Boys’ voices echoed from the locker room.
“Sounds like your friends are here.” Lucas waded to the other corner and ascended the ladder with the fluidity of the water he so loved. His wet feet slapped the tiles as he disappeared into the locker room, towel in hand.
His cap was still floating before her. Anya plucked it from the pool, flapped the latex until it was mostly dry, and stuffed it into her pocket.
Chapter Ten
Alex
Alex crinkled his nose at the unfamiliar number brightening his phone screen. He tended not to answer those anymore, but the area code was Buffalo-based. He hit Accept. “Hello?”
“Sasha?” A woman’s melodic voice, tinged with the distinct weariness of middle age and tight around the edges.
“This is he.”
“Hey, it’s Hannah. Hannah Kent?”
“Of course.” Something lit up in him, fizzed like a Fourth-of-July sparkler. He chalked it up to heartburn from the tacos Anya had insisted on for dinner. “How are you?”
“I’m doing well, thanks. I was calling to see if you’d like to have coffee tomorrow.”
“I, um…” His mouth wrenched itself into a smile. “Are you asking me on a date?”
She uttered a dulcet laugh. “Depends on whether your answer is yes or no. But no pressure. Although we were technically co-workers for almost ten years.”
And never spoke. Stephanie hadn’t been a jealous woman, for the most part; instead, the conviction that he wasn’t worth speaking to had driven him to avoid Hannah and most other people not within his immediate circle. “I suppose coffee is the least I could do, then. All right. Where and when?”
“The Coffee Roastery, two o’clock?”
“Sounds good. I’ll see you then.”
Anya came thumping down the stairs on her way to her final game before Christmas break. Alex stuck his phone into his jeans pocket.
“Hey, Dad. Ready? Also, what is up with that smile?”
The sudden rush of heat to his face startled him. “I…think I was just asked out on a date. It’s just coffee, but…is that a date? It’s been almost twenty years, and before your mother I didn’t even date so much as just—um, never mind.”
“You’re babbling.” Anya’s eyes twinkled. “You’re nervous.”
“I’m not even sure why I said yes, I just thought…” He made a hmm sound deep in his throat. Stop talking.
“Is it Hannah?”
Alex searched those blue eyes and found Stephanie gazing back at him. “Are you okay with that?”
“Just coffee, right?” Anya’s expression had gone stony. She picked up her stick and shuffled toward the garage.
“Right. Just coffee. I am a little nervous, though.” Include her, somehow. “You’ll help me figure out something to wear tomorrow?”
“Of course, Dad.” She didn’t look back at him.
Alex hoisted her bag and carried it out to the BMW, where he tossed it into the backseat. Anya slid her stick in and buckled into the passenger seat.
“You like her, don’t you?”
“I think it’s a little early to tell, baby girl.” Alex patted her knee. “I barely know her. We’ve run into each other a few times at events and the arena, but the induction ceremony was the first real conversation we’ve ever had.” The garage door shuddered and squealed open as he observed in the rearview mirror. Always something to fix in a house this size. “I’ll be sure to report back tomorrow, though.”
“You better tell me everything.”
Her tone suggested the wish for complete disaster. Still stewing over Thanksgiving. Alex twisted around to peer through the back window as he edged down the driveway and into the street. “So…I wanted to apologize for embarrassing you on Thanksgiving. I know he’s someone you have to see every day, and I’m sorry for what I said.”
“You were right, Dad. What reason could he have for hanging around me?” She scraped a stray lock of hair behind her ear, the rest in a ponytail. “And I was obsessing over some stupid guy when I have a million more important things to think about.”
His bullshit detector had gone off about five minutes earlier. She was feeding him the lines he wanted to hear. “And you’re not just saying that for my benefit?”
“No.” She fixed her attention straight ahead. She was as bad a liar as her mother had been. “I’ll be going away to school, you’ll maybe have someone to keep you company so I don’t have to worry about you, and I just don’t have time for relationship drama right now.”
