Eyebrows narrowed in question. One slightly raised in intrigue. Both eyes wide in surprise. His nose scrunched up with a line forming on his forehead when he finally speaks.
“Are you sure? Would it be a long-term agreement or until the season ends?” Ryland asks. “Yeah, I’d sit down and talk with him. Honestly, James, there’s not another team I want to play for, but I’m worried about the players’ feelings on the matter."
He’s quiet again until a small chuckle starts. “Yeah, that’s because Obreski’s an asshole. I didn’t do anything every other player on the team wished they did.” Now it’s easy to figure out he’s talking about the goalie he hit. The final straw before the general manager kicked him off the team.
Other than the goalie issue, the rest of the conversation goes over my head. I have no idea what team Ryland wants to play for. He hasn’t made any preference known to me over the last few weeks besides not staying in the US.
“What time is the flight out?” Ryland checks his watch. “Yeah I’ll make that. I’ll meet you in New York.”
We’re going to New York? Soon by the way he hangs up the phone and stands from the couch.
“Good news, Marissa.” His words don’t match the scowl on his face. “Luis, the forward who took over my starting spot, twisted his knee in a game earlier today. The media reported it as not as serious as it actually was. The team’s trying to cover it up.”
He takes a breath, his body still vibrating with energy, and I’m confused. “Luis getting hurt is a good thing?”
“Well … no. You never want to see an injury. It’s not his fault I did dumb shit and he got my spot. That’s on me.” He stops to think for two seconds. “Luis isn’t the point. He’ll be out for a while with this injury and management wants to reinstate my contract for the remaining years.”
“That’s great.”
“I’ve dreaded the idea of ending up on another team. United is in my blood, I belong in England. If I have to play soccer again, there isn’t another team I want to do it with. It’s why I’ve hesitated on the other offers.”
“The other offers?” This is news to me. Earlier tonight he said his agent hadn’t had anything concrete lately.
“Nowhere worth mentioning.” He waves off my question as I follow him to the bedroom. “I need to fly to New York tonight, meet up with James, and then we'll go on to England together.”
His actions and words are rapid as he grabs a small suitcase from the closet—one he finished unpacking yesterday. “How many days should we pack for?”
All his movement stops with my question as he stares at me. “No, you need to stay here. You have work.”
“Ryland, it’s Friday. I have two days off.”
“Marissa, it’s not a quick flight like Vegas,” he answers like I’m stupid and don’t know where England is. “And it’s probably best I don’t bring my new wife along. The media hasn’t been nice to you.”
His words sting like a hot poker straight to my heart. Now with a chance to play for his old team again, is he already regretting our marriage?
“You don’t want me with you?” I choke the words out.
He stops throwing random clothes into his suitcase and turns to me. “Kitten, of course I want you there. I want you every step of the way with me from here on out, but my return to England could go badly with the fans and teammates. I want to keep you away from the toxic parts of the environment for as long as possible.”
“You can’t hide me from it forever, Ryland.” I cross my hands over my chest and glare at him.
“Trust me, I know. Sooner or later you’ll be bombarded by it. I want to keep you clean from the muck for as long as possible. The media’s tarnished every good thing I've done. Winning a championship, they talk about the one error or missed goal for the whole game. They’ve twisted our marriage into a publicity side show. Let me deal with whatever they come up with this time.”
His sweet words heal the gaping wound in my chest. I’d rather be with him, but I understand Ryland needs to do this on his own. I start to fold the few pairs of shorts and random t-shirts he’s thrown in his bag.
“You’ll need underwear.” I call out to him as he enters the walk in closet.
He pops his head back out the door. “Why am I even packing a bag? All my good clothes are in England. I’ll use the big carry-on you took to Vegas. Which closet is it in?”
“You want to take my big purple sparkly bag to England with you?” I ask pretty sure he’s confused by the excitement.
He walks out of the closet his eyebrows furrowed. “Fuck no. You’re right the media would have a field day with it.”
