Chapter Thirty-One
“You got fired?” Maxine stared at her baby brother, holding an ice pack to his right eye.
He and Stuart showed up at her apartment shortly after she arrived home from her shift at the spa. Earlier, she’d sent a text to Westley asking if he wanted to go by Carmine’s to help sort out a new shipment of boxes from Manhattan.
Stuart came in and made himself at home, passing Maxine and opening one of the kitchen cupboards. “Do you have any of those little Ritz crackers with the peanut butter in the middle?” he asked.
Angling Westley to sit down on the couch, she asked him. “What happened? And how did you get fired?”
“Your ex-boyfriend,” he murmured, “…or whatever he is.”
“Antony?” she breathed. “He was at Henry Roman’s? He knows you work there! Did he really need a suit that badly?”
“He came to see me on purpose,” Westley said, peeking from under the ice pack.
“And he punched you?” Her stomach dropped, imagining Antony’s massive fists raining down on her brother. Still, it didn’t make sense.
Westley lowered the bag, his right eye was slightly swollen, and there was a trace of color on the edge, but it was nothing like the violent shiner Antony once showed up with.
A creep of a blush started to grow from the collar of Westley’s white dress shirt. “No, I kind of tripped and fell into the corner of the cashier’s desk.”
“Actually…” Stuart leaned against the kitchen counter chewing; his hand was inside a box of crackers. “He bounced off Antony’s massive chest muscles and ricocheted into the desk.”
“Why were you there?” she asked him.
Stuart shrugged. “I always shop on my lunch hour. And good thing too, Westley almost killed himself.”
Westley’s shoulders dropped. He turned to Maxine. “He walked right up to me and started trying to explain his side; he said you were the one who pursued him, not the other way around.”
Maxine felt her mouth drop open.
“And he kept saying how much he loved you.” Westley shifted his weight, wincing. “I guess I was so mad at him for hurting you, I charged at him without thinking.”
Blowing out the air from her cheeks, Maxine leaned back, brushing shoulders with her brother. “What happened after you got the black eye?”
“Your ex-lover was very apologetic,” Stuart explained. “And then he bribed us with hockey tickets.”
“Which we didn’t take,” Westley said. “That would have been gross, like we were selling you or something.”
Stuart stopped chewing. “We weren’t supposed to take the tickets?” He dropped his gaze and stayed quiet while he put the crackers back in the cupboard.
Maxine studied her brother’s profile. He looked so much like their late father. “Thanks for trying to save the family honor,” she teased, trying to lighten the mood. “I’m sorry you got fired for fighting, though.”
“I wouldn’t call it a fight.” Stuart sat down at the dining table, reached for one of her Cosmopolitan magazines, and began to flip through the pages. “More like a mosquito trying to irritate a T-Rex.” He looked up and gave Maxine a quizzical stare. “Personally, I don’t see the problem. Antony has to have sex with you to do well at hockey. Therefore, Antony Laurent has to have sex with you…a lot. See where I’m going with this? What’s the downside, again?”
“Do you mind?” Westley interrupted. “She’s my sister.”
Maxine ignored Westley’s embarrassment. Every time she heard Antony’s name it felt like someone was wringing out her heart. “It wasn’t meant to be,” she said. “It was going to end badly with both of us hurting. I wasted four years on Johnny. How could I keep seeing Antony knowing he’d lied to me to about this?” She’d repeated the reasoning over and over inside her head, but it didn’t quell the pain. “Besides,” she added, “I’m hardly puck bunny material.”
Stuart snorted then asked in a more serious tone. “Did he actually say he has to have sex with you in order to score goals? Because unless you’re sneaking over to his place, he’s been doing fine without your magic vagina these two weeks.”
“That’s it.” Westley stood up and swiped the magazine from his hands. “No more Cosmo for you.”
