And on the day of his funeral, I watched a girl younger and prettier than me mourn him from the back row of our church.
She cried the same tears that I did, though I swore her heart was in more pain than mine. Because she had the satisfaction of being the other woman, of being the one he couldn’t live without — so much so that he was willing to risk his marriage, his reputation, his life that he had built. She knew without a doubt that she had been his world, that she had been the last face in his mind before the light was extinguished and he faded off into nothing.
I didn’t have that same comfort.
I had casseroles from neighbors and life insurance policies from lawyers and a house full of things that smelled like him. I had a down payment on a condo downtown that I’d secured, thinking I would be walking away from him, away from his infidelity. I had an empty hole in my chest where a young heart used to beat, where love used to grow like flowers, now turned to weeds.
I had a secret to keep, one that would eat me alive every second it dwelled in the dark, unspoken depths of my mind.
And I had a plan.
To preserve control over my future, over my heart, my soul, my well-being, over the life I would lead after my husband — I had to eliminate the factors that were uncontrollable. It was just that simple.
And right there, in that first-row pew, with my dead, cheating husband’s mother’s hand in mine, I made one simple plan, with one simple rule.
Never fall in love again.
It was more than just a plan, more than just a goal. It was a promise.
And it was one I vowed to keep.
Gemma
eight months later
“No.”
I only had one word for my best friend-slash-boss as we flowed with the crowd spilling out of Soldier Field, the warm, early-September air sweeping over us. Despite the fact that Belle and I had sweat through most of the Chicago Bears preseason game until the sun finally went down, I still smiled, reveling in the last few weeks of summer.
Soon, the heat would fade, and the Illinois winter would hit with all the subtlety of a Mack truck.
I was in no rush to be greeted with the kind of cold that hurts your face. Still, while I would miss summer, it was fall that was my favorite season. It had always held a special place in my heart for many reasons — my birthday, Halloween, pumpkin-spiced everything, and, most of all, football.
“Shut up. You don’t get to say no to me,” Belle snapped. She swept her long, strawberry-blonde hair off her shoulder before looping her arm through mine. “In our friendship, I’m always right. And trust me when I say I’m right about this.”
“I’m not ready to date, Belle. Drop it.”
“I didn’t say you had to date,” she stated, matter-of-factly, as she held up one black-lacquered fingernail. “I said you need to get laid. And this, my friend, is literally every man’s fantasy.” She gestured to the stadium we had just walked out of. “Free tickets to a football game and a hot chick to bang at the end of the night — with no strings attached?” She shook her head. “Honestly, I wish I had thought of this first. It’s genius.”
“I didn’t think of anything,” I reminded her. “I bought season passes for my husband to give to him on his thirty-fifth birthday.”
“Your cheating husband,” she reminded me, steering us left toward the street lined with sports bars. And though my face didn’t show a single sign of weakness at those words, my stomach tightened into a knot.
Belle was literally the only person who would ever know that Carlo was unfaithful, other than the woman he cheated on me with — and not even she knew that I knew. I’d only told Belle after Carlo had passed away, mainly because I knew she’d speed up the process of his death before the good Lord could take him if she found out about his infidelity.
Belle was the kind of best friend who loved fiercely. She was honest with me always — bluntly so — and she never let me get too comfortable in my little land of control. Just when she saw me slipping into any kind of complacency, she would challenge me.
I hated her as much as I loved her for that.
Still, while I knew I’d need someone to talk to about Carlo’s infidelity, someone who knew the whole story, sometimes I regretted telling her. Where I was all about suppressing, boxing difficult emotions away and focusing on tasks I could complete, Belle was a processor.
She was not the kind of girl to let something go.
Especially this kind of something.
“And I say this with the utmost respect for you and him and all of God’s creatures,” she continued, drawing a cross over her shoulders with her free hand. “But he’s not here anymore, Gemma. May he rest in peace.” She paused. “And also, be castrated in the name of Jesus, amen.”
“Belle.”
“I’m kidding.” She paused again. “Sort of.”
I was ashamed of the small smile climbing on my lips in that moment. If he was still here, if my original plan had actually come to fruition, these types of jokes would be fine to make. After all, what woman didn’t support her best friend after she was cheated on? Comments of castration and ill-bidding were welcome, and most certainly expected.
But when he was no longer breathing, when cancer had taken his life before I could take my life back from him, it wasn’t the same. It was cruel, and heartless, and it produced a type of guilt that sat low and unsettling in your stomach.
This was my entire existence, it seemed, for the past several months.
“While I appreciate the attempt to make me laugh, I’m not ready to make jokes about Carlo like that,” I said softly. “I probably won’t ever be.”
“I’m sorry,” Belle said on a sigh, squeezing my arm as we flowed with the crowd. “Really, I am. That was too far. You know me, I can’t help but make jokes, even when it’s wildly inappropriate. Remember when my cousin had a funeral for his cat?”
“And you made a cake that looked like a litter box with little pebbles of poop, and wrote Sorry your cat hit the shitter, at least you don’t have to change any more litter on it with hot pink frosting?”
