The Thirteenth Chance

by Amy Matayo

  “What?” She looks sick.

  “You keep saying that.”

  “It’s just that I hate to ask you when—”

  “But you didn’t ask. I offered.” I slowly stand and push the chair back underneath the desk. Discussion over. “Why don’t you drop him off in the morning so you and the boyfriend can get an early start?”

  The vanilla ice cream has softened and now looks like a bowl of melting snow.

  “If . . . if you’re sure,” she says, her lip shaking. I almost feel sorry for her, but that’s what a person gets for lying to me. Then, with a jolt, I remember something. She might be lying, but I think I’m the one who might suffer the consequences.

  “Wait, so you won’t be here for tomorrow’s game?”

  Her eyes widen. She forgot, same as me. And now we’re both stuck in the middle of her outrageous story.

  “I guess not. Is that okay?”

  I pause, nod my head. But it isn’t okay. Sure we’ve been winning, and sure the days of me claiming Olivia is the reason for it are probably already numbered, but I want her there. I haven’t played a home game without her watching in a while. Whether I’m playing or not, there’s a weird calmness that comes over me when I know she’s in the stands. I’m already forced to play without her on the road; even though she said she would come, I haven’t been brave enough to ask. Or maybe I just know how much my guard would drop in a hotel room, and how much hers would go up. Either way, we’ve won and lost without her there—something I’ve learned to live with.

  Having her with me at home isn’t something I’m ready to let go of. Not yet.

  I sigh. “I guess it has to be. What time are you leaving?”

  She stares straight ahead, dread and remorse pulling up matching chairs and getting comfortable on her shoulders. “I think seven.” She nods slowly. “Yes, seven. That’s what he said.”

  “When do you get back in town?”

  She bites her bottom lip, thinks for a minute. “I think Sunday night?”

  This is getting ridiculous. “So you won’t be at Sunday’s game either?”

  “I guess not.” Olivia shakes her head. She doesn’t look happy. That makes two of us.

  I pat the door frame and fake being supportive. “You should go home and get some sleep since you’re leaving so early. See you in the morning.” I make it through the doorway, then pop my head back inside to look at her. “Oh, and Olivia?”

  “What?”

  She looks cute sitting there . . . stuck . . . guilty . . . and lost. I nearly smile, even though I’m ticked off at both of us. At her for beginning this charade. At me for keeping it going.

  “Don’t forget the litter box.”

  She swallows. “I won’t.”

  “Perfect. See you at seven.”

  I’m halfway to my car before the reality of the situation sets in. This isn’t funny. Not at all. Of course there are the games and the lack of Olivia’s presence. But even more . . .

  How did I—Will Vandergriff, two-time cover guy on Sports Illustrated—get stuck babysitting a cat for the weekend?

  I hate cats. Why do I keep forgetting that?

  Chapter 21

  Olivia

  This is what my life has been reduced to for the past four hours. Sneaking. Crawling. Hiding. Peering. All forms of peeping Tom-ing. And for what reason? All because I’m spying on a cat. A couple years ago, a child in my old apartment building referred to me as a cat lady. I balked, glaring at him and holding Perry close to my chest, his leash slapping against my bare leg as we returned from our midafternoon walk. I’ve always looked back on that child with a bad taste in my mouth, because he was rude and inconsiderate and too bold for his own good.

  Now I’m starting to wonder if maybe he was right.

  I’m currently feeding my suspicion by crouching like a caged tiger in my own living room, my eyes level with the windowsill, watching intently as Will walks outside with Perry hooked under one arm—minus the leash; I’m going to kill him for that tomorrow because he needs a leash—and climbs into his car. The tires squeal a bit as he reverses, and he drives away with my baby as though it’s perfectly normal to let a cat lie unsupervised while sunning himself against the back windshield. I don’t care that it’s a nice day or that it’s probably a pleasant place for Perry to lie. What if Will crashes the car? What if Perry falls? Why has no one yet invented cat car seats? Why have I been reduced to this hermitlike existence for the entire weekend?