Maxine stayed quiet. She knew Antony was doing well, in fact she’d been secretly keeping track. Part of her wished he’d do badly, somewhat captivated with the idea that she had some sort of celestial power over him—but obviously she didn’t.
Still, breaking up with Antony was what she had to do in order to secure her own happiness. However, in this case, securing her own happiness meant suffering through the pain of a certain future break up they would have. Better to be miserable now, she reasoned, than an absolute disaster later. Antony was supposed to be her rebound, but he ended up being so much more. That was the big risk, having her heart broken again. It scared Maxine how much she missed him after only knowing him such a short time. Imagine what it would be like after half a year?
Westley and Stuart were staring at her. Maxine’s face grew hot. “We had to break up,” she said almost in a surprised tone. “I thought I was being swept off my feet,” she said, more reflectively this time. “And that the fat girl got the cute boy for once.” The burden of her own words dragged down her spirits. She was a victim of her own stubborn conviction, but Maxine was determined not to be anyone’s fool again.
The air quieted.
She excused herself and made her way down the hallway to her bedroom. “We’ll leave for Carmine’s in ten minutes; I just need to check my makeup.”
Once in her bedroom, Maxine sighed and flopped down on her bed. She accessed her messages. With a guilty glance at the closed door, she turned down the volume and pressed the phone to her ear.
“Bonjour, Maxine. Voici, Antony. Je t’aime…et je pense que vous me aimes aussi.”
She closed her eyes, feeling the vibration of his voice tickle the skin on her earlobe. A steady pulse started to buzz the length of her body. She curled onto her side, hugging a pillow.
“Today I buy cilantro for chicken…”
She had listened to the message several times last night and then again this morning. At first, when his name appeared on her phone, a dagger plunged through her heart.
Maxine’s wounded pride and fragile heart were in pieces. She was a wandering mess, barely held together, like a makeshift raft slowly falling apart adrift in the sea. She immediately went for the delete option, but all it took was a hint of curiosity from that little voice way down deep. What could he have to say?
Instead of deleting the message, Maxine listened. And she’d been listening over and over again, hating and yet deliriously amazed at how his voice still triggered the same intense pulsating along every nerve. It was impossible to hang up, she was addicted to the sensual feeling he aroused so effortlessly.
She missed everything that went with the voice. She needed his arms around her, fingers combing through her hair, saying it was all a mistake, a bad dream—just like Pam on Dallas.
Maxine had been stalwart and stoic, refusing to give in, yet, she stayed awake all night, listening to his voice on repeat. Still, she recognized the dangerous game she was setting up but rationalized she deserved this one last treat, this one last moment with him before their lives diverged forever.
He was careful, never once in the message did Antony ask her to call him back or say they should be together. His message was simple: he was hurting and he missed her.
How could they stay together? He had used her, lied to her, and expected Maxine to brush that aside completely because he told her he loved her. And she’d confessed that she used him to get over Johnny. The only thing Maxine was sure of was that she was never going to be anyone’s fool again, and to be loved on her own terms.
She even told him that night at the Bloor Street Diner. “I’ve already been with a man who lied…and the sex was horrible,” she’d said.
But sex with Antony
had been fantastic! Maxine still got shivers when she thought of the first time he pushed inside her, just the engorged tip, and then all of him…oh God! It still took her breath away.
And then came the crushing realization that she’d probably never feel that way with any other man, ever again. A tear rolled down the side of her face, nestling inside her ear.
“I…I won’t call again. This is last message. You won’t trust me, and I can’t change what happened. And Johnny is still—”
Maxine braced herself for the last sentence. “I’m missing you.”
“Are you all right?” Westley knocked on the door. “It’s been ten minutes. Do you still want to go to Carmine’s?”
She pushed herself up, letting her feet dangle over the bed’s edge. “I need therapy,” she whispered.
