Not Broken Anymore

by Tawdra Kandle

  The weird and unsettling thing, though, was that I liked the idea of getting better acquainted with Tate. I was curious about how deep this streak of goodness and honesty really ran. My life had been devoid of that rare sort of decency for too long, and part of me craved a validation that it really still existed.

  Drawing in a deep breath, I pointed to the cabinet. “If you find the tea, I’ll put on the water to heat. Oh, and I do have two mugs—they’re on the shelf above the sink.” Bending down, I retrieved a small saucepan from the cubby next to my miniscule stove and pivoted on my foot to face the sink.

  “Where’s your kettle?” Tate frowned at the saucepan. “Wait a sec—never mind. You don’t have a tea kettle, do you?” He’d squatted down to find the tea, and now he rose, holding the small flowered canister. Shaking it, he opened the lid and took a sniff. “Yeah, you definitely can’t tell my buddies that I drank this. It smells like girls. It’s not one of those teas for women problems, is it?”

  I bit the corner of my lip to keep from giggling. “Women problems? Are you talking, like, cramps and periods and stuff like that?”

  He looked pained. “Please. Remember I was raised as an only child, no sisters, raised by a man who’d grown up in an age where guys didn’t ever think about that kind of—stuff. I prefer it remain a mystery.”

  I set the pot of water on the stove and turned on the burner beneath it. “What’re you going to do if you get married someday, and you have to deal with ‘that kind of stuff’ with your wife? And your daughters, if you have them.”

  “I’ll think about that then. Right now, I don’t have to.” He jiggled the tea canister. “This is probably a silly question to ask someone who doesn’t own a tea kettle, but do you have either a strainer or something to put the tea into? Otherwise, we’re going to be drinking bits of flowers and leaves.”

  I held up one finger. “I actually do have a strainer. Quinn put it in the basket with the tea.” I pulled open a drawer and rooted around for a few minutes. “Here it is.”

  We stood in companionable silence as the water heated. When it began to bubble, I clicked off the burner and carefully poured it through the tea-filled strainer. Tate pulled out the strainer, dumped the wet tea into the trash and then refilled it for the second cup. Once both mugs were filled with tea, Tate carried them to the kitchen table while I found plates and forks.

  “Hurry up, or I’ll eat it right out of the box.” He drummed his fingers on the edge of the table. “I’m starved. I had to smell this all the way over the bridge. It was killing me.”

  I snorted. “I wouldn’t have been surprised if you’d bought two and ate one before you got here.”

  He nodded, his eyes narrowing. “That would’ve been an excellent idea. I was too focused on my destination to think about my stomach when I was in the bakery. I’ll have to remember that for next time.”

  The casual way he referred to ‘the next time’ warmed me and made me nervous at the same time. I hid both by keeping my eyes firmly on the pastry as I sliced us easy pieces of it.

  Tate had inhaled his before I finished my first bite. “Oh, my God. This is so good. You were right—best I’ve ever had.”

  He cast me a hooded stare. “That’s what I’m going for, baby.”

  The way he was looking at me, coupled with the words, was so dang cheesy that I couldn’t help a snort of amusement . . . that quickly devolved into a full-out belly laugh. To my relief, Tate chuckled along with me.

  “Too much, huh?” He tossed up the hand that wasn’t currently forking the Danish into his mouth. “I guess what my friends say is right. I got no game.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.” I sipped my tea and then hissed a little when it burnt my tongue. “A guy like you—you must have had lots of women in your life. That doesn’t happen without at least a little bit of game. More than just on the football field, too.”

  Tate cut himself another piece of the flaky cheese Danish. “Not really. I dated a little in high school, but I was really focused on my school work and football. I knew I had to get a scholarship for college if I didn’t want to graduate with a shit-ton of student debt. Pops didn’t want me to have that hanging over my head. So I had a lot of friends, but I never got serious with anyone.”

  I nodded. “Okay, I get that. But then in college, you had fun, right?”

  “Uhh, yeah.” He was suddenly very interested in staring down at his plate. “Sure. I had fun, but maybe not the way you’re thinking. I went out with friends a lot. I hung out at parties sometimes, if I was in the mood. But I still hit the books pretty hard, and I still focused on football. I knew I wanted a career after I graduated, and I knew how much competition there was going to be for that.”

  I leaned my chin on my hand, resting my elbow on the table. I was starting to think . . . but no. “Okay, you’re saying you didn’t have time for a steady girlfriend. For a relationship. Right? But you hooked up. You weren’t, like, a monk. Were you?”

