by Amy Hatvany
“So . . .” Victor said, turning back to look at her. “How’s work going?”
Kelli shrugged. “Fine, I guess. Same old same old. You know.” She hated trying to make small talk with him, but this was the level to which their relationship had been reduced. She glanced at her watch. “I have to get the kids at three thirty,” she said. “Max has basketball practice at four.”
At that moment, Jimmy approached the table and set her drink down in front of her, so Victor waited to respond. “Thanks,” she said to the bartender, who gave her a closed-lipped smile and quickly walked away. The sign of a good server, Kelli thought. He picked up on the slight tension at the table and didn’t try to engage. That was something Victor had taught her—something he trained all his employees to do. Read the customer and act accordingly. Kelli took a sip from the red straw, then gripped the icy glass with both hands. “What did you need to talk with me about?” she asked.
Victor closed his laptop, pushed it off to the side, and let loose a subtle, but noticeable, sigh. “I have some news,” he said. “Good news, really. And we thought you should be the first to know.”
We? Kelli thought, momentarily confused, at first thinking he was referring to the two of them. They were the only “we” she knew. And then it hit her. What he meant. She took a measured breath and saw her knuckles go white as she grasped her glass harder. She couldn’t speak. She knew what was coming next.
Victor shifted forward in his chair and spoke in a low voice. “Grace and I are getting married,” he said.
A sudden buzzing sounded inside Kelli’s head, causing her eyeballs to vibrate. The edges of Victor’s face went blurry and she blinked a few times to hold back the tears that threatened to fall. She didn’t want to cry in front of him. She didn’t want him to see how much she hurt. She bit the inside of her cheek and began to nod like an idiot.
“I know this can’t be easy to hear,” she heard him say as the buzzing began to fade. “I’m sorry, but we thought you should definitely know before we tell the kids this weekend.” He paused, searching her face with those kind gray eyes. “Kelli? Aren’t you going to say anything?”
She picked up her drink and took a long pull on the straw, just to buy herself some time. She couldn’t imagine what he wanted her to say. “Congratulations”? “So happy you’ve moved on”? Her bottom lip quivered and she bit it, too. Victor saw this and reached out to touch her hand. She jerked away, splashing some of her drink onto the table. “I’m fine,” she snapped.
Victor held his hands up, palms facing her, and he leaned back in his chair. “Okay,” he said, irritation weaving itself across the lines of his face. She knew that expression well. “Sorry.”
She took a couple of shallow breaths. She felt dizzy. Had she eaten that day? She couldn’t remember. She straightened her spine and steeled herself as best she could. She didn’t want to be the pitiful ex-wife, pining for the spouse who left her. But there she was. She glanced at the double doors leading to the kitchen and saw Spencer’s head in the window. He quickly ducked, but she knew he’d been watching them, gauging her reaction. She briefly thought about getting Spencer to sleep with her, just to piss Victor off, but she knew his friend was too loyal to ever do something as horrible as that.
She forced her eyes back to Victor, who was staring at her. “Thank you for telling me,” she said in as calm a voice as she could manage. She clasped her hands together in her lap, digging her fingernails into her skin, trying to direct the pain that threatened to overwhelm her somewhere other than her chest. Her lungs felt like they might explode. “Have you set a date?”
Victor shook his head. “It just happened last night. We’ll do that after we talk to the kids this weekend.”
“Ava’s not going to be happy,” Kelli said. Her voice was strung tight. “You should be prepared for that.”
“How do you figure?” Victor asked, scrunching his eyebrows together.
Kelli gave a small lift to her right shoulder. “She’ll think you’re trying to replace me.” The words slipped out before she could stop them. Passive-aggressive, she knew. He’d nail her for it. Victor wasn’t stupid. He’d know Kelli was projecting her feelings onto their daughter so she wouldn’t have to claim them herself. It wasn’t the first time. It started when he opened the restaurant and was gone so much, leaving her alone with the kids. “Max and Ava miss you,” she’d say. “They’re starting to forget what their daddy looks like.”
