The Thirteenth Chance

by Amy Matayo

She’s been gone three days and she won’t return my texts. Even worse, she sends my calls straight to voice mail. I check social media and she hasn’t posted. I check my phone and there’s nothing from her. I’ve even taken to checking the mail, hoping someone with old-fashioned values like Olivia might think to send me a letter. It’s a waste of time. Something tells me she’s not even sending me a thought.

  This is what I get for falling into old ways. A pretty girl asks me to dance and I take her up on it. Sure, I was swayed by her fame. Absolutely by her looks. If I’m being honest, even by her body. But it took only seconds to know my heart wasn’t in it. Not even the slightest spark of interest lit my insides, so I walked off the floor and left her dancing alone.

  The pictures don’t show that, despite what I’ve done to refute them. Are you and Alicia dating, Will? No, we’re not. Did you and Alicia hook up, Will? No, we didn’t. It doesn’t help that for every no I utter, the chick in the photo exclaims a loud yes. If Olivia is following any of this on television or online, I’m certain she’s finished with me. The fact that she won’t answer my calls proves it.

  I grab my keys and head to the field.

  For the first time in my life, I’m even mad that we keep winning. We don’t even have a losing streak I can fall back on to convince Olivia I need her to come home.

  Chapter 31

  Olivia

  I’d like to say that I spent the week relaxing by the shore, reading a good book, and working on a tan, while a cabana boy oiled my back, brought me drinks, and fanned me as I drifted off on pleasant dreams, Perry stretched out comfortably at my feet. I’d like to say that.

  What I can say is that I sat by the shore so long that I got a first-degree burn, two layers of which are currently peeling off my skin—my nose and forehead bearing a frightening resemblance to a shedding snake. I did lie by the pool until what felt like hurricane-force winds blasted through South Texas and knocked all the lawn chairs to the bottom of the deep end, my worn copy of Jane Eyre going in right along with them. As for Perry, the storm frightened him so much that he clawed his way to the top of my head and stayed there for a solid two minutes. And twenty pounds of cat on your head for that long results in a decent-sized bruise and several visible scratches running from cheek to collarbone. Stupid cat. I’m starting to see Will’s point.

  Which makes the week even worse. No matter how hard I’ve tried to forget the past couple of months, reminders of Will’s statements . . . Will’s thoughts . . . Will’s humor . . . Will’s eyes . . . keep coming up. In two men sitting one table over from me at a restaurant, engaged in a conversation about the Cardinals and the Cubs and how neither stand a chance against the Rangers next week. In the Polaroid of Perry that fell out of my purse when I was searching for my wallet to pay for aloe at a convenience store across the street.

  I even saw reminders of him in the ocean—his eyes are a perfect match to the bluest part of it, the part by the sandbar where dolphins jumped every morning while I sipped coffee and watched resentfully from my patio.

  Several times this week I wanted to swim out to them and drown myself.

  Instead, I endured the reminders for five days, then slipped on a pair of sunglasses, perched Perry in the passenger seat of my car, and started driving. I’m now halfway home and wondering how in the world to avoid pulling into my parking space. I’m not ready to go back. I’m not ready to face Will. I am ready to be back in school for the distraction, but even that requires getting through the weekend. And because the devil is having a grand time making sure everything crashes together to wreak all sorts of havoc, Will’s next eight games are at home. Glory hallelujah, everything about my life is going to hell.

  I exit for a gas station just as my phone buzzes. I swear, the man won’t leave me alone. I stopped counting when his texts hit the hundred mark, and I’ve done my best to ignore all subsequent ones. For some reason I check this time. I immediately wish I hadn’t. It’s David Nichols, the nice man I met on that ridiculous night out with Kelly. Another time, the sight of his name might cause a swarm of butterflies to take off in my stomach. Right now, the feeling resembles something more like gnats.

  No one likes gnats.

  They’re a pain to deal with and almost impossible to swat.

  Him: How are you?

  Peachy. Yourself?

  Him: Pretty good. Wondered if you wanted to go out this weekend. Maybe catch a movie, get drinks, see where the night leads us . . .

