. I hadn’t realized how long I’d been lying there until I heard the door open and close, followed by the clacking of heels on wood. I didn’t bother to look up until something was thrown at my head.
I saw see Olivia in her date night best, holding a roll of tissue over her head, ready to fire.
“Were you seriously throwing tissue at me?” I grumbled.
She lowered her hand and shrugged. “I picked some up after my date with Daniel. Figured you’d need some, since you always need some.”
I picked up the roll she’d thrown at me and set it on the table. “I forget.”
“Yet you always remember to buy that godawful low fat yogurt.”
Olivia pushed me until I moved over and made room for her on the couch. I looked pointedly over to the perfectly empty loveseat on the other side. She pointedly ignored me.
“So,” she said as she idly tossed the tissue roll to herself, “notice anything different about me?”
“Is this a trick question?”
She punched me in the arm. “I’m serious! Notice anything different?”
I ran a hand over my face and sighed. Okay, I could play this game.
The first thing I looked at was her face. She was smiling, which wasn’t unusual, but her eyes looked red-rimmed under smudged mascara. I scanned down to her red dress and tall heels. She looked beautiful, but I was sure if I said that was different about her, she’d probably punch me again.
“I don’t—is that a fucking rock on your hand?”
Olivia squealed and shoved her hand in my face. “Yes! He proposed, can you fucking believe it? He fucking proposed!”
“Oh my god, that’s amazing!” I grabbed her hand and inspected the ring with a growing sense of mingled alarm and happiness. “Jesus Christ.”
“I know, right?” She gushed.
That rock was impressive, and definitely out of reach of Daniel’s tech startup salary. “Did he rob a bank?”
“I don’t know, and frankly, I do not care.”
She got up and twirled. I laughed even as I felt the sinkhole widening in my stomach.
I was happy for her, I really was. She and Daniel had been together longer than I’d known her, and I’d never once doubted they were meant for each other. In a way, I had been waiting for this day for years, but I felt blindsided all the same. This wasn’t about me, but I felt like this was some sort of cosmic punishment building on the pain of my not-breakup with Gwen.
Because wives don’t have roommates. Wives move into shabby one-bedroom apartments with their husbands and work on building a life together, and there would be no room for me in that.
I felt guilty about making Olivia’s big day all about me, so I forced a smile. “When’s the wedding? If he doesn’t get arrested before then, of course.”
“I don’t know! There was a lot of screaming and crying—mostly from me—and then I ran here to tell you. Now I have to tell my parents, and all of Facebook and Instagram, and—you know how it goes. We’ll figure all that stuff out later.”
Knowing she’d told me before she even told her parents made me feel even guiltier.
I took a second to drink it all in. Happiness looked good on her. Seeing her now made it clear that I hadn’t seen her this genuinely happy in a long time.
“I’m really happy for your, Liv,” I told her, voice softer and a little sadder than I would have liked.
Luckily, she was too ecstatic to notice. With another exaggerated twirl, she beamed at me. “Thanks, Jackie. You know you’re gonna be my maid of honor whether you like it or not, right?”
My eyes widened. “Not your sister?”
“If you remember, Tameka let her pet Yorkie be her maid of honor instead of me when she got married, so no.”
I laughed, feeling a little lighter. “Okay then, yes. I will be your maid of honor so you can get revenge on your sister letting you be upstaged by a dog.”
Her face suddenly turned serious. “And because you’re my best friend,” she said sternly. She stooped to wrap me up in a hug. I returned it tenfold. When she pulled away, it felt like the first step in losing her.
The grin was back on Olivia’s face with a vengeance. She started furiously tapping on her phone with one hand while the other tugged off her heels. “I have to go call fifty relatives and update my relationship status on Facebook. You know, adult things. Oh! I’m ordering pizza tonight, with pineapples. Don’t give me that look! I’m freaking engaged here!”
She bounced down the hall, still tapping. I called after her.
“Wait . . . You went on a date, got proposed to, then went to the store and bought me toilet paper?”
She leaned back out of the hallway and shrugged. “You needed it.” Her tapping stopped. “Hey, are you okay? You seem off.”
Despite her obviously genuine concern for me, she was still glowing with happiness. The sheer wattage of her smile made the dark pit inside me feel a little less consuming.
I couldn’t ruin her high, not tonight. That could wait.
“I’m good. Go yell on Facebook and get congratulated by people who haven’t talked to you since high school.”
I watched her go with fondness and something akin to loss in my heart. This felt like the beginning of an end I wasn’t prepared for.
Twelve
Gwen
Jeffrey and I hardly talked at all the day of the second debate. Dick carted him around on a bunch of last-minute meetings and press runs, all which I was privy to
by text messages from Rita relaying the details. It was hard not to take it as some punishment for the Conservative article.
It wasn’t until twenty minutes before the start of the debate that we ended up in the same room. I could tell by the way he avoided eye contact as I stormed up that he knew exactly where this was headed.
“Have fun with Dick and Jane today?” I asked, pitching my voice in a mockery of cheerfulness.
Jeffrey winced. “I emailed you that he had some last-minute stuff lined up for me I couldn’t get out of.”
“And yet I had to talk to Rita to get updates.” I took a deep breath and fought the urge to press the heels of my hands into my eyes. I didn’t have enough time to fix my mascara. “Just—tell me straight, Jeffrey. Is your father trying to ice me out on this?”
“You know I wouldn’t let him do that.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
With a sigh, he turned and looked me in the eye for the first time. His blue eyes were ringed with dark circles. I distantly realized I’d forgotten their color.
“Jane . . . mentioned to my father that it might be best to minimize our public interaction before the debate,” he said, words clipped, like he was forcing out each syllable.
I had been anticipating it, but I still felt stung. “They have no right to sideline me!”
A volunteer signaled there were five minutes left until start time. Osten must have been in the building by then, but I hadn’t seen a glimpse of him since I’d set foot in the auditorium. Dick, too, had made himself scarce. Smart man.
“You are absolutely right,” Jeffrey said with conviction, “and I humored him today, but only because I didn’t want to cause a scene before this debate. I don’t want to give him an excuse to make a bigger fuss about it later.”
Part of me was torn—torn between acknowledging that Jeffrey knew his father better than I did and had probably taken the right course of action, and feeling betrayed that he hadn’t stuck up for me more. That was Jeffrey, though. Always non-confrontational, always a bit of a Daddy’s boy.
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