by K. P. Haigh
I skim my way down the article. There's barely a word about Baron himself, just me, Montgomery Bell, the sports hater and all-around killjoy who's going to drag the team down, one anti-sports sentiment at a time.
There are a few semi-unflattering photos of me pulled from online. I don't even want to think about what else is sitting in the dredges of the Internet, just waiting for some entrepreneurial reporter to dig up. I've never had a crazy streak, but I went to college in the age of social media. There are untagged photos of me doing things that would have been better left tucked away on someone's memory card rather than uploaded to the great wide web.
"Ohmygod." My knees buckle, and I crumble down to the floor. I don't even care about modesty right now. Georgie getting a flash of my black panties is so much less upsetting than the feeling of someone ripping my clothes off and making me dash through the Internet streets against my will.
Georgie kneels down next to me, puts one hand on my shoulder, and gently pries the phone away with the other. "I thought you should see it. One of the other wives mentioned it to me just a few minutes ago. I ran over to tell you and saw Rochelle talking to you like she was a lion and you were a wounded warthog. This is why Rochelle is being a complete and utter bitch—well, more than normal, at least. She's not exactly Glinda around here, but she's playing the Wicked Witch to a T today."
"I don't…" There are so many ways for me to finish the sentence: I don't know how to handle this, I don't know why this is happening, I don't know how to fix this train wreck.
"It's going to be okay," Georgie says gently. "This is gonna blow over, and Rochelle always has a stick up her ass. She'll figure out something else to be angry about in no time."
I look over at Georgie, tears brimming at the edges of my eyes. "What's Baron going to say? I really screwed up, and I didn't mean to."
"Oh my goodness, Baron is a sweetheart. It's going to be fine. He doesn't care about this attention. It's not his style. So, you’ll tell him and you'll move on. Don't worry about that for a second."
I nod my head, willing to believe what Georgie's saying, simply because I have no energy to send myself in any other direction.
Georgie squeezes my shoulder as she stands up. "Okay, I'm going to go get Baron—I'll tell him you're not feeling well. It's getting late; no one really pays attention to who sticks around at this point. I'll have him meet you downstairs in five. Take a second, and then sneak out and meet him downstairs. I'll cover for you."
I am overwhelmed with appreciation. I came in tonight without knowing anyone but the man I moved here with, and I feel like I'm leaving with another person firmly planted in my corner—although I didn't realize I was walking into a boxing ring in the first place.
Baron meets me downstairs, and we hop into a cab to head home.
He slides into the center seat and starts to rub my knee. "What happened? Are you okay?"
I can't open my eyes. I don't want to look at him now and see the change on his face when I tell him.
"I unintentionally talked to a reporter, and she ran a smear story about us." I swipe open my phone, knowing the article is the last thing I looked at so it'll be the first thing on the screen.
I hand it to him and lean my head back against the headrest.
"Shit." The word comes out under his breath. I know he didn't mean to say it out loud, but it still stings.
He reads for another minute and then I hear the click of my phone. He's silent for another moment while he processes it. "You didn't know it was a reporter?"
"No." The word is flat, but I know that if I picked it up, it would be the long edge of a sharp blade.
"And she didn't tell you either?" I can hear his breath pressing heavy on every word.
I finally look over at him, and I can see the anger in his eyes. I know it's not directed at me, but I can't help but bristle that it’s even there.
"It's not like reporters give you a heads up," I argue. "Oh hey, I just wrote down everything you said, and now I'm going to print it in a way that makes you look like a huge jerk." I hate the way my voice sounds, but I can't seem to stop it.
Baron just shakes his head, skipping over my frustration and moving back to the point. "That's not ethical."
I shrug. This isn't about logic. "It sucks, but there's nothing we can do about it."
"You have to be more careful," he says with a long sigh.
It makes me feel guilty, and that sends me into an emotional tailspin. "I didn't know she was going to write down everything I said and twist it into this stupid article."
"I know that. I'm just saying you have to watch what you say in public."
"God, why do you care so much? You don't even love football." The words come out so fast, my head lurches forward as if it’s trying to swallow them back.
I feel Baron's muscles contract beside me. "This may not be my forever job, but it doesn't mean I'm not loyal. This is my team, Monty. I can't turn my back on that."
I want to stomp my feet, but I don't get to be a toddler in grown-up shoes. He's right.
So, instead, I take a deep breath. "I didn't do it on purpose."
His muscles soften. "I know that. I didn't mean to imply you did. It's not a normal thing, but I'm under a microscope, especially here, being a new player on a popular team. Even if it sucks, it means you are too."
My heart clenches up at that thought. I don't like it, but I'm going to have to get used to it. "I'm sorry." I have to push to get the words out, but as soon as I say them, I know I mean it.
"I'm sorry too," Baron says as he wraps his arms around me and pulls me toward him.
It's not a perfect situation, but I didn't move here because I thought it would be perfect. I moved here because I thought it would be worth it.
By the time I get to Friday, I can barely flex my social pleasantry muscles. I give the doorman the briefest of smiles and pray he doesn't try to ask me about my day when I walk through the door and take the elevator up to Baron's condo.