  It’s the ellipsis that kills it. Every girl knows what an ellipsis means, even girls who barely date and then find themselves somehow attached to someone everyone knows is one of the world’s most notorious players. It doesn’t matter that Will has refuted the story, that he denies dating Alicia what’s-her-name, whose movies break box-office records because the citizens of America have bad taste in entertainment. He’s denied things before. The ink had barely dried on the lawsuit-that-wasn’t before this new issue cropped up. And to think I fell for him and all his lies.

  Hook.

  Line.

  And sinker.

  But as for David, thoughts of him need to be tied to an anchor and dropped to the murky bottom of a river. As of now, I’m through with men. Done. Every other red-blooded, tight-skirted American woman who believes a man is what it takes to achieve a happily-ever-after can have them with my blessing.

  Hopefully, in time, my heart and brain will catch up and start believing that lie. I reach for my phone and type a short reply to David.

  Can’t. Busy this weekend.

  That’s all he deserves. No man should give me three dots and expect I’ll respond positively. I’m better than that. Worth more than that. Like I said, I’m done with men. At least the kind who treat me badly.

  Before I make it home, my phone buzzes twelve more times. Eleven texts from Will and one from my brother. I don’t bother reading any of them. Instead, I stretch my arm over the passenger seat and drop my phone to the floor. It clangs against the door and settles into obscurity. Maybe it’s cracked. Maybe it’s ruined. Maybe I don’t care.

  Like I said, I’m done with men who treat me badly. I just wish they would be done with me.

  It isn’t until I’m home three hours later that I see a thirteenth text.

  It’s from Kimberly. She’s asking for a favor.

  She has got to be kidding me.

  I type a quick reply to her question, but all I can think is . . .

  Just like always, thirteen is a bad number.

  Will

  This is the dumbest idea anyone has ever had, but here I am agreeing to it because it’s what I do—offer myself up for the absurd. I’m the bearded lady in a traveling circus sideshow. Cat sitting. Deal making. Crazy-woman dating. We might as well add one more thing to the ever-growing list of ridiculous things I keep signing up for.

  “You’re telling me that, in all of Dallas, there are no other available men to do this?”

  “Will, it’s for charity and it’s you and forty others.” Kimberly stands in my bedroom and straightens my tie, then pats me on the chest while Blake sits on my bed and grins like an idiot behind her. Of course he’s grinning. He’s married and he doesn’t have to stoop to this humiliating level. Isn’t there a better way to help fight leukemia? Like a raffle or paying money to shove a pie in someone’s face? “Stop whining and step up to the plate,” she adds.

  If I had a chocolate one topped with whipped cream that I could smash on Kimberly’s head right now . . .

  “You can’t think of a better cliché than that? And what are you smiling at?” I growl at Blake. “If I have to do this, you should too. And don’t use the ‘I’m married’ excuse because no one cares.”

  “I care,” Kimberly protests.

  Blake’s hands go up. “Dude, I am married. What would that look like?”

  “It would look typical. You could just join the club of all the skanky athletes with women on the side.”

  “Hey!” Kimberly slaps my arm and sc
owls. “Not everyone is like that. Not even most. You’re just mad because we won’t let you stay home and mope all night. It’s time to get over it and move on. Who knows, maybe you’ll meet your soul mate tonight.”

  I try not to roll my eyes. “On the other side of a speed-dating table? I doubt it. That’d be kind of like meeting my soul mate on a street corner on Hollywood Boulevard.”

  “It happened in Pretty Woman,” Kimberly says, examining her fingernails.

  “Except I’m not Richard Gere, and I’d rather not fall for a hooker.”

  “Wouldn’t be the worst thing you’ve done,” she mutters. “Great attitude, by the way. You’re doing this for kids’ cancer.” She looks over her shoulder. “Alright, Blake, he’s all yours.”

  Okay, well now I feel a little bad. But only a little.