Ryland continues to throw random pieces of clothing at me to fold while he works out a schedule with me so I’ll be home waiting for his call every night. When he decided I’m that kind of girl, I’m not sure.
“And whatever you do, don’t move a single thing from your apartment this weekend.”
“What?” We’d set aside tomorrow as a full day of moving. My anxiety spikes causing my muscles to spasm. Now he doesn’t want my stuff here.
He stops when the room goes silent and grabs me by the shoulders. “Stop freaking out, Marissa. I don’t want you to lift a thing because I want to help move every piece. It’s going to be okay.” He tries his best to reassure me but my heart still pounds in my chest with worry. “I’m going to call you every night and I'll be home as soon as everything is figured out. I promise.”
The conversation continues as Ryland empties the bag on the bed repacking it with a single pair of basketball shorts, a shirt, one pair of socks, and clean underwear. A few toiletries go in as well and he reassures me everything else he needs is already in England.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
For a comic book store Cosmo’s Comics and Café is a well-lit open space. It’s a thin narrow building, longer than it is wide, but the large shop window and glass front door make one entire end open to the early Sunday morning sunlight. It smells like coffee and paper, and who doesn’t love those smells?
When Aspen first suggested our new location, I was hesitant. My appreciation for Cosmo’s has grown since then to a point I enjoy our Sunday brunch dates here.
Well every week except this one. Today dragging myself to Cosmo’s feels like a walk into my own execution. Aspen will drill me on Ryland and what’s going on in England. I haven’t talked to Ryland since he boarded a plane for London yesterday morning. After the eight-hour flight and time change, I’m not even sure where he is. Late last night he sent me a text with a simple “I love you. Sleep well.” and nothing more.
It takes a deep breath, but I gather the courage to open the door. Cosmo’s is gloomier today, not all the overhead lights turned on yet. Hesitant steps get me from the front door, past the aroma of fresh coffee as Simone waves from the café counter, and to the orange sofas we take over every Sunday morning.
Aspen’s eyes widen when she sees me and her mouth opens, but I beat her to the questions she’s going to ask. “No, I haven't heard from Ryland today. I have no idea how it’s going and no news to share.” Her face falls. My friends are as nervous as I am. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay, babe, I’m excited to know where you’ll end up. Finn and I will plan a vacation.” Aspen throws her thick winter coat to the end of the couch on the opposite side of the table so I sit with her. It’s in the sixties today, but Aspen’s still walking around in jeans and a thick dark green fisherman’s sweater.
Simone, dressed like a normal person in jeans and a long sleeve shirt, walks over with two large blue mugs of steaming liquid, passing one on to me. A similar style mug, but in purple — and with hot chocolate since Aspen doesn’t drink coffee —— is passed to her from Jason, the store owner.
“Where’s Amanda?” The most punctual member of our small group is nowhere to be found.
“She’s running late today without an explanation, but it involves a boy,” Aspen answers.
Simone leans forward in anticip
ation. “A boy? How do you know?”
“Woman’s intuition,” Aspen says full of confidence. My best friend’s now apparently a psychic. “And don’t freak out, Marissa, but she’s bringing bagels. A new chain she’s giddy about.”
“It was one small freak out.” I brush over my episode from that week. “I’m over it now and bagels are fine as long as she brings cream cheese.” I sip at my coffee, but it’s too hot for my tongue. “I invited Clare, but she turned me down. I can' figure out why, but if it’s Grant he should run the next time he sees me.”
“Yes, it’s probably Grant. We shouldn’t push her.” Simone jumps in too quick and innocent like for nine thirty in the morning.
Aspen and I both turn to her in suspicion, but I ask the question first. “What did you do, Simone?”
“Oh my God. You didn’t marry Trey and have Clare as your only bridesmaid and now you’re scared she’ll tell your secret did you?” Aspen sucks in a breath once she finishes the run on sentence.
“What?” Simone stares off at the corner of the room.
“Show me your ring finger!” Aspen reaches to the other couch pulling on Simone’s empty hand.