At least I have the afternoon off. One bonus of working for a crazy man: he refuses to book anything after 11AM on Fridays.
I dump the stack of photography magazines I snagged from work down on the counter. I still haven't unpacked my camera or any of my gear. I'm hoping that getting lost in some inspiration with a cup of coffee for an hour will do the trick.
That, and a run.
Minutes later, I lace up my running shoes and head back out to the elevator. I slip in my earbuds and let my playlist give my feet a rhythm to follow. I don't care where I go; I just need to get out of here.
I make my way down toward the waterfront, eager for some comfort from being close to the water. My heart starts to relax as soon as I turn the corner and see the Puget Sound on the other side of the street. The street is completely empty, so I immediately sprint out into the intersection.
Just as my feet cross the third white pedestrian crossing line, I hear a loud whistle. I stop, mid-stride, and pop my earbuds out.
I see a police officer walking toward me, and I look around to make sure there isn't something else going on. It's not like I have a headlight out. Both headlights are working fine these days—just ask Baron.
He walks up to me, a pad of paper in his hand. "Excuse me, miss, but you were in the middle of the street."
"Um, yes?" It's not a question, but I don't know how else to respond.
"Well, that's jaywalking. The light was green, and the walk sign was red."
I squint at him. "But, there weren't any cars coming."
His jaw clenches. Obviously, he's not a fan of being argued with. "You were still jaywalking."
I open my mouth to point out again that there weren't any cars coming, but that's clearly not working here. I didn't realize jaywalking was a rule that could actually be broken. It's like the rule of thirds in photography: it's a nice idea to consider, but no one is going to rip up your picture if it doesn't follow it exactly.
Apparently that's not the case here
. The police officer starts to scribble on his paper.
Ugh. I do not want a ticket. I have no idea what that would even cost me, but I really don't need to add it to my list of expenses this month. "I'm sorry, sir. I really didn't know. I just moved here from Ann Arbor, Michigan. Jaywalking isn't a violation there."
I'm not actually sure if that's true, but I'm running with it.
The police officer stops abruptly and looks up at me. Shit. Maybe it is a violation there, but there are just too many unruly college kids to do anything about it.
"You said Ann Arbor?" he asks.
I nod my head.
"What's your name, miss?"
"Montgomery Bell." I add a smile, but he turns his head back to the paper and keeps writing. I don't think my Midwestern charm is working very well at the moment.
He rips off a piece of paper and hands it to me. "Jaywalking is in fact a violation there, Miss Bell, but apparently they don't teach you how to follow rules any more than they teach you to play football ."
"Football?" …what?
"I went to Ohio. We beat you all four years." He finally smiles at me. "Have a nice day."
Are you fucking kidding me? I got a ticket because I stepped one foot over the line and then told the officer I'm from Ann Arbor?
I want to scream I don't even like football at him, but I bet he would just love to slap some cuffs on me and make my day that much worse.
Stupid football rivalries—they take no prisoners.
I put my earbuds back in and wait a full thirty seconds for the silly little walking man to light up on the sign across the street. There isn't a car in sight, but my run is ruined now. I could have run another three miles, but this isn't the kind of energy you can run out. No matter how fast I move my legs, it's going to stay twisted into a knot in my stomach. Running will only screw it tighter. I need to figure out how to let it go, and that sort of release is harder to come by.
I get back to our building and make my way up to Baron's condo. I unlock the front door, set down my stuff, and walk over to grab a Gatorade. My phone rattles against the countertop. I pick it up and swipe right when I see Georgie's name at the top of the screen.
"What are you doing right now?" Georgie asks with a hint of mischievousness bubbling in her tone. From what I can tell, this girl is straight steel covered in a layer of kindness. She's been on the football player-spouse train for years; Zane has been a top player since he was in high school. I don't think there's a scandal, injury, or bad hair day you could send her way that would break her.
She's my kind of woman. I grab a banana out of the wire basket on the counter and start to pull the peel back; my muscles are aching and I know the potassium will help. "Nothing, why?"
"Okay good. You're coming to the beach with me."
Being near the ocean does sound like exactly what the doctor ordered right now.
I look around at the condo. There are dirty breakfast dishes still in the sink, and the counter looks like it got mauled by the stack of magazines I borrowed from the office. I think my sweaty stench might clear everyone in a ten-foot radius, so I need to take a shower too.
I formulate a game plan. "I need to clean up and then hop in the shower." I'm still sort of conscious about the fact that Baron seems to live in a clean, organized bubble while I live in a tornado of mess. I'm trying to hide that fact until I'm a little bit more sure he's not regretting the fact that he invited a girl he barely knew to move across the country with him.
"Okay, I'll be there in fifteen to pick you up!" Georgie chirps into the phone, and then I hear a click.
I don't know what world she lives in, but cleaning and showering is not a fifteen-minute endeavor. I guess the tornado recovery mission is going to have to wait until later.
I walk into the penthouse for the second time today after Georgie drops me back off. It was good to get out and relax, but I'm still having trouble shaking the emotional knots that are coiled inside of me.
The lights are on, and I hear the spray of the shower. Shit, Baron's home. I know everything is still a mess, but I'm so emotionally depleted from the week, I can't rally the energy to pick it up.