  “Lucky me,” Blake says. They both sound as enthusiastic as if they’d just been handed a wiggling, screaming newborn to deal with all evening. Well, I’m not screaming and I’m certainly not fidgeting, but how in the heck I got talked into speed dating, I’ll never understand. These women paid a lot of money, Kimberly said when she asked me. It’s for the children. Children with leukemia, she added, emphasizing that last word in four very strong syllables to make me feel extra guilty. It worked. Of course it worked. And now, just because a bunch of chicks I don’t even know paid one thousand dollars each for the chance to go on a date with me and thirty-nine other single ballplayers in the great state of Texas, I’m stuck.

  It’s only been two weeks since I’ve seen Olivia. I’m not ready to go on another date, especially not a fake one.

  Why does it seem like fake dating is all I do lately? It’s practically become a second career, with no financial benefits.

  “Let’s go help the kids,” I say to no one in particular. My feet are literally dragging as we walk out of my bedroom. “Where is this place?”

  “It’s at the Hilton Hollywood Boulevard,” Kimberly says, giggling into her hand. Of course it is. “What a coincidence,” she says. “Though I’m pretty sure I’ve told you this at least a dozen times already.”

  I reach for the doorknob and look at Blake. “Dude, control your wife. She’s being awfully condescending tonight.”

  He laughs as they both follow me out the front door. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Chapter 32

  Olivia

  “No, schoolteachers aren’t poor. Depending on the district, we actually do quite well.” I’m lying a little, but seriously. What kind of question is that? It’s an insult to teachers everywhere, and not all of them are as nice as me.

  “Have you ever thought about trying a different career? Maybe something like interior decorating or web design?” he asks.

  I swing my leg a little and try to unclench my fists. “I didn’t get a college degree for that. Do you have a thing for designers or something?”

  “No, it’s just that a couple of my buddies have dated women in the design field and they seemed cool. Sexy for sure.”

  “And schoolteachers can’t be sexy?” I don’t mean for it to sound like a question, but how have the tables turned here? “Besides, I thought I was the one who’s supposed to be asking the questions.”

  He shrugs. “Ask me a question.”

  And here’s a problem: I don’t exactly have one ready. Because I still don’t want to be here, but I was forced against my will. I look over my shoulder. Where is Kimberly anyway?

  “Um . . . I’m sorry.” Think of something, Olivia. “What position do you play?” Not exactly a stroke of genius, but it’s all I can think of under pressure.

  “I don’t. I’m the mascot for the Mavericks.”

  I scratch my arm and try not to point out the shortcomings of this revelation. “And I’m sure that’s a very respectable career. So why don’t we just agree that both our careers are something to be proud of and move on from here.”

  He shrugs. “If you say so. It’s just . . . schoolteachers aren’t my thing. In my experience, they’re kind of mean.”

  I fist the paper in my hand and stand. “It was nice to meet you. Maybe the next woman will be more what you’re looking for.”

  He opens his mouth to say something, but I don’t give him the chance before I walk away and set my sights on Kimberly. She’s next to the bar, holding the Coke she offered to get me before this started. I snatch it out of her hand and take a sip.

  “I may never speak to you again after this. A pity, since we’ve only spent a grand total of twelve days together, and I actually found myself enjoying them.”

  “Oh, would you stop whining?” she says, then mutters something else under her breath. If I didn’t know better, I might think she just said something about Will. As it stands and if she did, I don’t want to know about it.

  This place is fancy, not exactly my dream location for meeting Mr. Right or Wrong or Anyone-Who-Isn’t-Will-Vandergriff, especially considering I’m a schoolteacher who spends half her day worried about some child giving me lice or worse. Anyone but Will, that’s pretty much my only criterion. Though at one thousand dollars—which Kimberly paid before she asked if I would come, giving me no choice in the matter—I guess Will wouldn’t be so bad. I wish he’d paid the money. I wish I could at least have the satisfaction of knowing I could go on a very expensive date with him and not feel bad about it. As it stands, he’s not even here.

  I stir the ice with my straw and take another sip, then crunch on an ice cube. It’s loud and obnoxious and a couple of heads turn, but I’m a schoolteacher. Everyone knows they aren’t classy.

  “I’m not whining.”

