Before Girl

by Kate Canterbary

  We walked in silence, down the stairs, out of the building. The sun was high in the sky and the air was warm and scented with summer. Objectively, it was a nice day. But I couldn't appreciate any of it. Just like the song said, there was no sunshine when she was gone.

  Halfway through devouring his slice, Stremmel announced, "I like this crust."

  I stared at the pizza but couldn't recall tasting it. "Yeah," I agreed. "It's all right."

  "Not like California pizza," he continued. "But I dig it."

  I looked up at him, my brow pinched tight. "I hope you didn't strain yourself admitting there's one thing you like about this town."

  Stremmel considered his pizza with a quiet chuckle. "I might deserve that."

  "How do you do it?" I asked. "How are you miserable every damn day?"

  He didn't answer right away, instead finishing his slice, thoroughly wiping his hands, and draining a can of soda. "Are you asking for pro tips? Lessons?" He looked me up and down. "Doesn't look like you need my help."

  "It's not advice I want," I replied. "I want to know how you live this way. My head is a fucking minefield and I can feel my arteries hardening from bitterness alone. I hate everything. I scowled at a dog this morning and I don't even know why. How do you handle this—this condition? I've been at it for a little more than eight days and I'll do anything to make it go away."

  "If you find the remedy, let me know," he said. "I've been at it for a little more than thirty-eight years."

  33

  Stella

  Four things happened after Cal walked out of my house.

  I broke my long-standing routine of walking at the pond every morning and acquainted myself with the gym on the ground floor of my office building.

  McKendrick's suspension ended. He followed up his first appearance on the mound by conducting locker room interviews in a towel with one foot propped on a stool while the family jewels peeked out at reporters.

  I earned my promotion, though to hear Rebecca tell it, she gifted it to me out of the goodness of her cold, dark heart. The little office party she threw for me was also a gift, one I wasn't allowed to forget. I sobbed over my cake and champagne after everyone left.

  And I ended my relationships with Stephen, Leif, and Harry. Of all these things, that was the easiest. So easy I couldn't believe I'd waited this long to do it. But that was my problem, wasn't it? I stuck with things even when I knew they weren't working. I held on long after it stopped serving me.

  I accomplished all that and endured multiple phone calls from my sisters and parents. They were too hopped up on their newfound obsession with Cal to keep their gushing contained to texts. Everyone wanted to know where was it going and would I bring him around for another family dinner and wasn't he wonderful?

  Yeah. He was.

  Serina insisted Cal was ready to wife me up. I laughed at that, both the phrase and the constant reminder I wasn't The One. Not for Cal, not for anyone.

  Sophia said I deserved a man like Cal after all of my "bad luck." That I'd put my vision for a healthy relationship out into the universe and the universe sent back Cal. I laughed at that too because it was hilarious in a cruel, painful way. I'd never asked for Cal and I'd kept that fact in the foreground of my mind right up until the night he walked away.

  Mom begged for Cal's mother's phone number. That yielded another hearty laugh. She wanted to befriend my future mother-in-law and who could blame her?

  My father was the worst of them because he simply said he was happy for me. I didn't laugh. I cried. Ugly, snotty sobs punctuated by shuddering breaths and sniffles and hiccups. Dad thought they were happy tears and I didn't have the heart to tell him otherwise.

  But really, I didn't have the heart to say it out loud. Didn't want to tell them I'd lost another good guy, and not just a good guy but the best guy. The very best of them. The one who accepted me as I came, who waited for me, who wanted me all the way.

  Cal was the best of them.

  Despite getting McKendrick back in the game, I wasn't rid of him. Not yet.

  His contract with me ran through the end of the calendar year which was good for the purposes of continuity but terrible for my patience. It was hard to keep a smile on my face when I woke up to nineteen text messages from him, all relating to the whereabouts of his scrambled eggs.

  It was even harder to keep that smile while he refused to prepare for his first major on-air interview since returning to the mound. We were in Bristol, Connecticut for a taping of SportsCenter and my client was too busy doing pushups to review talking points.