I crawl my way onto the deep leather couch and start scrolling through my phone. It's not making me feel better, but it isn't making me feel worse either.
I hear the wood softly creak beneath Baron's feet, and I poke my head up from the couch. "Hi."
He glances over for a second and then continues to the kitchen. He turns on the faucet, and I hear the clang of dishes. Crap, I really should have at least cleaned those up.
I hop off the couch and quickly walk over, nudging up next to him. "Here, let me help."
He doesn't respond. He just steps away and opens up the fridge. Okay, not very talkative.
"So, what's your plan tonight?" His tone is as straight as a tightrope, and I'm not sure I want to walk out onto it.
"Um, hang out with you?" I answer cautiously.
"Think you could pick up? It's a disaster in here." His request is reasonable, but his tone feels like boar bristles against my skin.
"Fine." Isn't that what I'm doing here already? This is so not what I need right now.
He turns around toward me. I can hear the shift in his feet, but I don't turn around to face him. His voice hits my back.
"This is my place, and it drives me crazy when you trash it like some college dorm room."
Jesus. I left some work stuff and dishes out, and maybe some clothes in the bedroom.
"I'm sorry." My tone, however, is not apologetic at all. It's packed with heat and edged in frustration.
"I had a long day. I don't need to come home to more shit."
He means the stuff, I know that, but I can't help but replace more shit with the word me. He doesn't want to come home to me.
I rinse my last dish, and my fingers claw at the edges in frustration, letting out a piercing screech as I place it into the dishwasher. I slam it shut, and the dishes rattle angrily inside.
"Fine. I'll take my shit, and you can have your place to yourself." I stalk over to the coffee table and quickly load everything up into an unsteady pile. I don't care about being careful; I just care about getting the hell out of here.
Baron sighs loudly, but he doesn't move from his spot at the counter. "That's not what I meant, Montgomery."
I hate that he's using my full name now, like I'm a child throwing a temper tantrum.
"It doesn't matter, Bear. I think it's better if I spend the night at my place tonight." I'm at the door before I even finish the sentence.
I precariously balance everything in one arm and push the door handle down, pressing my back to the thick metal door. Baron still hasn't moved. He's just leaning against the counter now with his chin resting on top of his interlaced fists.
He's not even looking at me. I walk out the door without another word, and I wonder if he'll follow me, if he'll snap out of it and race down the hallway.
When I walk out of the elevator down on the ground floor and set my stuff down so I can dig through my purse to find my keys, it's clear he's not coming after me.
I called his bluff, and we both lost that game.
I'm sitting in the middle of the floor, eating pizza at the coffee table because I don't actually own a dining table and haven't bothered to buy stools for the kitchen counter yet. I decided to drown my boy sorrows in the sweet embrace of carbs tonight.
My phone vibrates with a text from Andie.
Ugggh, this semester is killing me and I'm not even halfway through.
I immediately text her back.
Yeah, I'd give anything to grab a beer with you tonight.
My phone rings within seconds.
"Well, lucky you, I'm drinking a beer right now," Andie answers as soon as the call connects.
I look down at my second can. Yup, it's one of those nights for both of us. "Man, I miss you."
This is the part about going out on your own no one ever tells you about, but I
always had a sneaking suspicion it existed. You're always going to crave home, no matter how far you get from it. There are going to be days that make you want to find your old security blanket and curl up with them until you feel safe and loved again.
Tonight is one of those times, and it aches. I can't get to my security blanket; it's sitting three thousand miles away right now.
"So tell me about life. How are classes? And the cute future doctors of America? And living with crazy med students who study twenty hours a day?"
I want to get absorbed in everything that isn't football right now, and talking to Andie is the perfect answer to that.
I spend forty glorious minutes getting the Andie update. The handsome boy who keeps sitting next to her in class who has a killer smile and strong hands. The stress of knowing exactly what you want to do but having five hundred million steps to finish before you can get from here to there.
I keep hitting her with questions and devouring pizza like carbs can cure my emotional overload. The muscles that were clenched around my chest start to loosen.
"What about you? Does Baron have a work thing tonight?" I can hear the hesitation wrapped around her words like cotton balls, trying to soften the impact. She knows me. She knows the tones of my voice like a pianist can tell you the notes of the keys without even having to look at them. It's innate knowledge, carved into our souls.
I swallow my last sip of beer, ready to put it down and let it out with the only person I know how to do that with.
I take a deep breath and tell Andie about it all. The awkward-teenager-in-braces-at-prom feeling I had at the banquet. The stupid article. Our fight over my mess today.
She just sits on the other end and listens. I close my eyes as I'm talking, imagining her sitting right across from me in front of this coffee table with her legs twisted into a pretzel, her favorite Michigan sweatshirt inevitably stained with tomato sauce because the girl is going to be the best damn pediatric surgeon in the country but is hopeless when it comes to not spilling food on herself.
When I finish, the last of my muscles that were twisted up inside me finally work their way free, but it feels like an empty victory. I'm not anxiously holding it all in, but now that it's out, I don't have any more clarity on where I go from here.