  “Stop chewing on ice; it’s bad for your teeth. And, yes, you are whining. There’s a lot of that going around tonight,” she mutters.

  “From who?”

  She goes still. “From who what?”

  There’s something about her expression. It’s frozen, caught. I don’t like it and find myself scanning the room. “Who else is whining?”

  She flutters away my question with her hand. “Everyone here. Now, how many men do you have left to go through? Found anyone you like yet?” In a very quick change of subject, she peers over my shoulder at the paper in my hand and studies the names. I watch her for a moment longer and then give up. I’ve never been that great at analyzing people anyway.

  “That guy was a jerk,” I say, nodding my head to the left. “Number four wasn’t awful, but I’m not sure how he felt about me.” Barry is a little on the short side, with a receding hairline, but he’s an assistant coach for the Dallas Mavericks—a step up from the mascot—is built nicely, of course, and has a very charming smile. His voice is slightly nasal, probably from some sort of allergy, because doesn’t everyone have them this time of year? But even if this is his natural voice, a girl can’t have everything, I suppose. People can’t always help the way they sound.

  “And then number nine was okay. Divorced three times, but—”

  “No,” she says, snatching the paper out of my hand. “He’s probably paying alimony and child support all over the place. What about number seven? He’s pretty good looking, and Blake has met him before. He plays for the Astros, so what’s not to like?”

  He’s a baseball player, for one thing, but I can’t say that. Besides, she sure is pushy tonight. For someone who’s supposed to be good friends with Will, she’s practically thrusting me with both hands into the arms of someone else. Or at least trying to. Maybe Will is an even bigger jerk than I thought. Sad, since I was starting to believe his statements that the pictures weren’t telling the whole truth . . . that maybe he really didn’t do anything with Alicia what’s-her-name, and what kind of name is Alicia? It’s gratey and whiny and hardly respectable. Ask any female with brains and she would probably tell you the same thing.

  “His name is Kevin,” I say, as if that explains my bad mood, the drizzly weather, and the fact that the Texas mosquito population is at an all-time high. Kimberly just looks at me.

  “What�
��s wrong with the name Kevin?”

  “I just don’t like it.”

  Really, I just don’t like this and I don’t like the fact that Will isn’t here. Why isn’t he here? My arms become fidgety, and my fingers begin to scratch at things, and I really hoped he would be here.

  Kimberly sighs. “Well, you were matched up with fifteen men, so you still have four more to go.” She hands me back my paper. “And since that lady finally stopped talking and stood up, that guy’s free. Not bad looking either. Plus, his name is John. Any issues with that name?” I give my head a shake, and she gives me a little shove. “Then go get him.”

  I take a couple steps away and then turn to look at her. “Don’t you know most of these men already? You should just tell me which one to choose and make my life easier.”

  She looks to the left, then the right, then finally at me. That expression. Those fluttering hands. Both are making me nervous for some reason I can’t pinpoint. “Of course I don’t know them. It’s not like all I do is hang out with athletes.” She plants a hand on her hip and gives a nervous laugh. “Some of them play basketball, Olivia.”

  Half the men here play for the Rangers, she and Blake have no kids, and Kimberly works part-time only when the season is over. During the season, she travels with Blake. All Kimberly does is hang out with athletes. My suspicions double while I’m standing there.

  When she says nothing else, I walk over to guy number twelve. My heart isn’t in this anyway. He could be the most charming, wonderful, charismatic man I’ve ever met, but when the night is over, I’ll wind up telling him to find someone else. Thanks but no thanks. I’m not your girl. There’s a thousand dollars well spent.

  Ten minutes later I find out I was right. The guy asked for my phone number. Right before he asked how I felt about open relationships. He has two girlfriends—two!—one based in Atlanta and another who lives in Boston, but he told me he’s looking for someone closer to home. Closer to home, as if convenience would be the primary factor for me. As if I would feel like a golden chosen girl because I live only ten miles from the stadium. After a rather loud no thank you to the man, I snatched up my paper and stalked off. Now I’m back at Kimberly’s side, thinking how lucky she is to already be married and finished with these kinds of humiliating situations.