“I think that’s a wise choice. You’ll have all the time in the world.” At least, that’s how it feels when you’re seventeen. You didn’t anticipate, even for one second, life might one day pull the rug out from under you. The capriciousness with which Stephanie had entered and exited his life exhibited a remarkable magnificence and cruelty all at once. The cold, calculating beauty of an uncaring universe.
Alex idled at the ice center’s back entrance and kissed Anya’s cheek. “Good luck, milaya.”
“Thanks, Dad. See you later.”
She’s better off, he thought as he located a parking spot. He hadn’t applied for a handicapped placard despite his doctor’s urging. I can walk, goddamn it, though less than two blocks without stopping to rest. It was enough to qualify him as disabled. He refused the label, resisted caving to the incessant ankle pain confirmed by his doctor as arthritis and exacerbated by his old injury. Sooner rather than later, he’d be walking with a cane again, this time permanently.
He’d seen the way Anya gawked at that Lucas boy. Recognized it immediately. Lucas would wait, if it were meant to be. Love waited, even as it hid from them how much time they’d sacrificed until it was too late.
***
Anya
Anya trudged into the fitness room with her athletic tape and pre-wrap, hopped onto a table, and stretched her leg. She started working on the pre-wrap.
“Hey. Let me get that for you.” Lucas pried the roll from her grasping hands. The image of his gorgeous body, the feel of his skin, was embossed on her brain. She did not need him further enhancing the picture by touching her.
“I can do it myself,” she snapped.
Lucas smiled with the patience of someone used to dealing with temperamental children. “It’s my job, remember?”
“Believe me, I remember.”
Breath hissed through his nose. Annoyed? Frustrated? Whatever. Screw him. “Anya, I didn’t mean to—”
“Give me the wrong idea? It doesn’t matter.”
Austin, her right-winger, glanced in their direction and cocked an eyebrow. She knew he believed he ought to have been named captain. He’d be looking for a reason to get her into trouble, so she dropped her voice.
“I’ve decided to go to Boston anyway.”
“Oh.” He squirted some adhesive on the pre-wrap in a flagrant dismissal of her ability to do it herself. “Well, that’s good. You should do what’s best for you.”
She yanked her foot away. “I hate you. Go tape someone else.”
“Anya,” Lucas whispered. “I’m having a Christmas party this weekend. This completely violates school policy, but I’d like it if you stopped by. I’ll text you my address.”
“What part of ‘I hate you’ don’t you understand?”
Not buying a single thing she was selling, he angled his body so no one saw him squeeze her hand. Those shoulders could block an entire football team. “Good luck tonight.”
She traced the geometric patterns on his forearm. No wonder Dad was so nervous about dating again. Confusion, pain, misery…Life handed you enough of that without channeling it through the one thing meant to make it all worthwhile.
Lucas withdrew, his fingers grazing her bare leg.
“Thanks,” she croaked, but he was already at another table, taping her right-winger’s elbow.
***
“What about this? I want to be casual, but not sloppy.” Dad held up a charcoal gray V-neck sweater.
> “You’ve never looked sloppy in your life.”
“You don’t remember when you were a baby.” He pressed a fist to his lips as if to hold back a laugh. Or a sob, whichever emotion his memories of Mom inspired today. “I think I slept about twenty minutes for the first six months.”
“It’s fine, Dad.”
“With these?” He was wearing a pair of relaxed-fit jeans in a light blue wash. They did compliment his butt, which was gross.
“Yes. What about shoes?”
Dad examined his gigantic shoe rack lining an entire half of the closet floor. Mom hadn’t given a damn about shoes beyond comfort, but Dad owned a pair for all conceivable occasions. Mostly derbies, in every style and color, along with a few slip-ons, sandals, and sneakers. All of them huge to accommodate his size thirteen feet.
“If Mom was here and you were going on a date, what would you wear?”
His crystalline eyes reddened, though he was smiling. “I never had to impress her. Not that I didn’t try anyway.”
“Because she adored you, and you’re naturally charming. It’s the accent. Chicks love accents.”
