by S. J. Bishop
But you can’t tell my father he’s wrong. He shook his head, his chin set. “I know you’re stubborn, Annie, and you’re going to do what you’re going to do. I just don’t want to see you hurt. And I think Dash will hurt you.”
“So, do you think I’m too good for Dash, or do you think that Dash is too good for me?”
“Sweetie,” said my father, with sadness in his eyes. “Men like Dash think they’re too good for women like you.”
I sat up straighter, his words landing like blows. “Women like me as in ‘not as attractive as Becca?’ Because I’m not sure what else you’re talking about.”
My father stared at me for a long moment and then shook his head, slowly. “I just think you’re making a mistake.”
“I’m not,” I said. But I wasn’t sure I believed myself.
30
Dash
I was not looking forward to a dinner with George Brown. Even when I was married to Becca, I’d always sensed George’s disapproval. Becca didn’t have a great relationship with her father. She’d always claimed that Annie was Daddy’s Girl, not her. I had a feeling she was right. The email I’d gotten from George had made me worried that he’d show up to dinner with a shotgun.
Between training the new recruits and the backup quarterbacks, several hours of training and PT, and the drills upon drills I’d had to run with rookie running backs, linemen, and receivers, there wasn’t much time in my schedule for dinner. I’d had to push back a dinner date with Yvette in order to accommodate George. Yvette and I were planning on meeting for drinks in SoWa, near her offices.
Dinner with George would have to be short.
“Dashiell,” said George, standing as I entered the small back booth he’d secured at Henrietta’s Table. I’d never been to this particular restaurant before, although I’d known about it. The hostess had been so shocked to see me that she’d dropped the menus. I could feel the eyes of the wait staff on me and wished that George had allowed me to set the location.
George Brown was a tall man, nearly my height. I’d stared down three-hundred-pound defenders who’ve ended quarterback careers, and I hadn’t blinked. But Dr. Brown, mild-mannered professor, intimidated me.
“Hi, George,” I said. “What brings you to Boston?”
“The usual,” said George, not bothering to elaborate further. I tried not to shift nervously in my seat. “I’m not here to talk about me, and I’m not here to beat around the bush. I’m here to talk about Anne.”
Of course he was. I nodded.
“Can I be frank with you, Dashiell?”
“Please, George,” I said, cautiously.
“I don’t like that you’re dating Annie.”
Of course he didn’t. This was not going to be pleasant. I inhaled through my nose and tried to figure out how I was going to respond. “Is there anything I can say to allay some of your concerns and put your mind at ease?” I asked, finally. George liked to forget that I had been educated at an expensive prep school and had graduated from a top university.
“In fact, there isn’t,” said George. “Actions speak louder than words, and yours have spoken loudly. I understand that your marriage to my other daughter didn’t end up the way you’d wished. But it’s clear that your intentions toward Anne have never been honorable, and she deserves better.”
“With all due respect, George, you don’t know anything about my intentions…”
“I know you slept with my daughter without any intention of having a relationship with her. You used her as a way to massage your ego and get back at her sister.”
I opened my mouth but realized there wasn’t much I could say to defend myself against that allegation. So I said, “I don’t think it’s appropriate to discuss my sexual relationship with your daughter.”
George snorted, as if my avoidance had confirmed something.
“You’re not the man for Anne,” he said. “Anne is smart, and thoughtful, and kind. She’s strong and dedicated, and she’s made a good life for herself in DC. She has her friends, she has her team, and by messing around with you, she’s opened herself up to the criticism of her peers. I understand that Anne thinks she loves you – and I understand why. You’re the All-American Golden-Boy. You put on a good show. But you don’t fool me. You’re a spoiled rich kid who’s used football as a way to get life served up to you on a platter. You’ve probably never had to work at a relationship a day in your life. You’re going to crush my daughter, and I’m going to have to pick up the pieces when you do.”
Silence descended over the table. I could feel the waitress hovering just behind me, waiting for a break in our conversation.
