“Can you do up my skirt in the back? I can never get that hook. I think my hands are broken from all the rubbing you made me do last night.”
I hang up before I can hear another word. Dropping the phone to the table, I take deep, gulping breaths to corral my burgeoning rage, but concentrated breathing isn’t doing a thing for me. With a roar, I shoot to my feet and grab the side of my table. With one heave, I flip it over. Plates go flying, and the guys on the other side look shocked and pissed off, but I don’t give a goddamn. I start throwing around chairs, benches, anything I can get my hands on. People are shouting and running, but I’m in full Hulk mode now. Destroy. Destroy. Destroy. Four hands grab at me, two at each arm, and they drag me backward out of the room. It’s Bride and another teammate, Cabby.
“Whoever she is, she’s not worth it,” Bride says as we clear the door. They drag me all the way to the head and shove me into the shower. I get in a punch on one of them before the cold water hits my head and the shock of it snaps me out of my rage-fueled mania.
“Not worth it,” Bride repeats.
“No pussy ever is,” Cabby agrees.
As the water drips down my face into the tiny drain, I lean back against the hard metal wall. Regret swarms me like locusts, and I stare at the two of them who look back at me with concern and disbelief. Rubbing that left area of my chest where my heart once resided, I tell them the shitty truth. “She was, and I fucked it up.”
25
Charlotte
I pull on the T-shirt Reece threw to me and ask, “Okay, how do I look? Slutty bartender?”
“Not really. More, I slept too late and I’m too lazy to do anything about it.”
“Thanks. That’s really nice, Reece.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “That’s what girlfriends are for. Who was it on the phone?”
I look. Unknown caller.
“Must’ve been a telemarketer.”
“What time do you have to be at Stack’s?” Reese asks me, pushing up from the sofa where we’d both fallen asleep. We were up all night massaging the belly of his pregnant horse. Reese’s family ranches the same land his great grandfather settled on just after the first World War. Reese loves his family and his horses but hates ranching. He’s currently my right hand man and one of my best friends, but currently I’m cursing him because my fingers are stiff and sore and I’m going to be late.
“I’m opening it up. Lainey has a pediatric check up with Cassidy at four. It’s the only time they could fit her in. I’m wondering whether I’ll even be able to grip a glass.” I raise my hands and flex my fingers, wincing at the ache.
“You look like you’re auditioning for Cat Woman,” Reese jokes. “Or doing jazz hands.” His fingers waggle obscenely at me.
“No, thanks.”
“You should take that cool drink of water home with you tonight,” he advises, lying back on the sofa. Obviously he has no plans to get up.
“Who’s that?” I ask absently, checking to see that I have everything I need. Keys, credit card, ID. Bag full of notebooks. Phone.
“The head bartender. Martin? Maxwell? Mysterious Man?”
“You mean Michael?”
“Yeah, him.” Reese growls low in appreciation.
“Michael is . . .” I pause because I’ve never really noticed Michael. I have a vague memory of someone dark haired and tall.
“Tall, built, hot. Did I mention built? Did you not see him at the flag football game last week? We were sitting right next to each other!” Reese is completely affronted.
“There were a lot of nice chests on display,” I say weakly. I remember the flag football game, or at least I remember going to the park with Reese and Lainey, but I was making out my schedule for this week.
“It’s all those professional athletes, you know,” he accuses. “You’ve become numb to ripped bodies. You think everyone has them.”
“I don’t,” I protest. But maybe he is right. There’s no shortage of sculpted abs and amazing physiques in my circle. Maybe I have become desensitized to them.
“Get out of my sight,” he says, throwing a pillow at my head. “I can’t be around someone who doesn’t drool over a good man chest.”
“I promise to work on my drooling. I’ll even try to sexually harass Michael during work. In the meantime,” I throw the pillow back, “will you please double check my schedule and plane tickets? I’ve got a million and ten things to do when I get to San Diego tomorrow.”