  And on top of it all, now I’m missing the game.

  I like going to Will’s games.

  I don’t want to miss the game.

  Me and my stupid mouth.

  I stand up and stretch, my back screaming in protest from all the ways I’ve kept it hunched over all morning. Now that Will has finally departed, I no longer have to be so quiet. The dishwasher has remained off, as have the television set and the washing machine. Even my footsteps have been muted. I’m supposed to be living it up in Chicago at this very moment—attending a play, eating amazing food, having a great time with my made-up Prince Charming—not standing in my bathrobe still unshowered and looking half deranged. I’m aware of the noise the pipes make when water runs through them; I couldn’t risk Will hearing that from the other side of the wall. Then I would be reduced to making up new stories to go along with my giant string of current lies, and all of it sounds so exhausting.

  With a sigh, I fling off my robe and head for the bathroom. Thank goodness he’s gone. I’m sick of being dirty.

  As water streams down my back, all I can think is why did I make up that story about going away for the weekend? Why the need for a false boyfriend? I don’t lie. I make a practice of being truthful at all times. It’s a rule I put into place years ago out of necessity. Coming from a family of liars will do that to you. Then I meet Will Vandergriff, and in a matter of weeks all the tidy boxes I’ve spent years wrapping and stacking around myself have been torn open and left lying in shreds all around me. I want them back. I like my shiny red bows and my eight-by-eight cardboard. They’re safe, and safe has my name stamped all over it.

  I reach for a towel and am wrapping it around me when I hear a knock. A knock that frightens me more than anything, because I have no idea who it is. What if it’s Will and I’ve been discovered? What if it’s not Will and I’m about to be murdered? A dozen similar scenarios flit through my head as I slip into a bathrobe and tiptoe toward the door.

  I can’t help an eye roll. I’m tiptoeing toward my own door because of my own dumb lies. This feels like punishment, because it is.

  I peer through the peephole and breathe a sigh of relief. I’ve barely managed to crack open the door when a hand pushes against it and Kelly barges inside. She’s wearing a yellow spaghetti-strap swing dress and a don’t-mess-with-me attitude.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask her, aware that my wet hair is dripping down onto my white terry cloth robe. I’m even more aware that the door is wide open and I’m fully exposed to anyone who might’ve forgotten something and chosen this exact moment to walk by with an overweight Persian. Gripping my hairbrush in a tight fist, I lunge for the door and shut it. “What are you doing here?” I whisper again. “And keep your voice down.”

  “We’re going out and you’re coming with us, and this time we’re not taking no for an answer,” Kelly says, glancing over her shoulder at the empty apartment. “But why are we whispering?”

  “Who’s ‘we’? And because he might come home and hear you.” I nod toward Will’s apartment as though the answer is obvious. “What if he comes home?”

  She just looks at me as though I’ve lost it. Maybe I have. “‘We’ is a few teachers from school. We’re going shopping and then having dinner at Joe’s Bar later tonight. And who might hear you? Who might come home?”

  “Will!”

  She whips her head toward the doorway. “I hope so. Then maybe I could finally meet the guy.” She looks way too excited for a woman who is on the verge o
f blowing my cover. “But why does it bother you?”

  “Because he could see me!”

  She frowns at me. “I thought you liked him.”

  “I do!”

  She just stares at me. Kelly has been to my apartment before, but it’s been a while. Several months, in fact. But it hasn’t been so long that she’s forgotten how to get around. She blows out an exasperated breath and starts dragging me toward the bedroom.

  “Olivia, you sound a little crazy right now, but we’ll deal with that later.” She flings me into my room. “For now, get dressed. I’ll be waiting for you in the living room.” She’s no longer whispering.