“I’m not trying to replace you,” Victor said gently now. There he was. The Victor she loved. He dropped his chin and peered at her. “Kelli. Are you okay with this?”
“Of course,” she said, a little too quickly. “It’s great. So happy for you both. Are you going to have a baby with her?” Kelli panicked at the thought. It was the one thing she knew she had that Grace didn’t—she was the mother of Victor’s children. If Grace had a baby, that would be gone, too. She didn’t know if she could handle losing one more thing.
Victor sighed. “No.” He sat forward again, placing his elbows on the table and loosely linking his fingers. “Please don’t tell the kids yet, okay? We’d like to do that.”
Kelli nodded and glanced out the window. A young couple strolled by, hands in each other’s back pockets, the girl resting her head on the boy’s shoulder. Kelli gave a small smile. “Remember that?” she asked Victor. “How we used to be?”
Victor looked in the same direction, taking the couple in. Kelli knew if he remembered her drink, he’d remember that, too. But he stayed silent. They were over; it was done. And there was nothing left to say.
Grace
The night of our first date after meeting at the Loft, Victor drove all the way to my condo on Lake Washington to pick me up, only to turn around and take us back to a Thai place he loved in his own West Seattle neighborhood.
“I have to warn you,” he said as we crossed over the high rise of the West Seattle Bridge. “The restaurant is called All Thai’d Up, but I don’t want you to think that I’m dropping hints I’m into bondage or anything creepy like that. They just have really excellent curry.” I laughed and reassured him I wouldn’t make suppositions about his sexual preferences based on his restaurant of choice.
We entered the tiny establishment a few minutes later. The lights were low, the air hinted at luscious notes of garlic and lemongrass, and the walls were curtained in plush red tapestries. The hostess led us to a small table in the corner, where I confirmed by candlelight that Victor was just as handsome as I initially surmised—tonight he wore charcoal slacks and a dark blue sweater that definitely set off his warmer skin tone and gray eyes.
We spent the first part of dinner going over our backgrounds, and I learned that Victor was an only child. “Are your parents still together?” I asked, and he shook his head.
“My father took off when I was five,” he said. “And didn’t come back. Not cut out to be a dad, I guess.”
I nodded, realizing this was something else Victor and I had in common. Only my mother had asked my dad to leave, and not until I’d already moved out myself. “And your mom?”
A shadow of grief flashed across his face. “She had a stroke just after Ava was born. She was only fifty-three.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said, reaching out to briefly touch the back of his hand.
“Thanks,” he said. “I still pick up the phone to call her, you know? When something important happens?” He paused. “I’m always a little shocked when I remember she’s gone.” He shook his head. “Weird, huh?”
“Not at all,” I said, and he smiled.
“Wow,” he said, puffing out a breath. “Light topic we’ve chosen, here. Maybe we should start over?” I chuckled, nodded, and he continued. “So, tell me. How is it that a woman as accomplished and beautiful as you hasn’t been snapped up yet?”
I laughed. “Well, I’ve stayed pretty focused on my career, and I’m getting old and stuck in my ways.” I shrugged. “I don’t want to settle for anything less
than wonderful.”
It was his turn to nod. “I can relate to that.”
“My best friend and I joke that we just need to find our perfect hat trick,” I told him, only to be answered with a confused look, so I clarified. “The exact right balance of physical, emotional, and mental connection with someone.”
“Okay.” Victor cocked his head to one side and scrunched his eyebrows together, clearly still baffled. “Why is that called a ‘hat trick,’ exactly?”
I set my wineglass down and waved my hand in the air a little. “In hockey or whatever, when the same player shoots three points in a game, they call it a hat trick. So if we hit it off with a man on all three levels—mental, physical, emotional—one after the other, he’s a hat trick.”