  Tate cleared his throat, still not meeting my eyes. “Well . . . if by a monk, you mean someone who trains seven days a week, studies all the time, goes to bed early by himself every night and doesn’t do much else, then yeah, I guess you’d call me a monk.” He flickered a glance up to me. “But it wasn’t a hardship. I’ve always been the kind of person who can focus on the prize in the future and make sacrifices in the present if it’s going to give me a better shot at winning that prize.”

  There was an odd timber to his voice when he said this, something that grabbed my gut and shook my core. I swallowed and forced myself to sound unaffected. “We’re talking school and football here, right?”

  He lifted one shoulder. “Okay. Mostly, I guess. But it applies elsewhere.” His green eyes were steady on me.

  I decided to steer the conversation back to what I’d been trying to suss out. “You couldn’t have been all work and no play back at Carolina, though. With all the girls who lusted after the football players? I saw what they put Leo through in his last two years there, even though he never acted on anything, to the best of my knowledge. And I had first-hand experience with how far women went just to say they’d been banged by a Carolina player.” The stab of pain I’d come to expect when remembering Matt and his inability to resist the lure of a star-struck fangirl was actually duller than it usually was. Maybe I was beginning to get over that part. Maybe. “Please don’t tell me I was the lucky woman who dated the only man-whore on the Carolina team.”

  Tate looked pained. “Yes, there were a lot of girls who made it crystal clear that they were down to do anything with a football player. Leo got the brunt of it after that article went viral, but he hated it, mostly because it drove Quinn away. And no, Matt wasn’t the only one who had a reputation for giving the fangirls just what they wanted.” He sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. “But I learned pretty fast that if I kept my head down, didn’t make eye contact and avoided parties where that kind of crap went down, they didn’t bother me. I didn’t have girls texting me nudie pics or stalking me on campus. Once I made it clear that I wasn’t interested, no one really cared about me.”

  I considered everything he’d said. “Okay, Tate.” I leaned back in my chair and twisted one leg beneath me, studying the man sitting across the table. “I’m just going to come out and ask, and if you want to tell me it’s none of my damn business, no biggie. Are you . . . have you ever been with a woman? I mean, have you had sex? Or are you a virgin?”

  My answer came quickly when his cheeks flushed red, but to his credit, Tate didn’t drop my gaze. “I’ve kissed girls, and I had some heavy make-out sessions when I was in high school, but . . . no. I’ve never had sex with a woman. Or a man, either. Yeah, I’m a virgin.”

  Even though I’d begun to suspect as much, hearing him confirm it shocked me. It was just so . . . unexpected. Here was this guy who was undeniably hot, with a body that would make most women drop their panties in a heartbeat, the face of a naughty angel, and a downright perfect
personality, and he was saying that he’d never succumbed to their charms?

  “Breathe, Gia.” Tate’s tone was wry. “It’s not that big a deal.”

  “Of course, it’s not.” I tried for nonchalance. “It’s a lifestyle choice, right? A personal preference. Just how things worked out.”

  “And not as uncommon as you might think. At my club—well, we call it a support group—there are plenty of men who you’d never expect haven’t done the deed, and yet, there we are. All members of the Virgin Football Players of America.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You had me going until you gave it a name. I’m not saying it’s weird or anything. Just—unexpected, I guess. From someone like you.”

  “Someone like me, huh?” He was teasing now, leaning forward. “What does that even mean? If I were a guy who didn’t work out or who had unfortunate skin issues or . . . I don’t know, body odor? Then you’d nod and say, well, that doesn’t surprise me.”

  “That makes me sound incredibly shallow,” I protested, even though I was almost afraid he was right. There were definitely people whose virginity wouldn’t have shocked me. Not all of them were necessarily unattractive, either. It was just a vibe some people gave off.

  “I don’t think you’re shallow at all. I just know that most people do stereotype, and being a football player doesn’t fit the accepted norm for someone who chooses to wait for sex.”

  “Do your friends know?” I wasn’t sure why I was so curious about Tate and his lack of sexual experience, but there was no denying that I was.

  He shrugged. “I haven’t announced it, if that’s what you’re asking. And we don’t sit around in the locker room, having deep heart-to-hearts about this kind of stuff. Some of them may have noticed back in college that I didn’t hook up or party, but now, in the pros, we all have our own private lives. There are definitely a group of single guys who hang together, and then there’re the married family men. I don’t fit into either group. And I’m okay with that.”

  He spoke with such easy assurance, not even a hint of belligerence or defensiveness that I believed him. I realized I’d just gotten another glimpse into the Tate Durham psyche: he was someone who was extraordinarily comfortable in his own skin. That was rare.

