The Thirteenth Chance

by Amy Matayo

  “And maybe one day you’ll share with me what those reasons are.” The last thing I want her to feel is pushed, especially when she’s surrounded by people who are constantly pulling.

  “My dad left on the thirteenth. Did anyone tell you that? November thirteenth. This November it will be four years since anyone has seen him. All because my brother blew his contract, landed in jail, and locked my father’s self-worth up with him.”

  “That’s not true. A man doesn’t abandon his kids because his dreams for the future didn’t go the way he planned. A man abandons his kids either because he’s entirely self-absorbed, or because he never cared about them in the first place.”

  She looks at me with sad eyes. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  I shake my head. “Not better, because that means you had a deadbeat for a dad. But it also means you weren’t responsible.” I reach for her hand and wait until she looks at me. “Your dad had problems, and they had nothing to do with a beautiful girl who cared about him.”

  For the longest time we just sit. She’s numb. Processing. But that’s what the heart does when it’s wounded; it bleeds, it ebbs, it stops. But still it’s in pain. And heart pain almost always subsides, though it never goes away entirely.

  “Do you want to stay in here for a while longer?” I finally ask. “Or do you want to go out there and make the best of it for an hour? But when an hour’s up, I swear we’re leaving. I don’t care where we go, just point me in the right direction and I’ll drive.”

  Surprising me, she smiles. Then she stands and pulls me up with her. “We’ll stay. But you’re on a timer.” She laces her arms around my neck. “One hour, that’s it.”

  I study her face. It’s transformed from a few minutes ago, a small amount of happy soaking up the sad. I like thinking my words caused some of it.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  When she stretches up to kiss me, I really really like it.

  We break away and I kiss the tip of her nose.

  “You can attack me later. But right now, your mom told me to tell you she needs help with dinner.”

  She smirks. “I’d rather attack you. But alright, I’ll help.”

  She turns to lead the way out of the room, giving me a nice chance to stare at her butt.

  One hour. Clock starts now.

  Chapter 29

  Olivia

  “What’s that smile for?”

  Kelly enters my classroom with three reams of printer paper balanced in her arms in front of her, a mug filled with orange juice balanced precariously on top. I do not understand how she does this without making a mess. None of us understand it, but she hasn’t had an accident to date. She bends forward and slides the pile on my desk, snatches up her mug, and turns to look at me.

  “What smile?” I pick up a dull pencil and stick it in the electric sharpener, hopeful the loud buzzing will deter her line of questioning. Of course it doesn’t.

  She sips her juice and grins at me over the rim. “The smile that’s still plastered on your face. Things look like they’re going well with that Will guy. When am I going to meet him?”

  Will and I are dating. I can’t believe we’re dating. He met my family and he didn’t run. Even I wanted to run. But in the month since we returned from that visit to hell that accomplished nothing more than finally seeing my brother face-to-face and consequently satisfying my mother, Will hasn’t left.

  I drop the smile and curse myself for being so transparent, then reach for another pencil. “They’re going well. And soon, I hope.” Although if I’m being honest, I’m not sure that’s an entirely true statement. There’s something nice about keeping our relationship private—as private as one can keep it at a major-league ball field—and maybe it’s the superstitious side of me, but I don’t want to do anything to jinx it. “Maybe when the season is over. It won’t be too much longer.”

  And it won’t. I’d be lying if I said I’m not excited about the idea of his being available for four straight months this fall and winter. Not long ago I discovered that Will is originally from San Diego and normally spends the time off there with his family. This year he has decided to stay here. The idea that he made that decision for me does more to assuage my insecurities than anything else he could have done.

  “I’ll hold you to that,” she says, leaning against the edge of my desk. “I did a little more digging on him, just so you know.” When my eyes go wide, she holds up her hands in self-defense. “What? I know what you’ve told me, but I wanted to find out more about the guy my friend is dating. Besides,” she says with a shrug, “it isn’t every day that someone around here dates a celebrity, and I wanted to see pictures.”

  “He’s not a celebrity.” It’s a stupid thing to say, because of course he is. But that isn’t how I view him. Will could work a minimum-wage job and I wouldn’t think less of him. In fact, I’d probably prefer it.

  Kelly sets her cup on my desk and smirks. “He’s a celebrity, and a pretty high-profile one at that. But he’s hot as heck and seems like a decent guy. He has had a string of famous girlfriends that—”

  “Do you have a point?” I say as a pencil falls from my hand. It isn’t like I haven’t spent time wondering what Will sees in me when he could be with almost any other more interesting woman out there. Pick a state—any state—and I’m certain a few hundred from various counties would step up in fishnets and stilettos. Why would he want to be with me? I have no idea, but here Kelly stands, echoing my own private fears.

  She gives me a look. “My point is, be careful. I don’t want you to get hurt. No matter how wonderful he is, I’ll break both of his arms if he hurts you. And then he can kiss good-bye any hopes of continuing his career.”

  At that I smile. Kelly could do it. Even though she stands five foot two and has the wide-eyed innocence of an American Girl doll, she’s tough. I like having friends who want to defend me. There’s something nice about knowing someone would maim another individual for you. That’s real friendship.