Belle pointed at me. “Exactly. I’m awful at death, it makes me feel itchy and so I resort to humor. Apparently, very poorly placed humor. But,” she continued, taking that finger she had pointed at my face and re-directing it to point at my lady bits. “Let’s bring this back to the real subject at hand, which is that that region is about as dry as the Sahara Desert.”
I rolled my eyes, pulling my arm from where it was wrapped around hers to fish in my purse. I rummaged around for my lipstick as we made our way toward the South Loop bars.
Play the humor card, Gemma. You’re good. Everything’s okay.
“This region is just fine, thank you,” I told her, gesturing to my crotch as I finally found my lipstick. I rolled the burgundy tube up, pointing it directly at my best friend. “It gets plenty of action.”
Belle scoffed. “Oh, right. Forgive me for thinking a twenty-nine-year-old woman might want something more than a dildo with three vibration speeds.”
“Four,” I corrected, smoothing the deep burgundy cream over my top lip and blotting it together with the bottom. “And this twenty-nine year-old woman is perfectly content.”
Belle huffed, and for the rest of our walk to the strip of bars we frequented after games, she continued, on and on about the importance of my libido not going stale and my vagina getting action.
This was part of what infuriated me about Belle, and part of what I loved — she could argue a fish into buying an oxygen tank. In Belle’s mind, she always knew what was right and what was wrong, and she had all the right words to convince you, too.
It was one of the things that made her a successful entrepreneur.
Belle started her own interior design firm as soon as she graduated college. In fact, she already had clients lined up, thanks to outshining the full-time employees at her internships. And, luckily for me, she needed an assistant — AKA someone to run her life. Whe
re she was great with the people, with the design, I was great with the numbers, with the organization, and together? We made the best team in Chicago.
She never crossed over — she hung her boss hat up in the office and wore her best friend hat, instead. But, regardless of if we were on the clock or not, Belle was just a boss kind of lady.
And she was adamant about this particular job.
By the time we finally hit the strip of bars we were aiming for, I was in desperate need of a drink, and for my best friend to drop the subject.
But she wasn’t done yet.
“Ugh, you haven’t said anything in like ten minutes,” she said, pulling me to a dead stop outside a bar packed with Chicagoans celebrating the Bears’ win. It was the last preseason game, and the entire city was alive with the hope of a promising season — especially in the south side by the stadium. While most Bears fans went back to their tailgating spots or made the commute back into the heart of the city after the games, I was beginning to prefer the rowdiness of the sports bars in the South Loop.
Honestly, I preferred almost anything other than going back to my empty condo.
When Carlo was alive, we would usually watch the games at home with a group of our neighbors. I would cook, he would entertain, and it was everything I’d ever dreamed of having when I was a young girl.
When I bought him the season tickets, I envisioned more for us — tailgating, building a community in the seats around us, starting traditions…
Belle sighed, and I blinked away Carlo’s memory.
“Look, I know I joke a lot,” Belle said, taking my shoulders in her hands. She lowered her gaze to mine, ensuring I was listening before she continued. “But I’m serious when I say that I love you and I know you’ve been through a lot in the past eight months.”
Her eyes softened, and I forced a swallow, warding off any emotions that might try to sneak in with her looking at me like that.
“I’m not saying you should date. Hell, if anyone is against love as much as you, it’s me. Hello,” she said, sweeping the back of her hand over her lean body. “Single for life and loving it, okay? But, just because I don’t date doesn’t mean I don’t go out, have fun, meet people.” She eyed me. “And get some.”
I just stared at her, still not convinced.
“You have these tickets, right?” she continued. “And you love the Bears.”
“Da Bears.”
“I’m not saying it like that.”
“Say it, or I’m not listening to the rest of this.”
Belle rolled her eyes. “Da Bears.”
I smiled. “Better.”
“I hate you.” She readjusted her grip on my shoulders. “Anyway, you’re like an enigma to dudes. A girl who actually enjoys football? It’s gold, Gemma. So, instead of forcing your fun-loving best friend who absolutely loathes sports of all kinds, to suffer through every home game with you, take a chance and meet some new people. Have fun with a few guys who have the same interest as you, and, who knows,” she said, smirking. “Maybe a big wang to rock your world with at the end of every game. Now that’s the definition of a win-win.”
I couldn’t help but smile at that. “I think you’re the horniest woman to ever exist.”
“Guilty as charged. Now,” she said, holding out her hand. “Give me your phone, let me download this app, and just… trust me. For once. This doesn’t go against any of your plans, right? There’s no roses-and-chocolate dating, no Facebook-official relationship status updates, no love, no marriage or babies, or any of that.”
Chewing the inside of my cheek, I debated her reasoning. In a way, she did have a fair point — I maybe did need a little affection. I was dead set on never trusting anyone again, never falling for those stupid puppy-dog eyes as they stared into mine and told me they loved me and only me. I was done with that.
But football, beer, and a little romp in the sack?
I wasn’t not into that…
And, if I could be like anyone, it would be Belle. At thirty, she was happily single, successful in her career, and traveling like it was her only job. She’d never needed a man, never even given a guy more than a week to try to nail her down. She was my inspiration, my hope that there was a life to live after Carlo.