A robust laugh bellowed out of him. “She loved my eyes too. And my butt.”
“Okay, gross. You do have pretty eyes though. I’ll give you that.”
Dad groaned, his temperament as volatile as weather on a mountain. He was blinking too much as he rubbed a hand over his chest. “This feels wrong. I know she would want this for me, but…”
Anya selected a pair of gray suede wingtips with a contrast sole. As ill-equipped as she was for the prospect of Dad plunging back into the dating game, one more second of his self-imposed isolation threatened to crush them both. “These. They don’t look like you’re trying too hard, but they’re not as casual as sneakers.”
“Spasiba, milaya.” Dad stuffed his big feet into them and bent to tie them.
“Just coffee, remember? It’s not that serious.”
“Da. Well, I guess I better get going. You have any plans?”
“Not until tonight. Friend’s Christmas party.” Still waiting on the text message, unless Lucas had decided she wasn’t worth the drama. She kept her face averted and prayed Dad wouldn’t pressure her for details. “So I’ll be here when you get back.”
“Okay. I won’t be long. I’m not trying to rush it, but—”
Anya flung her arms around him. “Go, Dad. Have a good time.”
Dad grabbed his pea coat from the closet by the front door. He glanced back at her, his face pale and strained with tension, his cheeks fiery. “See you later.”
Anya trotted upstairs to her room. Dad had chosen to adorn the walls here not with staged portraits but candid snapshots chronicling Mom’s life through his eyes—working on a story at her computer, cheering Anya on at a hockey game, chatting with guests at one of their summer patio parties. He’d included one of all three of them, Anya just four at the time and Mom planting a kiss on his cheek as, grinning, he thrust his Certificate of Naturalization toward the camera. Mom forever inhabited these real, living moments, the suspended seconds from which she peered out into their lives and they into hers in the only way their existences still overlapped. A parallel dimension right beside them yet just out of sight, out of touch, and utterly inaccessible.
Anya dug the bags and boxes containing Dad’s Christmas presents out from under her bed. Perfect time to wrap them. Above her, her phone bleeped. She groped around for it on the mattress.
Lucas: 551 Waverly St unit 305. Starting up around 9.
A condo. Nice. Fifty grand a year did go a lot farther in Buffalo than in most other cities.
Anya: OK see u then.
Lucas: Just keep it quiet. Technically not supposed to be there :)
No shit.
Anya: I know, won’t say a word.
She peeled away the plastic from a roll of gold paper with silver sparkles in the shape of tree ornaments, retrieved her scissors and Scotch tape from the desk, and got to work. She’d figure out what to wear tonight later. She didn’t plan to stay long.
***
Alex
Alex scoured the lot outside the downtown shopping center, next to the café, and parked in the closest available spot. Still more of a hike than he preferred, considering Western New York’s ubiquitous snow and ice and his problematic mobility. He was not yet primed to acknowledge the man in the mirror—with the graying hair, the fine lines on his face like a map folded over and over, and the arthritis—as himself. When did I become middle-aged?
There was a regrettable lack of tea at this café, so he ordered a cup of vanilla almond coffee, picked up a complimentary newspaper, and sat by the windows. Luck permitting, Hannah would cancel. Maybe he should’ve canceled. He checked his phone for the message allowing him to return to his comfortable, if not pleasurable, exile.
“Hi, Sasha. Glad you could make it.”
Alex rose and shook Hannah’s hand. “Privét.”
“I didn’t mention this at the ceremony, but you’re even more handsome in person.”
His ears heated like the coils of an electric stove burner. His toes—the ones he could feel and move—crimped in his shoes.
“I’m going to grab a cup. Be right back.”
Alex fidgeted in his seat like a child with an urgent need to pee. He pushed up his sleeves, the café too warm. Hannah returned a few minutes later with a large ceramic cup and slid into the chair across from him. She maintained an effortless glamour achieved once a woman reached her forties, having identified the superficial, please-your-man bullshit screeched from magazine racks and checkout lines for what it was. She was thriving on her own terms.