  "We have half an hour before you're in makeup," I said, rolling my eyes as he launched into jumping jacks. "You're going to sweat through that shirt—"

  "Then find me a new one," he replied.

  Ignoring him, I continued, "and you need to clean up your response about learning from your mistakes."

  "No mistakes, no remorse," he panted out with each jumping jack. "If they got a problem with that, fuck 'em."

  I reached for my water bottle with a sigh. "While I happen to believe fuck 'em is a great philosophy, I can't let you lead with that on ESPN."

  He stopped, reached for the floor, and pushed into a handstand as he said, "You're salty as fuck today." From his upside-down perch, he shot a glance at me. "What's wrong with you, honeycakes?"

  "Just off the top of my head, you're doing handstands while I'm trying to run through interview responses," I said. "There's also the issue of you texting me your breakfast order as if your trainer isn't sending meals to your house every morning."

  "Nah, that's not it," he drawled, kicking out of that position and into another round of pushups. "Are you havin' troubles with your man?"

  Like I needed the reminder.

  I wanted to put my head down and cry, right here in the green room. Instead, I said, "McKendrick, seriously. We don't have a lot of time and you need to nail this."

  "Either you tell me about your man problems," he threatened, "or I drop my pants and go balls out on ESPN. You can tell them it's for my nut cancer advocacy."

  I pressed my fingertips to my temples with a sigh. "Why did I ever give you that idea?"

  "Come on, lady. This place is boring and I need something to entertain me. Tell me about this man." McKendrick stood, whipped his shirt off. "Is he jealous of me? Doesn't like me sliding into your messages every day and hangin' with you at big parties?" He watched as he flexed his bicep, grinning at the bulge. "I'd be jealous of me."

  "Naturally," I replied. "But no, it's not about you. Not really."

  His smile widened. "A little bit?"

  "No," I said, but then, "I mean, you didn't help."

  McKendrick patted his bare abs. "I'm hard to resist."

  I spared him an impatient glare. "I'm resisting just fine," I said. "But I think we can agree you're a little extra, Lucian."

  He ran his palm over his belly. "I'm a jackass. I like jackassing. That's what my ma calls it, jackassing." He shoved his hand under his belt. I looked away. "Sometimes I do some stupid shit and sometimes I jackass all over the place but I didn't mean to mess up your thing, honeycakes."

  Oh, this was it. This was the moment when it all went to shit. When I cried in front of a client and let it all out in the ESPN green room. And it was Lucian McKendrick's fault.

  "You didn't, McKendrick." I gulped down a rush of tears. "I'm the problem. It's me."

  He zigzagged a finger at me. "Not from where I'm standing it's not."

  I gained my feet, turning away from him. I went in search of tissues and when I found them, I made it my business to fold one into a perfect, crisp square. "It's sweet of you to say that but trust me, I'm the issue here. I'm the one who fucked it up. I always do."

  "What's this shit?" he asked, right over my shoulder. "You're the fixer. You don't fuck nothing up."

  I tossed the tissue square to the side, went for another. "Well, I fucked this up. And I shouldn't be surprised. Not really. I'm always the one they
leave."

  "You can't drop this shit and expect me to roll with it," he said. "Not without some explaining."

  I balled the tissue in my fist as I whirled on him. "You want an explanation? Okay, cool. Cool. You're on camera within the hour but let's spend our time talking about me and how I don't do relationships but I went for it this time. I thought it would be different even though I was scared. I didn't want to get close to another guy only for him to walk away and meet the woman he's going to marry. But I did it and I fucked it up and now it's over."

  An unpleasant noise rasped in his throat, something like phlegm and annoyance. "That's some Cosmopolitan shit. 'I didn't want to get hurt so I didn't put myself out there.' Like, 'I didn't believe in love until love believed in me.'" He pulled a scowl, shook his head. "I thought you were better than that."

  "Not good enough to get out of my own way," I replied. "Sorry to disappoint you."