“Is there anything else you’d like to say to me?” I was ashamed and furious at the same time. This was Anne’s father, and I couldn’t tell him to fuck off, as much as I wanted to.
“No,” said George. “I’ve said what I wanted to say.”
“Well,” I said, standing. “Since there’s nothing I can say to change your opinion of me, I’ll have to let my actions speak for me. If you’ll excuse me?”
George waved his hand at me, magnanimously. I left.
31
Anne
I knew I shouldn’t be on Twitter, but it was a rainy summer night. There were no papers to grade, no vacations to plan, and although I’d tried several times to get back into my book, my mind kept travelling to Dash.
I was tired, and my body was playing that terrible game where I wasn’t going to sleep until I heard from Dash. But it was eleven o’clock, and I still hadn’t heard from him. That meant he was probably out.
I prayed he was out with one of his teammates. He’d tell me when he called… but he wasn’t calling. So I did what I shouldn’t have done. I got my laptop out, I went onto Twitter, and I typed in ‘Dash Barnes.’
Twitter knew where he was. An hour ago, he had been at Magnum with Yvette Delacroix. For the third time. The entertainment websites were now calling her his girlfriend.
There were pictures, too. Apparently, they’d had a booth by the window, where plenty of people had gotten shots of them together. There were two photos that people kept sharing. One where Yvette had leaned in to kiss his cheek in greeting. The other where she’d leaned across the table and taken his hand in hers.
So, while I was inside, alone, on a Thursday night while my friends hit up the bars, Dash was out on his third date with a hot French model. We’re just friends. She’s dating me to make her ex jealous…
Sure she was. I felt tears prick my eyes and was even angrier. I couldn’t believe I was crying over him right now.
As if my tears has summoned him, the phone rang. I stared at it for a moment, letting it ring three times before I picked it up. I was feeling petty.
“Hello.”
“Hey, Annie,” said Dash. He sounded exhausted. Of course he did. Dating supermodels took a lot of effort.
“Hey.”
“How was your day?”
“It was okay,” I said. “How was yours?”
“Not okay,” said Dash. I couldn’t quite read the tone of his voice. “I had dinner with your father.”
“You did?” I said, keeping my voice purposefully light. “Because Twitter seems to think that you had yet another dinner with Yvette Delacroix.”
Silence crackled between us. “Annie. Yvette is a cover, nothing more. We went out for drinks, and I let them photograph us. It lasted an hour.”
Fine. “What did my father have to say?”
“That I’m a spoiled rich kid who’s never had to work for anything in his life. That I don’t deserve you. And a whole host of other things that I don’t feel like repeating because they struck too close to home.”
“That sucks,” I said, not feeling at all sympathetic. “Sorry.”
Silence. Then, “You don’t sound too sorry.”
I bit my lip, unable to control the anger that coursed through me. “I don’t think you need my sympathy,” I said. “Sounds like you have enough self-
pity to do the job justice.”
“Annie,” said Dash, sounding cautious. “Did I do something wrong? If I did, I’m unaware of it.”
Unaware of it. Of course he was. He wasn’t the one who was pregnant. “Maybe,” I said, “I’m sick of sitting around pretending not to exist, while you go out and spend all of your free time wining and dining hot supermodels.”
“Whoa, whoa, hang on,” said Dash, his volume rising. “I’m doing this for you! I’m doing this so that the paparazzi won’t camp out on your door step and take pictures of you when you…”
“Oh, please,” I said. “In order for them to do that, you’d have to actually spend some time with me.”
I heard Dash inhale. “Annie, if you want to talk about coming to Boston to visit…”
“No,” I snapped. “I don’t.” Only I did, desperately.
“So then, what do you want?” asked Dash, sounding tired.