  “But I don’t want to go shopping. I don’t need anything.” I’m terrified of being caught, so I keep my voice low. I trip over a shoe on the floor, jabbing a pointed heel into the arch of my foot. I hop in place for a second and try not to cry.

  Kelly looks me up and down from the open doorway. “You’re a mess, and I said I’m not taking no for an answer. Get dressed, and wear something sexy.”

  “For the mall?”

  “I told you, we’re staying out all day. No more hiding inside this apartment for you, and no more cats.” She moves to close the bedroom door, then opens it a fraction. “Oh, and wear your hair down. No more tight ponytails either. Not today.”

  I almost say that I’ve worn my hair down a lot lately, but something about that statement makes me nervous so I stay quiet. It’s almost like she has a plan. I love plans. I live for plans. I might even die for a few. As long as they’re my plans. I hate them when they’re formulated by other people. The door closes and I’m faced with my own wild-eyed reflection. Somehow I have to roam around town all day hoping I don’t eventually run into Will. He has an afternoon game, so that buys me a few hours. But then I have to get back home later without being seen. I don’t know how this is going to happen, since things never work out that easily for me. So I do the only thing I can do in this situation.

  I lie on my bed and shove a pillow over my face.

  Five minutes later, I give up trying to figure it out and reach for a dress.

  Will

  “Now, why exactly are you doing this?” Blake asks me.

  I find the muddiest puddle at the outer edge of the field and plop Perry next to it. After the game ended—we lost, by the way, no thanks to Olivia—I decided to extend the fun because who’s here to stop me? Certainly not Olivia. She’s back at home, trying to be quiet in that apartment of hers while convincing herself that I can’t hear her moving around. But I heard her all morning. I heard when she pressed that glass against the kitchen wall and then promptly dropped and shattered it. I heard the curse word that was supposed to be under her breath but came out in front of an echo. Who knew Olivia cursed? I kinda liked it. I heard the broom as it swished across the floor, the pinging of broken glass as it rained into a trash can. I heard the television come on and then immediately shut off. Of course I heard all these things because I was doing a little ear pressing and wall hugging myself. We live in one of the nicest apartment buildings in Dallas. That doesn’t mean it came equipped with the greatest insulation.

  And now. Now I’m going to mess with her a bit. Just because I can.

  “Because Olivia’s cat needs to get out and live a little. See the world. Get a little dirty.” Just as I hoped, Perry inches closer to the sticky puddle.

  Blake just looks at me. “Does she know you have him? I thought you told me she’s really protective of that thing.”

  He says that thing like Perry has a disease. A couple of days ago I would have agreed, but one day with him and I’ve come to realize he’s not that bad. All he does is sleep, and when he’s awake he seems so dang appreciative of his food bowl and being able to walk outside without a freaking leash. When I first tried to take him out this morning, he cowered in a corner, clearly afraid of what might be required. I scooped him up and walked outside, plopping him on the grass adjacent to the building. He studied me for a long moment before sprawling on the lawn. He spent a good twenty minutes just rolling around while I sat a few feet away and snapped pictures. Something tells me he’s never been allowed to just be a cat before. As long as he’s in my care, that’s what he’s going to do. I smile to myself when Perry places one front paw, then the other, into the mud.

  “Yeah, she knows. I offered to keep him while she’s out of town with her”—I stop myself before saying a sarcastic boyfriend—“mother.”

  “Doesn’t sound like you’re a big fan.”

  “I’m not,” I lie. I’ve never even met the lady, and for the first time I wonder if Olivia might be right. The lies we’re telling everyone are stacking up. “She’s not real nice to Olivia, and that bothers me a little.” That part is true at least. I’ve heard bits and pieces of their conversations. I’ve heard the frustration in Olivia’s voice when the subject of her family comes up.

  Blake picks up a discarded bat and tucks it under his arm. By now, Perry has completely submerged himself in the mud puddle; only the top part of his back remains cotton-ball white. I laugh. He’s going to stay that way until Olivia “returns” tomorrow afternoon, and I can’t wait to see the look on her face.