  “I’ll remember that. Woe to any man who crosses you.”

  She snatches up her mug and walks toward the door. “Tell me about it. I’ve made tougher men than that baseball player of yours cry.” She winks. “But they all like me. What can I say?”

  I roll my eyes. “Go get your room ready and stop bothering me.”

  She pats the doorway. “I’ll be back in an hour. Want to get lunch when we’re done?”

  “Yes. Come get me when you’re ready.”

  I gather up a pile of sharpened pencils and deposit them into a bin above the filing cabinet. School starts in less than two weeks, and there’s still so much to do to get the classroom ready. I can feel the anxiety crawling up my insides with its sharp claws, ready to grip me by the neck. Bits of paper all over the floor. Marker streaks on the dry-erase board that I wasn’t successful at completely eliminating before the break. A couple of last year’s backpacks still hanging on hooks by the doorway. It isn’t like me to just leave them so forlorn all summer; they should have been placed in lost and found weeks ago. So much work to do, and time is quickly running out.

  I’m finding it a bit hard to breathe when I hear the soft ding of my phone from inside my purse. I pull it out, Will’s name lighting up the screen in the same way his message lights up my insides.

  Will: Hey beautiful. What are you doing?

  My smile is ridiculous. I don’t need a mirror to confirm it.

  Just getting my classroom ready. It’s a mess. So much to do.

  Will: I was there last month and from what I know, you haven’t been there since.

  True, but if you could see what I see . . .

  Will: Don’t stress too hard. It can’t be that bad. Something tells me the kids won’t even notice. But hey, I’ve got to go. Game in three hours and we have batting practice. I’ll text after.

  Okay. Talk soon.

  I’m still smiling, because I know he will. Text me, I mean. It’s a routine tha
t has become familiar, something I’ve come to depend on. It worries me a little, but not enough to stop. Will is a magnet and I am a nail. With everything in me, I find myself hoping he doesn’t wind up latching onto me, flipping me around, pointing the sharp end toward my heart, and plunging it forward.

  I set my phone down and sigh. It’s what I do—mentally sabotage any flicker of personal happiness that comes my way. Not this time, I tell myself. This time is different. This time I’m going to overthink my circumstances less and enjoy the present more.

  Besides, I’m suddenly hungry. Kelly offered lunch and I’m going to take her up on it now. I walk over to my desk and grab my purse. Just before walking out of the room I reach for the light switch and take in the room.

  I think about Will’s words, and for the first time, I find myself agreeing with him on this.

  The room isn’t that bad, and I need to stop stressing about it. It’s funny how sometimes it takes just the right set of eyes to begin to see things a bit differently.

  Will

  “What’s wrong?” I say to Jerry as he walks down the hotel hallway with a familiar scowl on his face. Lately it seems to be a permanent expression, something he might want to have surgically added just to make things simpler. Mouth turned down, nose crinkled, eyebrows pushed together—I’m so tired of him looking at me like this.

  I jam the key card into my door and open it. All I want to do is rip off these clothes, text Olivia, and go to sleep. I’m tired and cranky despite the punishing win we delivered to the Dodgers. I’ve been gone three days already and it’s three days too long where Olivia’s concerned. I’ve never been one for relationships, but somehow I fell headfirst into this one and I don’t even mind the concussion. I welcome it, even. Pass the Tylenol and hit me harder. Olivia is worth the pain.

  “This is what’s wrong.” He shoves a paper at me, and I hold it to my chest for a second, wondering what I did to make him so angry. Seriously, I’m not that complicated or dramatic. As far as parties go, I’m not big on them. Take last night’s, for example. Except for two minutes on the dance floor, I spent the night brooding in a corner, nursing a scotch, and cursing myself for agreeing to show. But it was for charity—children’s cancer research or something along those lines—and to say no would have appeared heartless.

  You can call me a lot of things, but I’m not heartless. With a sigh of exhaustion, I look at the paper in my hands.

  Stupid. You can definitely call me stupid.

  “What is this?” I look at Jerry and something slips. Maybe it’s my pride. Maybe it’s my confidence.

  Maybe it’s my relationship with Olivia, gone before it had much of a chance to start.

  Jerry squares his shoulders. “About an hour ago I got an email. Another client telling me to get online and google your image. So I did.” He scratches his nose. “This is what I found. Three pages’ worth of photos just like this. Want to explain it?”

  I don’t. Not at all.

  Last night’s fund-raiser was held at the Chateau Marmont, an old Hollywood hotel located on Sunset Boulevard. The wealthy dine there. The even wealthier sleep there. The wealthiest of the wealthy are invited to fund-raisers because they have deep pockets and almost always say yes, especially when childhood cancer is involved and photographers with big connections might be there.

  Photographers with big connections were there.

  Lots of money was there.

  Famous actors and actresses were there.

  And here I am, dancing with one of the most famous in Hollywood, a girl known as much for her hookups as for her roles in blockbuster movies. Scratch that. We’re not dancing. Grinding is more like it. She is facing me, my hands are on her hips, her hands are on my chest, my leg is between her thighs, expressions on both our faces like we’re going at it upright, unashamed, right there in the middle of the dance floor.

