Game Player

by B. J. Harvey

  Silence fills the cab yet again, and with no attempt at explaining her actions, I finally give up the ghost.

  “Jesus Christ, you wreck me,” I say to the windscreen, my fingers gripped tight around the steering wheel.

  “You do it to yourself, Matt,” she replies flatly, her voice void of any emotion.

  Hearing that, I whirl around in my seat, frustration and anger returning tenfold in the blink of an eye. “No, Mia, it’s you. First you want me, then you don’t. Hell, just tonight you’ve gone from saying you want me to making a scene in front of everyone because I spoke to another woman.” I turn back to face the windscreen, thumping my fists down on the dash then staring out the window blankly, my shoulders slumped down in defeat and resignation. “You’re lying to everyone about who you are and what you want. Most importantly, who you want to give it to you.”

  “Matt, if you just—”

  Dad always told me to never make a decision in the heat of the moment because I’ll risk regretting it down the line, but right now, I have to look after myself and retreat for the sake of my mental health.

  I turn my head and meet her eyes, saying the words I never imagined I’d have to say to the woman sitting in front of me—the first woman I’ve ever fallen in love with—knowing that what I’m about to do will put everything between us on the line. “This hot and cold act is giving me whiplash. Until you can actually trust me to do right by you and accept that this is good between us, we can’t do this. For my own fucking sanity, I can’t do this.”

  It’s been two weeks since I gave Mia space. Fourteen days where she hasn’t called, hasn’t sent me a text, or hasn’t come knocking on my door begging for me to give us—her—another chance. To be honest, that’s all she’d have to do. I never planned on making her work hard for it; I just need her to make the gesture—something to show me that she does trust me enough to look after her and not fuck her over.

  I know there’s a reason for her reluctance to fully trust me. But let’s be honest, she can take my cock without a rubber but won’t open up emotionally? There’s more to a relationship than just opening your legs, and I want her to realize that I’m not just with her for sex. I can get easy, mindless, no-strings sex anywhere—and I have in the past—but it was never that with Mia. Getting so close to having it all only to have her stumble at the first hurdle is frustrating as fuck.

  Sunday night, the guys and I meet at Sean’s place for our monthly poker night.

  “What’s wrong with you? You look like someone shit in your Wheaties,” Noah says as he deals out a new hand.

  “Just leave it,” I say gruffly, not wanting the guys to wade in and dissect the discarded remains of my relationship, the one that Mia didn’t even hesitate to throw away.

  “He’s been like this all week,” Jase says.

  “C’mon, Matt, we’re all women here. You can tell us,” Daniel adds with a laugh, the rest of the table chuckling along with him.

  “You really don’t want to know,” I grumble. “Hell, I don’t want to know and it’s my own fucking life.”

  “Shit, man. What happened?” Noah asks. Like he doesn’t fucking know—he would’ve seen Mia this week.

  I spare a look at Zander who leans back in his chair, cradling a beer bottle in his hand, studying me. Scanning the table, I see men who have their women in their beds, women who gave them a chance and didn’t flounder at the first fork in the road.

  Strong women who trust them wholeheartedly.

  Women who aren’t fucked up, like Mia is.

  I stare at my brother, his amused grin fading when he reads my expression. He sombers and raises an eyebrow at me. I give a quick shake of my head in response, and he narrows his eyes before looking back to the chips in the middle of the table.

  “Are we playing poker or growing vaginas? I thought this was a night with the guys—no pussy talk allowed?” he pipes up.

  I breathe a sigh of relief that Noah has my back. I know he’s gonna push the issue later, and I need to talk to him about it in order to process the ten million things I have on my mind but now is not the time.

  The rest of the night passes without issue and without mention of Mia. I’m even surprised when Zander just pats me on the back and shoots me a sympathetic look before he leaves.

  When I get home to my empty apartment and empty bed, something that never used to bother me but I definitely notice now, I decide to give Mia a time limit. She can have one more week, and if I don’t hear from her, I’ll be forced to instigate Operation Sort Her Head Out.