  "But you're the fixer, lady. People fuck things up and you fix them. They fuck up again and you fix it better. Then you fix it harder so they can't step in the same shit a third time. You've gotta be able to fix your own things," he said, exasperated.

  "It's not that simple—"

  "Oh, it's fuckin' simple," he roared. "You just stop jackassing, lady."

  A watery laugh burst from my lips. "I did that already," I said. "I took the jackassery out back and buried it."

  His eyebrow arched up. He stared me down like I was a rookie clutching the bat with sweaty palms. "And now you’re gonna fix it with your man."

  I rolled the balled-up tissue between my palms. "I don't think I can. I hurt him."

  He gestured to himself with a showman's smile. "I've hurt tons of people, honeycakes. I've pissed on them too. But then I go on TV and flash my puppy dog eyes and promise to be a good boy. There's always a way to make it better."

  I stared at the floor for a long beat. Too long for McKendrick's liking.

  "Listen, lady. You're gonna stop with this advice column shit. Put The Secret down. When you get back to Boston, you're gonna fix it with your man."

  "I appreciate the sentiment," I said, glancing up at him. "But it's not as though I can apologize and poof, everything is better. There's more—"

  "Bullshit," he interrupted. "I'm living proof that people are willing to forgive just about anything. Before you tell me that you did something unforgiveable, please think about all the times I've done unforgiveable things and all the times I've been forgiven."

  "Because you bring home wins," I argued, still worrying the tissue. "League wins. World Series wins. You are the guy who shuts it down and that's why they forgive you."

  He nabbed the tissue from my hands. "How are we any different, lady?" When I didn't respond, he continued, "We're not different."

  "It's been almost two weeks," I protested. "I haven't even reached out to him because—because what do I say at this point? Like, 'Oh, hey. Remember when I was awful and then did nothing to resolve the situation for half a damn month? Well, my schedule opened up and I'd like to resolve it now.'"

  "Do you overthink everything or do you limit it to the dudes in your life?" he asked. "The romantic dudes, not the athletic dudes."

  I gathered myself together enough to look affronted. "I'm not overthinking."

  He snorted out a laugh. "This is the definition of overthinking. So what if a guy got married after ending things with you? That's fuckin' life, lady. Players get traded. Things change. You move the hell on."

  "It happened more than once," I said, my voice as feeble as the argument felt.

  "I watch a lot of game tape. My games, everyone else's games. But I don't keep playing that shit. I don't go back to my rookie year, pick my worst night of the season, and revisit every bad pitch. I don't spook myself out of bringing the firepower today because of shit from yesterday."

  "I understand what you're trying to do and I appreciate having a conversation with you that doesn't involve bar fights, testicles, or scrambled eggs," I said, "but the situations aren't perfect comparisons."

  McKendrick shook his head, chuckled. "This man of yours, he'll forgive you. Apologize, promise to do better, give him some good loving. I bet he's dying to see you."

  I looked up at him. He had too much energy for one human, an unnatural fascination with putting his berries on display, and couldn't stop creating drama for himself. He was also the voice of reason.

  "It's the bottom of the ninth. All tied up. Time to rally." He tossed my tissue ball into the wastebasket on the other side of the room. "Okay?"

  I forced a smile, nodded. "Okay."

  It was hot today. Sunny, no clouds. It felt like summer. Lemonade and flipflops and fireworks an hour after sunset. I loved those things. I looked forward to them all winter long. But now that they were here, I couldn't summon any enthusiasm. I didn't want to watch fireworks alone. Didn't want to show off a new pedicure without Cal to compliment my toes. I didn't want to do anything.

  But I had to—I had to fix this.

  The middle of my team's late afternoon huddle wasn't the right time to formulate that solution but Tatum and Flinn had everything under control without the benefit of my full attention.

  Or so I thought.

  Flinn tapped Tatum on the arm and announced, "We're together."

  I sat back in my desk chair, crossed my arms over my chest, and narrowed my eyes at them. "I'm sorry. What? What did you say?"