  The picture doesn’t show that I stayed out there two minutes.

  The picture doesn’t show that I was just going through the motions.

  The picture doesn’t show that when she asked for my number, I politely declined and walked off the dance floor, then halfheartedly engaged Blake in a conversation while simultaneously cursing myself for not just sending a check instead of myself.

  The picture doesn’t show everything Olivia won’t see.

  I look like a womanizer. A guy wanting a one-night stand. A player.

  And therein lies the problem, especially with her.

  I am a player, and she won’t be able to look past it. Not when it comes to this.

  “Three pages?”

  “And counting.” Jerry sears me with a look. “Three months ago I wouldn’t have cared. Three months ago I probably would have given you a pat on the back and told you to go after this chick. All publicity is good publicity, as they say.” He props one hand against the wall and points at me with the other one. “But I like Olivia. We all like Olivia. If you’re playing with her like you play with all the others, then break it off. Don’t do this to her.”

  I scrub a hand over my face. “We were just dancing, and I didn’t even finish the song before I walked off the floor.” I stare at the picture again, sick at what I see. Sicker knowing what Olivia will think. “Who took this?”

  “It looks professional, not like someone shot it with a cell phone. But it doesn’t matter. Any idiot can tell it’s you.”

  Any idiot is right. Me being the biggest one.

  “I’ll talk to Olivia. Hopefully she’ll believe me.”

  Jerry pushes away from the wall and takes a few steps backward. “It’s your relationship, but I’d hate to see you screw up a good thing. You do know you have a good thing with her, right?”

  I nod and ball up the paper. The only thing I can do is nod. I have a great thing.

  As long as I haven’t ruined it.

  Four hours later, I’m pretty certain I have my answer.

  I’ve sent her more than twenty texts and all have gone unanswered. And we still have a game to play.

  The next thirty-six hours are the longest of my life.

  Chapter 30

  Olivia

  I pick up my phone and study it through red-rimmed eyes and even redder vision, then begin to count. One, two, seven, ten, sixteen. Eighteen texts, all sent over the last twenty minutes like he has nothing better to do than hold a phone in his hand. And those don’t even count the dozens I’ve already deleted over the past two days, as though bombarding me with messages means I’ll pay attention to anything he has to say. Truthfully, I’m barely reading them. Pretty soon I’m going to delete all of our texts—the good ones, the great ones, the sweet ones, all the messages we’ve exchanged in the past month—most in the middle of the night, which really are the best kind. The middle of the night is when a person’s guard is down. The middle of the night is when you say things you really mean because your filter has fallen right along with your heavy eyelids. The middle of the night is when I fell for so many lies.

  It’s over . . . it’s over . . . it’s over . . .

  It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve repeated those words to myself, I’m still having trouble believing them. But I’m having no trouble believing this: she can have him, that actress he’s practically mauling on the dance floor in that photo. I’ve seen her movies; she’s not even that great a performer. Clearly her skills lie elsewhere, and Will is completely mesmerized by them.

  I slam my computer closed, then begin to pace the floor. I’m surprised my living room carpet doesn’t have permanent track marks with all the back and forth I’ve been doing from my desk to the refrigerator. Plus it’s nearly dinnertime and I still haven’t showered and I’m still wearing a bathrobe, completely unlike me. The last time this happened was—

  I remember the weekend Perry spent with him.

  I remember the tiptoeing and hiding and spying.

  I’m so tired of Will Vandergriff messing up my life and rearranging my ordered existence.

  With
a new determination, I open a drawer in my bathroom and begin to throw things away. An old tube of lipstick that should have been tossed weeks ago. An eyeliner sharpened down to a nub. An emery board too dull to be effective. Why do I still have these things? When did I let my life get so out of control?

  Four drawers and one trash bag later, I’ve finished this room and am contemplating beginning on another when an idea hits me. It’s crazy. It goes against all the organized brain cells that make me . . . me. But in a rush of adrenaline, I decide not to care. I reach for a towel and head for the shower, determined to get the feel of Will off my skin. I spend the next twenty minutes getting dressed, making phone calls, and packing a bag. There is a week left of summer vacation, and Will comes home tonight.

  I’m not going to be around when he shows up.

  Before I walk out my apartment door, I turn down the air conditioner, grab Perry, and try not to worry as I look around the area one more time. Even though my kitchen cabinets are disorganized and one door is hanging open—I really should shut that; who leaves a door open for no reason?—I force myself to look away and close the apartment door. We’ll only be gone a week; I can fix things later. It feels weird to be this hasty; it’s something I’ve never done.

  Yet another aspect of my personality that Will has managed to affect.

  A black cloud lifts when we pull out of the parking lot. A tiny light begins to shine when I pull onto the interstate. The wind begins to blow through my cracked window when we exit Dallas. I feel free when we hit Houston. By the time my feet are in the Gulf of Mexico and I’m watching Perry play in the sand, I’ve almost forgotten that ballplayer I thought I was falling for.

  Maybe change isn’t so bad after all.

  Will

  Olivia is gone. My mouth tastes like Styrofoam.