“I liked you better when you were a romantic!” Reese calls out after me. “When you cried at soda commercials and tampon ads.”
It’s not until after the door closes that I answer him. “I didn’t,” I say to the empty stairwell.
When I was a girl I used to think writing letters, for example, was super romantic. But after years of writing and receiving almost no response, years of waiting only to be left alone time and again, I woke up finally and realized that romanticism is simply a cover used to conceal decay and sickness.
Men cheat on their girlfriends. Girlfriends cheat on their boyfriends. At least some guys know that they can’t be in a relationship because they’re too busy sampling every type of woman, as if God created the female in a buffet form just for their pleasure.
It’s not that I don’t believe in love. I just don’t believe it’s for me. I had my one great chance at love, but when it was exposed to a few harsh conditions, it collapsed like a shitty ass umbrella in the Windy City.
I believe in friendships like the ones I have with Nick and Reese and Lainey. I believe in the love of my parents. God knows they’d do anything for me. I believe in long walks in the park, the surprise pleasure of a warm summer rain, the rotation of the spiral pass, and the glory of the no hitter. I believe in a lot of things, but I don’t believe in love.
When I arrive at Stack’s, the doors are propped open. The summer heat is baking into the concrete, loosening the odor of the Las Colinas streets. For a swanky neighborhood in Dallas, sometimes the smell of progress stinks.
“Why do you have the doors open?” I ask Lainey, my other best friend and current manager of Stack’s.
“Smelled like someone died in here last night,” she explains.
“It’s awful out there.”
“Was worse in here.”
Seeing that I’m not going to win this battle, I stick my purse under the bar and tie my apron on. “Should I cut the limes first?”
She nods and checks her watch. “I’m going to be in back counting bottles. When Michael comes in, tell him to record the opening bank and then he can come back and finish up inventory.”
“I’ve got this covered.” I shoo her toward the door. “You go on and get Cassidy to her appointment.”
“Seems like it was only yesterday you plopped down here asking me about all the good places around the Mustang’s training facility, and now you’re telling me what to do,” she replies with a wry smile.
“A good bar owner knows everything,” I say affectionately.
Looking around, I take in the wide oak-paneled walls, circular wooden tables, and cheap stage that have been my home away from home for three years and sigh. Maybe I’m still a teensy bit romantic because this rundown joint looks beautiful to me. When I came here three years ago, I was heartsore and trying to find myself. Here I found Lainey, a bar waitress with one kid, a bad boyfriend, and a big heart. And Reese, a man child looking for love in every conceivable wrong place but still smiling no matter how many times the guy of his dreams turned out to be a cheating bastard.
I’d started a business and found comfort in new friends and a good career. On most days, this is good enough.
When Nick got drafted by the Mustangs, I came with him to ensure the transition from college to pros went as smoothly as possible. I bought groceries for him, made sure his clothes were cleaned, paid his bills, and generally made it so all he had to do was concentrate on football. Oh, and women. He had plenty of time for women. I was the buffer between him an
d everyone who wanted something from him. Every rookie he came into contact with envied him.
When he won the Super Bowl his second year out, my little business expanded from one player to ten. And in the past year, it has grown from ten players to twenty-nine, and I’ve had to leave the bar to keep up with demand. After Lainey’s job was threatened by the old manager because she’d had an emergency at home, Nick, Reese and I bought this bar—although Nick is a silent partner because Lainey and him don’t get along.
Forget Me Not, or F’Me as my players like to call it, now aids the transitions of professional athletes in nearly every major city and for every major sport as they are drafted or traded. Each athlete is handled by one person.
I find them places to live close to the training facility along with restaurants, grocery stores, schools, nannies, dry cleaning, and churches. And I take care of all the details back home—getting a house sold, making sure all the bills are taken care of, finding that lucky pair of shoes that was left behind. All the player has to do is pick up his bag and leave. I—or one of my employees—take care of all the details.