  They exchanged a quick glance, some mouthed words. Tatum leveled a sharp glare at Flinn as she shook her head. He shifted in his seat, crossed his legs.

  I didn't have the patience for this, whatever it was. I'd barely slept after returning home from the ESPN studios last night and I had other priorities to tend today. I went to the pond this morning with the hope of seeing Cal but he wasn't there. I'd dragged myself around that trail while listening to all the sad songs by The Backstreet Boys and then forced myself to walk another loop. It served the dual purposes of compensating for the rough night and allowing me to stick around in case Cal was avoiding our usual time.

  It hadn't occurred to me he'd avoid our usual place.

  After an exceedingly awkward pause, Flinn repeated, "We're together."

  I swiveled my chair to the side and stared out at the city. "Meaning what?" I asked, not looking back at them. "Don't leave this up to inference, Flinn. Specifics, please."

  "Specifically, we are dating," Tatum said. "We've been—uh—hanging out, I guess, for a little while now and we"—I saw her motion toward Flinn—"decided to make it official."

  I brought my hands to my face, pressed my fingertips to my eyelids. The rational portion of my mind knew their relationship had nothing to do with me. It didn't matter whether these two could make it work when I couldn't. Why would I bother comparing? But the other portion of my mind, the one that wanted to cry all the tears and eat brownie batter while watching The Notebook, wasn't on the same page. That part of me was ready to tell them they weren't allowed to make it official.

  I continued gazing at the skyline because I didn't trust the rational side in this fight.

  "We've also decided I should be the one to leave," Flinn said. "If someone has to leave the team because of this, it should be me."

  Brownie batter. That was the only solution. "How magnanimous of you," I mused.

  "What Flinn is trying to say without any coherence or connection to the talking points we planned last night," Tatum started, "is we understand if you don't want us working together while dating."

  "'While dating,'" Flinn parroted back to her. "'While dating.' You say that like I didn't tell you I wanted to do this, wanted to work at it." A frustrated snarl sounded in his throat. "How am I supposed to believe you're committed to this thing when you won't even make a clear, definitive statement now?"

  "I'm sorry if I'm coming across as not fully committing," she replied evenly. "But it's hard for me to accept that you want all the things you tell me you want. I've heard about the men and women in your life for ye
ars. I've heard all the stories about how quickly you hopped from one person to another. How no one seemed to matter to you. No one lasted." She sighed. "I don't want to sit here and tell Stella we're together, we're doing this, only for it to fall apart in a few weeks."

  "You matter to me," he said softly.

  "And you matter to me," she replied.

  "You will always matter to me," he continued. "But I'm not the only one holding this together. If it falls apart, it's because one of us dropped our side. I'm promising you I won't do that."

  "I won't drop my side," she said.

  "I need you to believe I'm here to stay," he said. "I need you to show me that, Tate."

  I saw it. I knew what I had to do.

  After a weighty pause, Tatum said, "Stella, this thing with me and Flinn is serious. We know it's probably awkward or unprofessional for us to work on the same accounts. If that's your perspective on the matter, Flinn is prepared to leave. Or I can go. We'll do whatever you want."

  I pushed out of my chair, grabbing my things from my desk. "I have to go," I announced, shoving my phone and notebook into my bag. "I need to leave. I have things to do and places to go, and I'm turning my phone off for the rest of the day. I'll see you tomorrow."

  "Both of us?" Flinn asked as I rounded my desk.

  "Yeah," I replied from the doorway. "But I'm serious about turning my phone off."

  "Okay," Tatum said. "So, we're not fired?"

  "Just don't have sex in the office," I called over my shoulder.

  34

  Cal

  I leaned against my locker, stared down at my phone. Nothing to see there but I went on staring. I knew I couldn't will a message from Stella into existence but that didn't stop me from trying.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Stremmel move through the room toward his locker. He kicked his shoes off, one thudding on the floor after another. "Hey," he called. "How'd that dissected aorta go?"