Hannah straightened her tailored black jacket. She sported the precise, squared-off nails of someone who indulged in a weekly manicure, painted a glitter-flecked shade of cabernet sauvignon. It would be called something like Rocket’s Red Glare or Ruby Red Slippers. He’d learned this from the bottles of Anya’s nail polish lying around her room and sometimes the kitchen. “I’ll be honest; my friends have been pushing me to get back out there. I got divorced a couple years ago. Dating is never easy, but at our age…” She smirked and sipped her coffee. “I doubt that’s an issue for you.”
“I haven’t been on a date since I was twenty-six, and that was with my wife-to-be. I have no idea what I’m doing.” Alex offered what he hoped was a consoling smile.
“I am so sorry about your wife, Sasha.” Hannah laid a pregnant gaze on his wedding ring. He curled his fingers as though they were withering beneath her stare, slugs salted by a curious—perhaps spiteful—child, and dropped the offending hand into his lap.
“Spas—uh, thank you.”
“That’s her?” She nodded at his forearm.
“Oh. Da.” He maneuvered his arm so she could view the photorealistic tattoo. The artist had captured each detail, down to Stephanie’s freckles.
“It’s certainly a statement.”
Alex cocked his head. Machines whirred on the other side of the shop, the nutty, smoky aroma of roasting beans permeating every corner.
“It says there won’t be another woman in your life.”
He tugged his sleeve down, his throat constricting and his blood pressure skyrocketing. “She was the love of my life since I was sixteen. I’ll never get over her. I’ll just learn how to live without her.” Alex drained his diabetic nightmare of a coffee and stood up. “I don’t think this was a good idea. I’m sorry.”
She gazed at him with gray eyes that had witnessed their fair share of pain. Barely capable of handling his own, he strode away. His ankle griped, as it did more often in the cold. He pressed Unlock on the key fob, desperate for escape, for the lonely but unassailable routine to which he’d become accustomed in his solitary suburban fortress.
“Sasha.”
His shoulders sagged. Reluctant, he faced her.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you, or-or judge you, whatever it sounded like I was doing.”
“I
know. I just—my daughter is getting ready for college and a potential pro hockey career, and I don’t even know what the hell I’m doing with my life right now.”
Hannah stuck out her hand. “Truce? Can we do this over, maybe?”
Alex wove his fingers through his hair. “I’d like to get to know you, but I don’t think I can be what you’re looking for. Not right now. I was widowed, and that’s worlds apart from being divorced.”
“Fair enough.” She let her hand drop. Her eyes watered, but the tears didn’t fall. “Well, it was worth a shot, right? I ‘got out there.’” She air-quoted. “I sort of assumed it would last longer than ten minutes, though.”
Alex scrubbed a hand over his mouth, his bearded chin, and stared at the sidewalk. “I am such an asshole.”
“No—I put my foot in my mouth. You have every right to walk away angry. Who am I to tell you how to memorialize your wife or how other women will interpret it? God.” Sneering, she shook her head. A fringe of hair tumbled into her face. “No wonder I’m divorced, huh?”
Alex set a hand on her shoulder. “Listen. Give me a couple days and…let’s pretend this didn’t happen. I’ll call you.”
Her eyes crinkled. “I’ll take it.”
He meant to let go, but something in him craved human contact, a reminder of his own humanity. A reawakening of parts dormant since Stephanie’s passing. Nearly a year and a half since the last time he and Stephanie made love, he wasn’t at all certain his cock functioned in that capacity anymore. Hadn’t even cared once tending to her and raising Anya developed into his full-time job, though it often seemed he’d failed miserably at the latter. Sexual urges transformed into a symptom of selfishness he’d learned to repress. In the year following Stephanie’s death, even the indulgence of masturbation left him so guilt-ridden for putting himself first, he lost his erection halfway through the act if not sooner.
The Pieces Of Us (The Firebird Trilogy Book 3) Page 10