And because I am scatter-brained I have to write things down. I have written lists, electronic lists, and a master list of my lists. When it was just me managing my small herd of players, I kept track of them by assigning them to a single notebook, color coded according to their new team colors. Reese is my admin because he likes a job without responsibility, or so he says. Even Lainey pitches in from time to time when she can. If there’s an emergency or something falls through the cracks, one of the three of us take care of it.
And tomorrow I’m flying out to San Diego to patch one of those cracks. A baseball player, Christian Glass, has just been traded from the Royals to the San Diego Commandants. This is his second trade in two years, and his family is anxious and unhappy. I promised Christian I’d come out personally and help with the transition.
This is a big deal for me, even though Christian doesn’t know it, because I never, ever go to San Diego. That’s where Nate is stationed, part of the West Coast SEAL teams. Despite San Diego being a huge city, I always worry about seeing him in some random place—like a shopping center or a bar or a grocery store. In every scenario he has his arm draped around a woman and I know if I ever see that, whatever is left of my childhood will be crushed. As I told him in my last letter, I will always love him.
I just don’t want to.
26
Charlotte
The tension hits me the minute I walk into the suite that Christian’s family is currently staying in. Despite the hefty per night price tag, this place is too small for Christian, Peyton, and their two year old. I make a note to move housing up to the top of the list. Ideally their child should have stayed behind while I looked for the right property and Christian met with his new team.
I’m not sure whose idea it was to have the whole family here, but no one is happy making the large three room upper-story suite feel like a stifling linen closet. My eyes slide from the scowl-lined face of Christian to the tense one of Peyton. Only Peyton even attempts to smile at me when I arrive.
“How is sweet Christie doing today?” I ask as I advance toward the sofa and scoop up their beautiful baby girl into my arms. I rub my nose against her soft skin, enjoying the pats of her tiny hands against my cheek.
“Fine, despite the ungodly flight. I don’t understand why they didn’t send the team plane for us,” Peyton says with a dark look.
“Babe, I couldn’t ask for that.”
“You asked for the trade,” she shoots back. “Maybe think about your family next time.”
I settle onto the sofa next to Peyton. “Hey, Peyton. I’m here. I’m going to take care of everything. You will love it here. The beach and the sand will be awesome for Christie. And the Commandants are a great family organization. You know Shelly Hoffman, too, so it’s not like everyone here is a stranger.”
Some of her anger is deflating. “I haven’t talked to Shelly in forever,” she admits.
“I’m sure she understands.” Why wouldn’t she? Being the significant other of an athlete is its own special club—harrowing, exciting, but with a lot of emotional baggage.
“Thanks, Charlie.” She gives me a hug. We play with the baby for a little while longer until Peyton takes her off to have a mid-morning snack in one of the other rooms, giving me time and privacy to talk to Christian.
“It’s a mess,” he admits when we sit down at the table. “Get us out of here ASAP. And go to Tiffany’s. This is something Pey Pey has been wanting for a while now. I was going to buy it for her birthday but. . .” he trails off. He’s worried that she won’t be around for her birthday. A bracelet isn’t going to convince her not to leave, but I’m not a couple’s counselor. I am an errand girl though. I take a photo of the diamond and gold bracelet he has on his phone. “Do your magic.”
“I will. You concentrate on making this trade worthwhile.” We run over a few broad ideas of what he wants in a home and a nanny, and then I dismiss him to get into the details with Peyton. Having facilitated their move two years ago on the opposite coast, I’m able to show her three properties I’ve already bookmarked online as recommendations when she returns from feeding baby Christie.
“I’m thinking Rancho Santa Fe. You’ll be living next to other athletes, bankers, and even the occasional movie star. There’s not a lot of racial diversity, but it’s better than it was, say, ten years ago.”
Peyton presses her lips together. “I’m having my mother move up. She wouldn’t have liked Baltimore, but San Diego would be okay.”