  I roll over in bed and feel sick at what I know I have to do. The same feeling I’ve had since last night when I brought up Matt’s name on my phone and sent him a text message.

  Mia—Hi. Can you come over tomorrow morning?

  I didn’t receive a response straight away. It was nine p.m. on a Saturday night, two weeks after the anniversary party disaster. I figured he was probably out doing something—or someone. My stomach rolls at the thought.

  Five minutes later, he’d replied.

  Matt—Okay. I’ll be there around nine.

  Now it’s the morning, and it hits me that this is actually going to happen. I’m going to see Matt for the first time in two weeks. Two weeks that have driven me totally bat shit crazy. I can almost empathize with the bunny boiler from Throb that night almost two months ago.

  You don’t seem to appreciate what you’ve got until it’s gone, and then you go postal and want to hunt him down, tie him to the bed and hold him hostage. Or so I’ve heard . . .

  I jump out of bed—a little too fast—and brace myself against my dresser as I wait for my head to feel like it’s connected to my body again. After a quick shower, I make sure I look good, because even though we’re not together anymore—if we ever really were—I still don’t want to look bad around him. He’s Matt, he could have anyone, and he wanted me—until I fucked everything up.

  Now, I know it was for the best, especially with what I’m about to tell him.

  I sit on a stool at the breakfast bar when he knocks on the door. I know it’s him, because nobody else would be brave enough to come over at this time of the morning.

  Feeling nervous as hell, I take a large gulp of orange juice to help my suddenly dry mouth before walking over to open the door. In that moment I’m glad I’d given him the front door code.

  Damn, he’s fresh out of the shower himself and he’s just as gorgeous as he was the last time I saw him. Why couldn’t he have gotten ugly or something? It’s plain unfair how he can look so hot when I feel like death warmed up and probably look something close to resembling it, too.

  “Hi,” he says, his eyes warm, and I swear I catch a glint of hope.

  “Hey, come in,” I say, sounding like a show home hostess. My body is tense as hell and I know he senses it when he furrows his brow and gives me a cautious look as he walks past me, taking a seat on the couch.

  “I’m glad you messaged me,” he says, before I can turn around to face him. “I was about ready to say fuck it and turn up on your doorstep.”

  My stomach rolls again, and I swallow down the bile rising up my throat. Not now. I can see how it would go. I’d go to open my mouth and instead of words, a fountain of spew would spurt from my mouth, like what happened with the chick from Pitch Perfect.

  Thankfully, that doesn’t happen to me this time instead I sit on my one-seater chair out of touching distance from him. As much as my body aches to move to him, to fall on my sword and beg him to forgive me for being a dumb-ass hormonal crazy woman who lost her mind, I can’t. Not now. Not again.

  Priorities change, goal posts shift—sometimes impossibly far—and in situations like this, looking back will never be the way to move forward.

  “Mia, are you okay?” he asks, moving along the couch to get closer to me.

  “No!” I shout a little too loud, considering he’s only ten feet away from me. “You need to stay there.”

  His head jerks back at my ton
e and he bites his lip, studying me. “What’s wrong, Legs?”

  Why do I like him calling me that so much?

  I shift in the chair, but I can’t get comfortable. Crawling out of my skin, I stand up and pace toward the kitchen then back again, stopping opposite the coffee table and putting my hands on my hips. I look down at the wide-eyed man who I wish I could touch, hold, kiss, and do other stuff to right now.

  But then I don’t want to do all of those things because they lead to situations like the one I find myself in now.

  No, no more touching, holding, kissing or other stuff.

  My mood changes on the turn of a dime, and my anger returns. Good, this is what I need. Anger and frustration take hold of me again, having given me only a brief respite when I was nervous, scared, and worried. I decide to get it all over and done with before I lose my resolve.

  “Mia, beautiful, tell me what’s wrong? Is it your mom?” he asks. He leans forward, resting his bent arms on his knees and giving me a concerned look.