“Ah,” he said, understanding finally blossoming on his face. “You lost me with the sports analogy. I might have to give up my man card for admitting this, but I really couldn’t care less about that stuff.” His brow furrowed, and he continued hurriedly. “Not about being a ‘hat trick.’ That’s an intriguing concept. But sports. They’re not my thing.”
“Mine either. I only know the term because of my brother. He played basketball in high school. I was more the studious type.” I didn’t explain how there was no way I could have been anything but studious. My mother’s need for me to help take care of my brother precluded any interest I might have had in sports—or anything else that might have taken me away from the house.
Victor sat back in his seat and gave me a long, slow smile that made me wonder what else he could do with his mouth. “So, tell me, Grace. How do you figure out if someone is your hat trick?”
“Well,” I said, “it’s highly scientific. They have to meet all three criteria. In the past, I’d date a smart guy who was maybe great in bed but as emotionally available as a rock, so I’d know he wasn’t the one. Or one who could debate relevant social issues and express his undying affection for me but was a terrible lover.”
At this, Victor laughed out loud, and the other diners paused and glanced over at us. “Sorry,” he sputtered. “I guess I’m not used to a woman being so honest about how she picks her men apart.”
“Oh, wow,” I said, wanting to backtrack immediately. “I don’t have a checklist or anything like that.” I felt flustered, oddly vulnerable. I paused, wondering if my next question was a loaded one for a first date but wanting to ask it anyway. “What about your ex-wife? Was she your hat trick?”
He leaned forward and rested his forearms across the table, grasping the crooks of his elbows with long fingers. “Well, I’m new to the idea, but I’d have to say no. She definitely was not.” His tone indicated he wasn’t ready to elaborate, and part of me was glad for it. Men who spoke excessively about ex-girlfriends or wives on a first date never came across well. Nor, for that matter, did women who chattered on about their exes. I don’t think I was testing him, exactly—I was honestly curious to know more about their relationship. But if it was a test, he passed.
Later, he walked me to my door and kissed me softly on the lips. The clean but heady musk of his skin dizzied my senses and turned my joints to mush. “Can I see you again?” he whispered, and I nodded eagerly, thrilled by our immediate, easy sense of connection.
After a few weeks, I slept over for the first time at his house. I woke up to the smell of coffee and bacon in the air, my body pleasurably achy from the night before. Hat trick. No doubt. Mental, emotional, and physical. And he cooks! When I opened my eyes, he stood over me with a grin on his handsome face. His dark hair was pressed flat on one side, and his gray eyes twinkled, giving him the look of a mischievous little boy who’d just successfully sneaked several cookies from the jar. “Damn,” he said. “You’re even beautiful when you wake up.”
I crossed my eyes at him and stuck out my tongue, and he laughed. “Let me start the shower for you.” He paused. “Or do you want coffee, first?”
“Coffee always comes first,” I said, propping myself up on my elbows and smiling at him.
“Duly noted,” he said, pretending to pull a pencil from behind his ear and write on an invisible notepad.
My smile widened at his silliness, and I felt that incredibly rare emotional spark in my belly. The spark that said, Oh wow . . . this one’s a keeper. I’d dated my fair share of men over the years, but things tended to end after a certain point, and I suspected it might have something to do with my focus on my career rather than getting married and having children. I found that most men who weren’t anxious to be fathers weren’t anxious for a long-term, committed relationship, either. There might have been exceptions, but I didn’t meet many. This left me with a limited eligible pool of partners from which to choose. Victor appeared to genuinely respect my lifestyle, but I didn’t know how to trust that he wouldn’t end up expecting me to change somehow, too.
“What if he decides he really wants us to have a baby?” I asked Melody not long after I’d spent the night with him. She and I were working together at the Second Chances thrift shop, standing in the back room, sorting through boxes of donated clothes.
“He already told you he doesn’t want any more kids,” Melody said. “You’re such a scaredy-cat.”
“I’m not scared!” I protested as I pulled out a lovely blue Calvin Klein blouse and laid it carefully on the “keep” pile. These were the clothes in good enough condition that women in the program could pick them out and wear them to job interviews. The “sell” pile consisted of more casual outfits and would be steam-cleaned, then priced to sell in the shop.