“See,” I nudge her slightly. “This isn’t so bad. I’m sure Christian was thinking of you when he asked for the trade.”
When she gives me a don’t bullshit me glare, I raise my eyebrows and move on. We both know Christian thinks of his career first and his family second, but I do think he loves Peyton. They’ve been together five years, which, for athletes, is like thirty in real-life terms. After contacting a real estate agent as well as giving Peyton instructions to two different parks and an indoor play area that she can take Christie to, I head over to the Fashion Valley Mall and the nearest Tiffany store.
When I get there, I pause to peruse the small black box displays of necklaces and watches for gifts for my family. I haven’t seen Mom and Dad in months, what with my business taking off. I need to get back to Chicago. I talk to them once a week, but it’s not the same. A delicate necklace with a citrine oval unfaceted gemstone with tiny delicate gold leaves curling around the edges catches my eye. It has my mom written all over it, and the price tag is one that even I can afford without dipping into my trust. Just beyond the black display block mounted on a thin steel pole, my gaze is arrested by a tall, broad-shouldered man leaning over a counter. As he straightens and his dark, military short hair comes into view, my heart skips a beat.
No, Charlotte. It is not Nathan. Not every tall, dark-haired male in San Diego is Nathan.
But I can’t tear my eyes away. I will him to look at me. The sales assistant is pulling out a tray and setting it in front of him. He lifts a shiny object from the tray and holds it up, turning slightly so that the light catches it. And I see it. And then him. The drumbeat in my ears is so loud it’s as if the percussion section of the entire band is standing right next to me. My breath is becoming shallow and harsh, but I can’t wrench my eyes away. I eat up this glimpse of him. My eyes hungrily rove over his lovely face, the strong nose and square jaw and full lips that are pursed slightly. His head cocks to the side, as if he’s trying to peer around the window display . . . at me? I duck to the side, pressing up against the gray granite exterior that frames the glass windows. Numerous mall shoppers walk by, probably staring at the strange girl plastered flat against the wall unmoving. Minutes pass, but I can’t leave. Nor can I go inside.
“Miss? Miss? Miss? Lady!”
The last word filters through my muddled brain, and I look up to see a police officer and a mall security g
uard standing in front of me. Their hands are on their hips, close to their weapons, and they appear confused and unhappy.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “I’m just leaving.” The security guard follows me all the way to the parking lot. When climb into my rented Honda Fit, though, I’m still too shaky to drive off. Instead, I fumble in my purse and grab my phone. The second speed dial button is Nick.
His voicemail message kicks in almost immediately. Can’t answer the phone. Text me because I don’t listen to messages.
Ignoring his instruction, I babble a message. “I’m in San Diego. I saw Nate at Tiffany’s. He was buying a ring. Or looking at one. Is he getting married? Is he really getting married, and no one told me?”
Hanging up before Nick hears me sob on the message that he might never listen to, I start the car and drive back to my hotel. I could call Aunt Grace, his mother. I could call my mother. Both would know the truth about Nate’s relationship status. Unless . . . unless this is some woman he’s kept secret, and he’s going to marry her and spring her on us the next time we all get together as a family.
Finally, I break down and call Reese. “I need you to come here,” I say without preamble.
“You having problems with Christian?”
Oh god, Christian and Peyton. The bracelet I’m supposed to buy to soften the trade is still unpurchased, and the whole to-do list for them sits untouched in my purse. Sitting up, I fumble for my bag and find the little orange notebook that I’ve picked out for Christian. Opening it up, I glance unseeing down the list. I can’t concentrate. Throwing the book across the room, I say, “No. Not yet. That’s not important. I saw him.”
“Who? Christian? You’re supposed to see him. He’s your client.”
“No, Reese. Pay attention. Nate. He was in Tiffany’s looking at diamond rings.” I start crying, sobbing really. “He’s getting married.”
The Charlotte Chronicles Page 16