I place a hand on her shoulder. “Aspen, calm down. No one has gotten married.” I don’t mention my thought that if it were true, Simone's smart. She’d remember to take off the ring before she walked in the hornet’s nest. I’m quite sure it's not a concern. Hopefully.
“You ran off and got married.” She points an angry finger at me. “It’s a legitimate concern at this point!” Aspen continues on with her rant and stands.
With both hands held up, Simone shows off two empty ring fingers. “I’m not married, Aspen.”
“Oh, okay.” She sits again. “Then why is Clare scared of us. We threw her a kick ass party and raised a ton of money for the center."
“It is kind of rude.” Rant aside, as much as I like Clare, I agree with Aspen on this one.
“Right? We’re best friend material. Who wouldn’t want us as friends?” Aspen asks no one in particular.
“She’s not rude. She’s embarrassed,” Simone calls out.
If she’s embarrassed over Grant, I’m going to find him and make him pay. “Why?”
Simone’s cheeks turn a deep shade of red. “She may have walked in on Trey and me at the party.”
“Oh, Simone.” If Aspen was southern her words would have been followed up with a bless your heart. “I assume you weren't kissing.”
Simone shakes her head, her lips pressed together.
“We know what they were doing. The important question is where.”
Our blonde friend covers her eyes with her hands and drops her head. “Trey’s office. He said the door was locked.”
With an expression full of awe, Aspen sits speechless for a second until she recovers. “Wow, Simone, this is a whole new side of you.”
“I’ve always wondered if behind the nice sweet girl image, you had a freaky side, but I never guessed you were an exhibitionist.”
“I’m not freaky,” Simone tries to defend herself, but I’ll never view her the same. If it’s possible I like her more with this bit of information.
Aspen leans over and pats her on the knee. “It’s a good thing for our group.”
“Oh look, Amanda’s here.” Simone points to the front of the store and at first I decide she’s done a very poor job of changing the subject, but when the bell over the front door jingles, I turn and check it out with Aspen.
Amanda’s familiar face with slightly longer hair than her normal pixie cut bounces through the front door of Cosmo’s. She walks half the distance of the building before her arms open wide, a big white bag in one hand, and she says my name loudly enough the one other customer in the store turns and looks.
“Congratulations!” Amanda rushes to me, hugging me from my spot on the couch.
I’m not sure why she’s still excited about the wedding. I saw her the night we came back to San Francisco. “You’ve already given me congratulations on the wedding, but thank you.”
“Not about the wedding, crazy. About Ryland signing with his old team.” She takes off her thin pink parka and tosses it in the pile with Aspen and my coats. The bag with a Beagles Bagels logo on the side is tossed in the center of the table on top of a few comic books.
“Excuse me?” I ask and then can’t close my mouth again. Ryland signed with his team? Why did I not know this?
Amanda flops down in a spot next to Simone leaving the third couch open. “Yeah, it’s plastered all over the Internet this morning. They said he reached a deal early today.” She finally calms enough to take in my expression, her lips puckering when she catches on. “Did you not know yet? Maybe he hasn’t had time to call?”
“You never know, Marissa. It could be crazy right now,” Aspen steps in, but her reassurance does nothing to stop the questions flying around in my head. “Plus, it's a gossip blog. They never get shit right.”
“He left worried about how the media would react to him returning.” I reach for the bag of bagels to pretend I’m unaffected by the fact Amanda knew I'd be moving to England before I did.
Amanda perks up. She must buy my bagel act. “Oh they’re happy. All the headlines mentioned England’s golden boy returning home."
“So you’ll be in England? How am I going to get friend time in? Do you think Ryland will let you fly back for Sunday brunch?” Aspen's voice waivers a little as she asks.
I wish I had an answer for her. Well, obviously I’m not flying back every Sunday, but for the rest of it. I want to be happy for Ryland and get on board with this England thing, but there’s a small pit in my stomach that grows with doubt every minute. If Ryland did sign with the team, I can’t believe he wouldn’t tell me right away. Is it my concern over the move to a new country or real doubt about this deal? Either way I’ve agreed to support Ryland in this and I will, but I don’t feel right about this whole thing.