  “No, Mom’s fine. I saw her last weekend. She’s good,” I reply, and I watch his shoulders drop in relief.

  “Are you okay? Whatever it is, we can talk about it. I’m not going anywhere.”

  God! Why can’t he just be an asshole? Right now would be the perfect time for him to show me that cocky arrogant attitude of his.

  “I thought I should tell you . . . well, you see . . .” Suddenly, the words I’d been rehearsing for the past twenty-four hours just disappear from my head. Poof, and they’re gone.

  Okay, there’s no better way than just blurting it out. Women have been doing this for years; I need to grab my lady balls and just get it over and done with. “You’re free, Matt. I’m letting you off the hook.”

  “You’re letting me off the hook?”

  “Yeah.”

  “For what exactly?” he asks, his tone incredulous.

  “I’m pregnant,” I say quickly, and his eyes grow as wide as his mouth gapes open, so I continue, finally remembering what I wanted to say. “I know this is a shock for you and really not what you were expecting but—”

  “Fuck. That,” he spits out as he jumps to his feet but surprisingly, he doesn’t move toward me. “I’m already hooked. Now, because I’m giving you space, you think I wouldn’t want to be with you and the baby?” He pauses for a moment, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he stares at his shoes.

  Before I can say anything more, his head snaps up. “We’ve got to get married,” he announces.

  “What the fuck?” I whisper incredulously, and I try to replay the last few minutes in my mind, wondering when Matt got a brain transplant—and the wrong one at that.

  He rounds the table and stands in front of me, cupping my shoulder with one hand and resting the other lightly over my stomach. “We can get married. I’ll probably need to talk to Mom; she’s good at all that shit after Noah’s wedding. She’ll know what to do,” he continues, making my head feel like a ticking time bomb that’s about to explode.

  “Matt . . .” I say, wanting to move away from him but finding myself unable to.

  “And then I’ll need to find us a house to move in to until I can build the one you want.”

  “Matt . . .”

  He steps closer, his hand at my shoulder sliding around to the back of my neck and holding me in place while he ducks his head down to look me in the eye. “I’m going to be here for both of you. I’ll take care of everything.”

  “Matt!” I shout, shoving his hand away and stepping back. “You’re not listening to me. You don’t have to do anything. We don’t have to do anything. I’ll either move in with Zoe and Noah or I’ll go back home and stay with Mom.”

  “The fuck you will,” he snarls. “You’re mine; the baby growing inside you here is mine.” He flexes his fingers against my stomach. “And l look after everything that is mine.”

  This conversation has not gone the way I expected. I thought he’d be relieved I wasn’t holding him responsible. I mean, yes, the two of us had sex—a lot of it actually—and obviously I fucked up somewhere along the line and missed a pill or whatnot, but I never expected him to lay claim to the baby and especially not me, too.

  I know he’s a good guy—the best, actually—but someone like him should want to be free to sow his wild oats and all that shit.

  “We need to stop fucking around,” I state, trying to get him to see sense.

  “Yes, we do,” he agrees. “Finally, something we agree on. That means that we’re together. We’re going to raise this baby together. I’m going to marry you, and I’m going to support you. All of this we can do together.” He’s preaching by the end of his speech, his voice growing louder with every proclamation. Even still, as much as his words are the right ones and what any woman—pregnant or not—would want to hear, I’m not normal, and I don’t want him to stick around out of obligation. Matthew Taylor has many faults but not accepting responsibility is not one of them.

  “Sounds great, Matt, fantastic,” I say sarcastically. “Except the fact that I don’t want you to do that!”

  I may have said the words, but inside the lie I tell shreds me like a knife. I’m so determined to protect myself—and my heart—that I’m sacrificing myself now rather than leaving myself open to hurt further down the line.

  Like Dad did to Mom.

  Matt tilts his head and his glare turns dangerous. “You don’t want what?” he says in a quiet voice.