After they dropped off Stuart, it was a silent cab ride to Carmine’s. Maxine’s head was full of Antony, trying to further convince herself she was wise to cut ties. It was like she was on a step program where they give you a chip every milestone you’ve gone without your addiction. She took small satisfactions in every morning she woke, knowing that she’d made it through another night without calling Antony. Maybe someday, she’d be able to think of his name without getting a punch in the gut.
Climbing the edge of dirty snow on the curb, Maxine pushed through the unlocked door with Westley following behind. Only one of the lights by the cash register was on, the sounds of the television echoed from the back room. Maxine thought she could make out Judy Garland singing.
“We’re here!” she hollered, making a mental note to talk to Carmine about not spending all his time watching movies while the store was open. She surveyed the stack of new boxes and went behind the register to look for the inventory clipboard.
“I’m going to see Carmine,” Westley said, his cheeks flushed. “I need to talk to him about something.”
“Okay.” Maxine watched him make his way to the beaded curtain. A glint of red sequins caught her eye. She wandered over to the rack and saw the red dress from Ambrosia Dellagio. There was a small note clipped to the hanger that looked like Carmine’s writing. She squinted to read the shaking lettering.
Westley’s voice cut through the air from the back room. “Max!” he shouted. “Call 911!”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Jax sat across from Antony, pushing the paperwork across the dining room table toward him. “This couldn’t have happened at a better time,” she said.
Antony stared at the endless English words, but he knew what it signified—a new life.
“I’m jealous.” She laughed, the gold bangles on her wrist tinkled as she looked in her brief case, rooting through its contents. “This winter has been miserable. You won’t miss the wind chill.” She withdrew her hand and passed a ballpoint pen to Antony. Then she added more seriously, “You’ll have a better chance of playing longer now. Toronto is in a wild card position for the playoffs, and that’s the best case scenario. You’ll go farther with this team.”
“I know,” he replied. He knew it as a good deal, a great deal actually. Jax had come through for him. Still, when he heard about the trade the unmistakable ache of feeling cheated resonated with him and continued to linger for days, somewhat diminished by now, but still weighing heavily in his heart. In short, Antony felt duped, stabbed in the back—unwanted.
“All that work for nothing,” he muttered, imagining Coach Foster’s poker face as he sat across the desk surrounded by his hockey paraphernalia. “I need you in defense,” he’d said to Antony. Meanwhile the deal was already in the making.
“Are you kidding?” Jax kicked him under the table with her high heel. “Your performance the last month is the reason there’s an extra zero on the end of this number.” She stabbed the paper with a red fingernail. She waited for a moment then added with a touch of sarcasm, “Considering you were coasting to go back to the minors, I think this is like winning the lottery, sir.”
The pen shook in his grasp. Antony switched hands, rubbing his palm on the thigh of his jeans.
“Most people would be saying, ‘Thank you, Jax for all your hard work.’”
“Merci, Jax,” he said.
“You’ve got three years and five million dollars!” She motioned to the still pen. “What’s holding you back?” She searched his face then her features softened. She whispered, “Is it Marc?”
“Non,” Antony said bluntly. “He comes too.”
In his mind’s eye there was a clear path before him, the only path he could take—anything else would be like stepping off the trail and tumbling down the cliff.
But that cliff would be one hell of a thrill ride.
It was stupid to hesitate. He fully acknowledged this was his future, the goal he’d been working toward since Marc had put him in the spotlight. This deal would mean a better future for him and Marc. There was really no choice in the matter.
And yet, he was holding on to his last grasp at hope.
Antony called Maxine a few days ago. There had been a slight glimmer of expectation she may have considered what he’d said to Westley, but when he returned to the store the next day and found out Westley had been fired, it was like a sledgehammer crushing any vision he had of a reunion. He wasn’t sure how he could amend for the brother getting fired.
He finally accepted she was never going to call him back. Maxine believed he lied because he thought so little of her that he didn’t consider her feelings. Antony tried to remember those first rushed days of crashing into each other’s arms, frantic with need.