In the past I’ve thought Pen and Simone over reacted when they found out news, whether true or fake, from the paper. Now I understand. It’s horrible to read crap about your significant other or your own future on the Internet.
While the other girls are busy with their cream cheese and bagels, I send Ryland a quick text. I’m not sure his phone will get it, but since he sent me one last night I cross my fingers and hope for the best.
Me: I’m moving to England?
It takes over twelve hours to hear back from Ryland. Six of those hours I spent with the girls pretending I was fine and the doubt over my future wasn’t eating away at me. No one bought it, but no one mentioned it either.
The last six hours of my wait I spent in my apartment. It didn’t feel right in Ryland’s place without him. This weekend we were supposed to move my clothes over to the main condo. It’s a few feet walk so I didn’t pick up any boxes. But sitting on my couch looking at the few photos and DVDs I own, I’m reconsidering. It would be easier to just box them up now. Will my DVDs even work in England? I hate not having the facts about my future, especially when it feels like everyone else does.
What does a person even take with them when they move overseas? Will our main house be here, in San Francisco, or England? They’re questions I need to talk to Ryland about. His radio silence becomes more and more stressful until my whole body sits coiled, ready to strike if the phone rings. They say a watched pot doesn’t boil, so I try to distract myself with mindless television and when Seinfeld doesn’t work I turn to a book. Most of the time I sit next to the phone glaring at it. Fuck the pot business.
I expect a call — to hear Ryland’s voice — but a few minutes before I’m about to give up, my phone dings with a text message.
Ryland: I didn’t sign with England, but might have big news. I’ll be home soon.
That’s it. The most cryptic text in the history of texts. Okay, maybe it’s not cryptic per say. At least now I know he didn’t sign with England, but the rest of it? What the hell? This answer makes my stress sk
yrocket. I hate feeling left in the dark. Right now I can’t even find a nightlight to help guide me through as I sit around twiddling my fingers waiting for him.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Divorce.
It’s a nasty word. Especially when you’ve been married less than seven days. I guess if I try to stay positive, it’s longer than some celebrity marriages.
I flip the channel on the television again and scowl at the innocent black box when I stop on a soccer tournament. Look, the wives of those men know where they are. What a novel concept.
The last message I received from Ryland came last night, almost twenty-four hours ago. I’ve been to work. I’ve had dinner. What I haven’t had is a conversation with my husband. The day started with me irritated, by lunch I hit frustrated, at dinner I became highly annoyed, and now I’m livid.
My fingers tap on the edge of the couch, but the motion loses effect when my nails don’t make sound on the soft fabric. I’m about to turn off the television when my phone vibrates.
Ryland: Where are you?
He didn’t? He didn’t text me demanding to know where I am. Did he? He’s not that dumb?
Me: My living room.
Ryland: Why are you over there when you should be here with me?
He wants to die. That’s the only explanation. He’s thought my comments were harmless threats before, but Ryland’s about to find out what happens when you piss me off.
Me: Maybe if I knew where that was. You know, if you TOLD ME these things.
His reply is almost instant as if he sent the text before reading mine.
Ryland: Kitten, I’m sitting on the couch in our place. Come over.
Oh I’ll come over. That’s for sure. This crap needs to be dealt with in person. Wood shakes as I push open Ryland’s door and allow it to hit the wall as I walk in like a hurricane ready to do damage.
“Ryland Bates!” I yell into the room even though I see his head above the back of the couch.
I round the side of the couch and stop to take in his outfit. He looks damn fine in the light grey two piece suit he’s wearing. There’s a pair of shoes and socks somewhere from the elevator to here by the looks of his bare feet. At least a days' worth of stubble covers his face and dark circles smudge below his eyes. The suit makes him hot, the tired overall appearance gives me a little compassion for him. Damn, why does he have to go and make me feel sympathy for him? I can’t yell at him when he’s hot and tired. Get it together, Marissa. He’s not cute. He’s in trouble for his shitty communication skills.
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