  “Any of it.” I turn my back to him and walk over to the kitchen counter, bracing my hands on the edge and leaning into it. My head slumps, and I try to fight back the tears welling in my eyes. My voice drops low, my voice cracking as I dig the knife in deeper. “You want to be a part of your child’s life, Matt? That’s fine. Great, in fact. I won’t stop you from doing that, but you and me living happily ever after together is never gonna happen. That’s just not you, and I don’t want us to resent each other in five, ten, twenty years’ time when you realize that you only stuck by me because of the baby.” I take a deep breath, mainly to quell the nausea and stop myself from puking, but also to calm myself, and continue. “You’re not responsible for me, Matt, only for our child, if you want to be.”

  He growls, literally fucking growls, and I turn around to see him storming toward the front door. My heart stops in my chest at the thought of him leaving and never coming back, even after the lies I just told him.

  Just when I think he’s going to go, he stops at the door and stares at the wood for a long time, his shoulders bunched tight and his hand gripping the handle like his life depends on it. Slowly turning around, he pins me to the spot with a determined glare, and my breath stutters at the look of sheer determination on his face.

  “You never really gave me a chance, did you, Mia?” he says, his tone despondent.

  His words shock me. “I did.”

  “That’s bullshit,” he spits out. “because the first speed bump we have and you’re shutting me out.”

  “This isn’t a speed bump, Matt. It’s a motherfucking mountain.”

  “One which I’m willing to scale with you, but you’ve already decided that it’s too hard for me, right? Matt the Player couldn’t possibly want a real relationship with the Queen of Serial Dating could he?” The jibe is harsh but effective, hitting me right where it hurts. “It’s good to know you think you know me better than I know myself.”

  “I don’t want to trap you,” I shout. “You like me, you like having sex with me, but this isn’t a game now, Matt. This . . .” I circle my stomach, “ . . . is as real as it gets.”

  “I fucking know that, and I’m telling you now—a-fucking-gain—that I’m going to love that baby as much as I love the woman carrying it.”

  My mouth opens to argue with him but my entire body stills when what he just said registers. “What?” I whisper, my eyes as wide as saucers.

  “You heard me,” he says gruffly. “You need to decide if that’s enough or whether you do truly want to be
alone, because I’m done trying to prove myself to you. I love you, I want you, and I want to give you everything I have or work my ass off to give it to you anyway.”

  My mouth drops open and all I can do is stare at him, my eyes no doubt bugging out because he’s dead fucking serious. Like, serious-as-a-heart-attack, serious. He’s just laid himself bare, hung it all out, and put everything in my hands.

  Then he delivers the death blow and my head explodes—metaphorically.

  “The ball’s in your court now, and it has to be you that makes the next play because I’m all out of moves.”

  With that, he disappears through the door and I’m left standing in the middle of my living room, everything I thought I knew about myself and Matt strewn all over the floor like shrapnel after an explosion.

  I’m helpless to stop the effect the showdown has on me as I slide down my wall and curl my knees up, wrapping my arms around myself when the tears finally start to fall.

  Five minutes later I’m forced to move, running to the bathroom and proceeding to bring up my breakfast and maybe a little bit of last night’s dinner just as a final “fuck you” for being such a raving bitch.

  It’s karma having the last laugh, yet again.

  Two days after screwing up.

  Two days ago, I thought I was doing what was best for myself and Matt. Two days ago, I thought I knew what I was doing.

  Two days ago, Matt proved that I have no fucking idea.

  Monday morning, I put my key into the lock of Zoe’s front door knowing I look like death warmed up; one look in the mirror this morning was all I needed. With puffy red eyes, blotchy skin, and morning sickness that has so far proved itself to be more of the all-day variety, I braced myself for Zoe’s reaction.

  After Matt left yesterday, I sent Nat a text and asked her to come over before putting my phone on silent and crawling into bed. When Nat arrived, she joined me under the covers and snuggled into me as we alternated between eating ourselves into oblivion and—for me, anyway—reliving the gorge when I brought it all back up again. If ever there was punishment for misjudging a man and cutting him to the quick without a thought, that would be it.