He didn’t understand why they got together in the first place; they were two people drawn together when there was no reason for them to even be in the same room. She was still in love with her douchebag of an ex-fiancé, and he’d vowed abstinence in hopes of breaking a hockey slump.
But he saw her on the park bench, and she lingered in his memory.
And then she bumped into him.
And everything changed.
“Mark my words,” Jax prompted. “You’ll be the spokesperson for some orange juice company before the end of next month. You’re a super star now.”
“I’m klutz.”
She nudged him again under the table, more gentle this time. “But you’re a klutz who can score…unlike your trade,” she said, the condemning edge to her tone was hard to miss.
Antony studied her, it was rare for Jax to compare players in such a common fashion. The trade with his nemesis, the Russian player—Bachlahov, was the final blow of betrayal that twisted in his pride. Jax must have known this was all he had to hear to make the decision. With a few scratches across the dotted line, Antony signed his name.
“Hooray!” she sang out. “You’re stinking rich, darling.”
The pop of a Champagne bottle came from the kitchen. Marc wheeled through the doorway toward them, suds flowing over the neck of the bottle and onto his lap.
“Félicitations,” Marc said. “Congratulations.”
“You’re going to need to polish up on your English. Not a lot of French people in Florida,” Jax teased.
“There’s two more now,” Marc said, cleanly shaved and bright eyed.
“Oui. Yes, it’s a start,” Antony said. He forced a smile as he took a flute of Champagne. But as he watched the ink dry on the paper, it felt like an end.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“There must be twenty different Judy Garland’s here,” Westley said, taking an asparagus finger sandwich off Maxine’s plate.
“I think that might be a Liza Minelli.” Maxine nodded to the person beside the fireplace in the short black pixie cut and black cocktail dress.
“Same vein, I guess,” Westley touched the knot of his green stripped tie, then looked down at his shoes. They were the only guests who weren’t drag queens. Carmine must be laughing in heaven, she thought.
Then a blow of reality hit Maxine when she realized she’d never hear that laugh again. The roller coaster of emotions had been plaguing her
all week. She was grateful Carmine didn’t suffer or die in a stale hospital bed, but the guilt of not telling him enough how much he meant to her, rested heavily on her heart.
Balancing the plate of sandwiches, Maxine dabbed her eyes. Carmine would never forgive her if she let her makeup run.
“Hey.” Westley nudged her. “No crying, remember?”
They stood in the corner of Humidor room of the ORO restaurant, taking in the private guest list Carmine had stipulated in his will. For someone who was so lax about details of the shop he planned his funeral like a drill sergeant, leaving nothing to chance. He even left a list of rules; no crying, no black clothing, and after the reception at ORO they were all to go to the Ed Mirvish Theatre to see Kinky Boots. The irony of that musical was divine enough to make Maxine ponder if Carmine would have stubbornly lived longer if Wicked was playing instead.
Carmine had paid for it all in advance, secretly of course. Only his doctor knew the cancer had returned with a vengeance. He refused any further treatment and instead chose to meet death on his own terms, relaxing in his favorite chair while watching a musical. By the time Westley had found him, he’d been dead for several hours. Westley had thought he was sleeping at first, he’d looked peaceful.
Maxine’s eyes were so swollen from crying the last week she didn’t think she had any tears left. A miserable cloud hovered, leaving her exhausted and sullen. The bluntness and finality of Carmine’s death had her reliving her father’s funeral all over again as well.
At her side, she felt Westley stiffen, Maxine looked up and saw a full-figured man walk toward them. He was the biggest Judy Garland she’d ever seen. “You must be Max,” he said, reaching out to shake her hand. “You make that vixen suit sing,” he complimented.
“Thank you.” Maxine smiled. At first, she wondered if wearing the green wool suit was disrespectable because of the cleavage, but then Westley reminded her that this was Carmine’s funeral after all, plus the green outfit was the most vivid thing she owned that would be warm enough to wear.
The Right Fit Page 21