  “How are you going to get that thing home without ruining your car?”

  Crap. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. He has a kennel, but he’s never once gone into it willingly. Which means I’m going to have to pick him up and somehow shove him inside. He won’t be the only one covered in mud before the night is over.

  “I’ll figure it out.” The dread is real, but I guess it serves me right.

  “You know he has a pine tar rag stuck to his side, don’t you?”

  “What?” Everything inside me sinks. My stomach. My brain. My bravado. I rush toward the cat to examine him, only to find that Blake isn’t kidding. There’s a small rag running from his stomach to his side. “Oh crap. How am I going to get it off?” I bend down and tug on the rag, tug a little more. Perry meows in protest, but that’s the only thing that happens.

  Pine tar is used by players to get a better grip on the bat, because it’s sticky. Sticky like glue, sticky like, well . . . tar. And it’s hard to get off your hands. There’s no way it’s coming off a cat’s fur. Not without—

  “Only one way I know of,” Blake says. “You cut it off.”

  I can feel my mouth just hanging open, but it can’t be helped. I can’t cut it. Nothing gets past Olivia, and she will definitely notice this. This can’t be fixed with a bath. There has to be another option besides cutting his hair. There has to be.

  “Maybe I can—”

  “You can cut it. That’s about the only option I see.”

  I shoot Blake a look. “Thanks for your help.”

  He shrugs. “Wasn’t my idea to bring him out onto the field.”

  A thousand curses on me and my stupid idea. “Who the heck left that rag out here?” It’s a pointless question that doesn’t deserve an answer, but I don’t want to go down alone.

  “Kind of a pointless question, considering the situation.” I can always count on Blake to back up my thoughts. He begins to walk away.

  “Where are you going?” The kennel is across the stadium, tucked inside the dugout. I need him to get it. I’m not picking up this muddy, tar-covered cat and carrying him across the field.

  “I’m going home,” he calls out. “Good luck. But if I were you, I’d stop showing up here with that furball in your possession. One more time bringing him into the locker room and your manhood will start to come into question, and I’m not kidding.”

  Right now, every trait I possess is being called into question. Especially my judgment.

  “This is the last time, believe me.”

  “Have fun trying to get that thing in your car. And good luck with the cutting. I sure hope Olivia doesn’t kill you. If you’re still alive, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Strange how quickly the fun and games can come to a screeching halt.

  Despite a showe
r, I still have mud caked under my fingernails, Perry won’t stop whining from the laundry room—the only place I will let him sleep because he’s filthy and there’s no way I’m letting him out to roam the house—and it’s midnight. And Olivia just climbed out of a black Audi. Olivia is wearing a dress. Olivia is smiling. Olivia is smiling a little too wide.

  She’s never once looked like that after a date with me.

  Never mind that all our dates are fake.

  My stomach drops when I hear her begin to hum right outside my door.

  My spirits don’t rise when she slaps a hand over her mouth and looks wide-eyed toward my door, all at once remembering she’s supposed to be quiet.

  And just like that, the tables are turned. Now I’m the paranoid one.

  I don’t hear from her until late the next day.

  By the time the sun sets and I give in and call her, I’m convinced she really does have a boyfriend and really did have a date, even if she didn’t actually go to Chicago. There’s no way she could have gone to Chicago and back in one evening, right?

  I roll that question around in my mind for a while. When she finally knocks on my door, I’ve talked myself into believing that I’m the player who’s been played all along.

  Chapter 22

  Olivia

  Will came home from the game an hour ago—they lost again, both games while I was supposedly gone, which makes me feel even worse for all the lies I’ve told—and I’ve spent that hour trying to figure out how to handle this. If I head over to his apartment too early, he might suspect I was actually home all weekend. Or that my date was a disaster. Or that I’m just so desperate for companionship that I can’t wait to have my cat back. Which is true, despite the good time I had last night.