I felt the tears start to course down my cheeks. I knew my anger was irrational, but I couldn’t help it. My feeling were hurt, and I didn’t want to hurt any more. “Maybe my father is right,” I said. “I’m too good for this shit. I have better things to do with my life than pine after you. Go fuck your actresses and your models and your pop stars. We can have our lawyers draw up an agreement for child support and joint custody. If you can get off your ass and make it to a doctor’s appointment, I have one in a month. Other than that, I don’t want to hear from you.”
32
Dash
Caz dodged the defenders and shot down the side of the field, cutting left and getting wide open. I had plenty of time and plenty of room. I pulled back my arm – I have better things to do with my time – and let the ball fly.
“Fuck!” I shouted as the ball soared over Caz’s head, at least a foot out of his reach.
I ripped my helmet off and spiked it into the ground.
“Dash!” Coach shouted from the sidelines.
Snarling, I picked up my helmet and stormed over to where he stood with his clipboard, staring at the day’s practice plan. He looked up only when I towered over him.
“What do you say we call it a day?” said Coach, calmly. “Not sure where your head’s at. But it’s not here.”
“It was a bad throw,” I said, trying not to snarl. You don’t snarl at Coach. “I’m fine to go again.”
Coach’s smile was quick and didn’t meet his eyes. “You don’t get to decide that. I do. Now, so the fellas think this was your idea and not mine, I’m going to nod understandingly and give you a pat on the arm. That’s it. And you’re going to raise your hand like this and touch your shoulder, to let everyone know that your shoulder is tired. There we go…” We went through the pantomime. I glowered the whole time but said nothing.
“Good. Now, hopefully, between the rest of today and Monday, you’ll get your head out of your goddamn asshole and come back to play some football.”
Sometimes, Coach can be a real prick and a half. I stalked off toward the locker room. With nothing to do the rest of the day, my options were to go home and wallow or run on the treadmill. I chose the treadmill.
I’d put in about six miles when Burke and Caz filed into the workout room. Jesus Christ, they were like Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. I stared at them, hoping they’d take the hint and leave me alone.
“I have an idea,” said Burke, leaning against the front of my treadmill. “Guys’ night. Caz gets rid of Jamie, I get rid of Sarah and the baby, and we sort this shit out. Caz has a friend who owns a real dive-y bar in Dorchester…”
“I don’t drink during the season,” I reminded him.
Caz snorted. “You might start, Bro. Because let me tell you what, it ain’t helping your game…”
“Don’t make it worse,” said Burke to Caz. He turned back to me. “You’re better at putting your troubles behind you. Easiest way to get this shit out of your head is to say it out loud. You in? We can go from here.”
I closed my eyes and hit a button on the treadmill, slowing the machine to a walking pace. There was nothing else for me to do. “Sure.”
The truth was that my confidence was shot to hell. The divorce with Becca had done a number on me, and I hadn’t even realized it until Annie had told me that she was too good for me.
I relayed all of this to the fellas over a few pints. Caz’s buddy was happy to set us up in a back room where nobody would bother us. It took a while to get talking, but once I started, I couldn’t really stop. They had heard what I’d said to Becca that night, so I backed them into my tryst with Annie. How she kept putting me off.
“Can you blame her?” asked Burke.
“I can,” said Caz.
Burke snorted. “Yes, well, you’re the world’s biggest idiot when it comes to women, so that comes as a surprise to no one.”
I rubbed at my face wearily.
“You think your ego is smarting,” said Burke, shaking his head. “I don’t know what it’s like to have to grow up as Becca Barnes’ – ah, Brown’s – sister. And you say she’s an English teacher? Shit, man. So her sister is walking catwalks, eating caviar, and sipping champagne in Paris and Milan, and your Annie is teaching Romeo and Juliet to a bunch of winy fourteen-year-olds. Dude, I’ve met your ex-wife’s mother. I had no idea Becca even had a sister.”
“What’s your point?” I asked, not following.
“That while you’re going around trying to misdirect the press – and don’t think I didn’t notice you were dating Yvette. Bad Bro move.”