My heart sank when I thought of him again, because there was a time when all I wanted was everything that Belle just listed. The very things that now made me want to crawl into a ball and hide or start kicking the first man to approach me used to be the only things I desired. I wanted a husband, and a family, and a suburban life. I wanted a partner in life to grow old with, to laugh with, to lean on when life got hard.
Now, I only wanted to lean on myself, because I was the only one I could depend on to not let me fall.
So, instead of letting my emotions take over, I reverted to rule number one of my plan — the one I’d made on how to survive after he passed.
Don’t mourn the man you thought you knew. Remember the man he really was.
“Fine,” I conceded, shaking Carlo from my thoughts.
Belle did a little hop for joy, but I held up one finger to stop her celebration.
“But, it has to be in a way I can control. If I want to stop, if I never want to see the guy again or I feel icky at any point, I get to pull out. Deal?”
“Deal,” she agreed, still doing grabby-hands for my phone. “And make sure he pulls out, too. AYOOO!”
I rolled my eyes.
Belle was still smiling at her brilliance, fingers wiggling and waiting for my phone. “It’s perfect. Just only talk to them through the app, that way if you hate them after your date — er, after the game,” she corrected. “You can just delete them. Then, they can’t talk to you anymore. And, honestly, I think you should just take a new guy every time.”
I handed her my phone, making my way inside the bar as she followed behind, still bouncing like a little girl who was just given twenty bucks to go wild in the toy store with.
“Oh, a new guy every game,” I echoed. “Okay, now that I could get down with. Then it’s more of like a… hangout. A game with a friend.”
“A friend who could, potentially, rail you into next year with his hammer cock.”
The bartender’s brows shot up at Belle’s comment as we slid into two blessedly empty stools at the corner end of the bar. I laughed, shaking my head to signal that he shouldn’t even ask.
“Titos and water with lime,” I told him. “Two, please.” Then, I turned back to my best friend, who was feverishly typing away on my phone. “I’m serious, Belle. If at any point I decide I hate this, I get to pull the plug. And,” I said, pointing at her. “If that happens, then you’re suckered into going to every remaining game with me. And you can’t complain. Even if it’s below fifty outside.”
“Yeah, fine, whatever,” she said, waving me off quickly before clicking through my phone more.
The bartender slid our drinks in front of us, and I smiled his way, handing him my card. When he smiled back, I faltered, eyes lingering on him a little longer than they should have. He turned so quickly, I didn’t have time to stare the way I wanted to, but that brief smile alone had me clenching my thighs together under the bar.
Belle grabbed her drink and immediately started sipping from the straw, fingers still flying over my phone, but I just stared at the man with my card in his hand as he crossed to the other side of the bar to help the next person. His shoulders were broad and rounded, his waist narrow, t-shirt sitting on the belt of his jeans in a way that made my next swallow harder to accomplish. And when my eyes fell to his ass, perfectly rounded in a pair of dark denim jeans that fell in just the right way off his hips, well…
Let’s just say I wanted a better look at the front. And the side. And all angles.
Maybe I am ready to get laid.
“There!” Belle exclaimed proudly, holding my phone out a few inches as if to study her masterpiece. “Your bio is all set. I picked the best pictures, although we do need to get some updated
ones where you’re actually smiling,” she said pointedly, her eyes flicking up to mine before landing on the phone again. “Wanna hear what I put?”
“Do I have a choice?”
Belle ignored me. “Hot Italian chick who loves checking off to-do lists almost as much as watching football. Go Bears!”
I laughed. “Oh, my God, Belle.”
Again, she ignored me.
“Season pass holder looking for a cool, DTF guy to use my other ticket at a home game,” she continued. “If you love football, beer, and good conversation, I’m your girl. Send me a message, and maybe, if you’re lucky, you’ll be sitting next to me at kick-off.”
“That’s actually only fifty-percent cheesy and awful,” I said, knowing there was little point in arguing any edits. I glanced at the photos she’d picked for me, staring at my phone over her shoulder. The default was a selfie I’d snapped just two weeks ago at the first home preseason game. I had my burnt-orange Bears jersey on, my long, dark brown hair pulled over one shoulder, and a sideways grin. My eyes looked even more intensely green than normal in the lighting I’d caught in my condo that afternoon, the sunlight streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Reading over the bio she’d written for me again, I frowned. “What does DTF mean?”
Belle sucked a large drink through her straw. “Oh, it means… dark, tall, and fun. Kind of like tall, dark, and handsome. All the kids are saying it, kind of like how we used A/S/L back in the good ol’ days of AOL messaging.”
“Oh…” I thought over her words, wondering when I’d missed that little piece of lingo. I was approaching thirty, but it wasn’t like I was ancient. I still kept up with social media, after all.
“Gotta pee!” Belle said quickly, hopping down off her barstool. She popped my phone into my hand. “Here, start swiping. Right means you think they’re hot, left means they don’t have a chance in hell.”
Neat Page 27