“Oh please,” Melody said. “You’re totally scared.” I looked at her fondly. She was tall and thin with long, honey-blond hair, brown eyes, and a wide, easy smile. Clad in black leggings and a sage linen tunic, her body moved with a lithe ease as she worked. She also knew me better than anyone—maybe even better than I knew myself. We’d met in our midtwenties when she had just graduated from massage school. In order to make ends meet while she built up a client list, she temped at the same advertising firm where I worked as a recruiter. One afternoon, we ended up sharing a table at a coffee shop near the office and immediately clicked over a mutual fondness for white chocolate mochas and the cute barista behind the counter.
“What do you think?” she had asked me as we sat down together, nodding toward the hunky employee and lifting a single suggestive eyebrow. “Does he look like a single- or double-shot kind of guy?” A decade and countless mochas later, she was my closest friend.
I sighed as I looked away from her in the back room of the thrift store, reaching to pull another handful of clothes out of the box next to me. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right,” she said with an impish smirk. “You’ve got this quiet, orderly life, and inviting in an emotionally available man like Victor, who has two possibly noisy children in his, is totally freaking you out.” She paused, taking a moment to shake out the floral skirt she was in the process of putting on a hanger. “Come on. What are you really afraid of? Being happy?”
“No,” I said. “That’s not it.”
“Okay. Then what is it?”
“God, you’re pushy!” I exclaimed, throwing a sweater at her. It missed, and she grinned. I sighed again. “I don’t know. I guess I’m worried I won’t be any good at it. Being around the kids, I mean.”
“You were good with Sam,” she said.
“That’s different. He’s my brother. And I only had to help take care of him until he was ten and then I moved out. I might do okay with Max, but Ava is thirteen. I have no idea if I could relate to her at all.”
“Oh, right. Because you’ve never been a thirteen-year-old girl.” I gave her an exasperated look, and she adopted a softer tone. “You won’t know until you try. What is it you’re always telling me? And what do you tell your clients when they tell you how afraid they are to start their lives over again?”
She looked at me expectantly, her brown eyes open wide, and I laughed, shaking my head at her uncanny abilit
y to use my own words against me. “No risk, no reward,” I said.
“Exactly. So I think you should quit your bitching and be grateful that you met a man who clearly seems to adore you. Let the details take care of themselves.”
It was good, solid advice, but still, in a weird panic, I canceled on Victor for our date that night. “I’m sorry,” I said when I called him. I was supposed to meet him in a few hours for dinner at the Loft. “I’m totally swamped with work.”
“It’s okay,” Victor said. “Can I help?”
I laughed, a little nervously. I wasn’t sure if he could tell that I was lying. “That’s sweet, but probably not. I have to build a spreadsheet of all the corporate donations Second Chances has received so far this year for our accountant. I’m getting carpal tunnel just thinking about it.” I did have to build the spreadsheet, but it wasn’t something I had to have done that night. Victor said he understood and would call me the next day.
After we hung up, I dropped to my couch, my gaze moving over the sandy earth tones I’d picked for my tiny living room. I loved this space when I bought it. With its coved ceilings and the huge square windows that looked directly out to the lake, it somehow managed to feel both cozy and spacious at the same time. I had decorated with small dishes of shells and smooth stones and hung my favorite black and white photograph of waves crashing against the beach over the fireplace. There were two luxurious cream-colored blankets thrown over the back of my couch and plush goose-down pillows thrown in the corners of it, as well. Everything about the room invited silence and calm. It was safe. Melody was right—I assumed Victor’s life was chaotic simply because he had children. But I didn’t really know this was true. I hadn’t even met his children. Backing away from him that night wasn’t about him—it was about me and my own fears. It wasn’t fair to either of us.
I reached for my cell phone and he picked up on the first ring. “If you need help writing a formula, you have called the wrong man.”