“Focus,” murmured Caz.
“While you’re going around trying to misdirect the press, Annie – who has played second fiddle to her sister her whole life, and continues to do so by dating you, by the way – has to see you with all of these professional beauties and is probably thinking that she doesn’t stack up.”
I snorted. “You’ve got the wrong end up. I believe what she said was…”
“You’ve already told us what she said. She’s too good for you. I heard you the first time. But you shouldn’t believe it. Fuck, Dash. From the sounds of it, your Annie sounds like the kind of girl who tells herself stuff like that because she wants to believe it, not because she actually believes it.”
“Her father seems to believe it…”
“Do you believe it?”
I stared at Burke, wanting to deny it, but he saw through me.
“Daammnnn,” Caz drawled. “No wonder you can’t complete a pass, man. Pre-Divorce Dash knew he was the hottest shit on the field.”
“Post-Divorce, pre-Father Dash doesn’t feel too worthy, does he?” asked Burke quietly.
I couldn’t make myself answer. But I didn’t need to. They knew they’d hit the nail on the head.
Caz looked at Burke, his dark brows raising. “So, what does he do about it?”
“Depends on what he wants,” said Burke, turning his blue eyes on Dash. “Why do you feel shitty about Becca?”
“Because she divorced me solely because she thought I’d be a shitty father.”
“I doubt that’s the only reason she divorced you.”
I had to agree. There were other reasons there, too.
“Do you want a relationship with Becca’s sister? What if she wasn’t pregnant?”
I sighed. The truth was that even before I’d known Annie was pregnant, I’d had trouble getting her out of my head. “I like Annie,” I said. “A lot.”
“Why?” asked Caz.
I pursed my lips. “She makes me feel good. When she’s not making me feel like shit,” I amended.
“I’d argue that you’re making yourself feel like shit,” said Burke, waving a hand. “But we’ll let that go. Continue.”
“She’s dynamite in bed.”
“Always helps,” said Caz.
“She’s thoughtful, she’s independent, she’s confident…”
“Those are all of the things you liked about Becca,” said Burke. “What is it about Annie that makes her different than Becca?”
; I snorted. “She’s not a bitch. It’s easy to make her laugh. She’s generally happier, when I’m not fucking things up…”
Burke was nodding. “So you would have continued to see her, even if she wasn’t pregnant with your kid.”
“I did try, at first,” I said. “But she wasn’t having any of it.”
“Did you really try?” asked Burke.
I blinked at him and opened my mouth. Of course I had really tried. But I heard Annie’s father’s voice. You’ve probably never had to work at a relationship a day in your life.
“Maybe that’s the solution,” said Burke, eyeing me thoughtfully. “You feel like shit because you see yourself as failing. But maybe you’re failing because you’re not actually trying.”
“Okay, Yoda,” I muttered.
“I’m being serious. If you put as much effort into football as you’re putting into this relationship with Annie, then you’d be the world’s worst quarterback, sounds like to me. It’d be the equivalent of you standing there and lobbing a pass into the air, expecting Caz to grab it because the great Dash Barnes threw it and it’s worth catching. Football doesn’t work like that. You have to line up your throw, anticipate Caz’s skills, make sure there’s enough space and distance, judge the field…”
I closed my eyes.
“I think he gets it,” said Caz, dryly.
“I get it,” I said.
“Tell you what, man. If you want to stop feeling like a loser, you gotta start playing like a winner. Sound familiar?”
“Didn’t Dash shout that at Vic Ferguson last season during the halftime of the AFC championships?” Caz asked.
Burke burst out laughing.
33
Anne
“I know what you’re going to say,” I said to Abe. He’d dragged me down to his family’s house on the Chesapeake Bay, and we were sitting on the porch overlooking the water. Abe’s mother had made me a virgin mojito, with mint and sprite. Abe had laughed so hard at my expression of disgust that his Brown Derby had gone up his nose and caused a coughing fit.