  “You might not believe this, but I’m actually full.” Tate groaned a little and rubbed his stomach. “That really hit the spot. And the herbal tea junk wasn’t half bad either . . . although I still think coffee would’ve been better.” He lifted his arm and glanced at the wristwatch there, and the gesture was so wholly masculine that my breath hitched a little. Tate’s hands were large, and the word that came to the front of my mind when I saw them was capable. They were trustworthy hands.

  He was speaking again, and I jerked my attention back to what he was saying. “. . . if you’re ready, we can head over there now.”

  “Wait a minute—what did you say? Where are we going?” My eyebrows drew together in consternation.

  Tate spoke slowly, repeating what I’d missed. “I said, I thought we could go over to the Italian Market and get stuff for dinner. It was too late to stop at the grocery store last night, and then I didn’t want to take the time this morning to make another stop. Which reminds me.” Leaning down, he lifted up the canvas bag. “I did swing by Target on my way here and picked up this.” He pulled out an extra-large bag of ridged potato chips. “And also this, since you said you were waiting for it.” This time, it was a small rectangular box, with a familiar picture on the front.

  “You bought me Veronica Mars?” I couldn’t hide my excitement. “No way! Oh, my God, this is totally what we’re watching today.”

  “That’s the plan.” He smiled at me, and I realized he was taking quiet joy in my excitement. “After we go out and get what we need for dinner. I figured it might be fun for both of us to go to the Market. I never get a chance to spend time there anymore.”

  “But we had Italian last night.” It was the first excuse that popped into my mind, and even I knew it was a lame one.

  “They sell other food there, too. It’s the best spot in the city to get fresh vegetables and meat, and the bread is so good, it’ll make you cry.” He paused and added, “In a good way, I mean. Not in a they-are-out-of-my-chips-at-the-grocery-store way.”

  I stuck out my tongue at him. “Ha, ha, ha. I’m so glad you feel comfortable enough to joke at my expense. But I have to tell you—part of the whole junk food and binge weekend experience is not leaving the house. That’s why I shop on Friday night—so I don’t have to leave my apartment or even get dressed before Monday morning. So you’re sort of ruining it.”

  Tate winked at me, grinning. “Call it the extra dimension I bring to the weekend. A little added benefit. Besides, you’re dressed now, so you already changed the paradigm. Going out is simply an extension of that.”

  Damn. He had a way of derailing all of my arguments. “Fine. But if the whole dynamic is thrown off, we know the fault lies with you.” I stood, picking up my own plate and reaching for Tate’s. He pushed away my hand and instead took my plate.

  “Sit down. I brought breakfast, and I’ll do clean up.” He peered into my mug. “Finish your tea. We don’t want all that flower and leaf goodness going to waste, do we?”

  “Of course not.” I tried the tea again, found it cooler and drank it, watching as Tate ran water over the plates and fork. He glanced around the sink and then opened the cabinet beneath it.

  “Do you have a sponge or a brush or something?”

  I shook my head. “No. I usually just use a paper towel.”

  He sent me a reproving glance over his shoulder, and I thought he might say something, but in the end, he simply sighed and tore a sheet off the paper towel roll in front of him, scrubbing at the plates and the silverware in turn.

  “I know, it’s horrible,” I confessed. “I’m contributing to the landfills and all that shit. Zelda yells at me every time she comes over. But in my defense, I don’t do much cooking or washing dishes.” The truth was that I usually ate my food over take-out containers or whatever packaging it came in.

  “Everyone does things his or her own way.” He was being diplomatic. “Remind me who Zelda is?”

  “Ah, she was one of my roommates in college. She and Quinn roomed together freshman year, and then the three of us lived together the other three years. She lives here in the city.” I smiled a little, thinking of my friend. “She is absolutely drop-dead fucking gorgeous. Tall, blonde, totally built . . . I’d say I’d introduce you, but she’s kind of seeing someone. I think. Also, she would eat you alive. Zelda’s incredibly smart and very . . . ummm . . . physical.”

  Tate carefully unwound a few more paper towels and laid them on the small piece of counter next to the sink. He arranged the dishes on them to dry. I had to hide a grin as I watched him move around my mini-kitchen; he dwarfed everything in there, as though the appliances and drawers had been built for a race of tiny people.

  “I think maybe I saw her at Matt’s funeral.” His voice was neutral. “Was she there with a man in a wheelchair?”

  I frowned, trying to remember. “I . . . don’t know if Tucker was there. I guess he was, though. He didn’t know Matt that well, other than just through Quinn and me.” A sudden memory took me by surprise. “Actually, I’d forgotten. They did meet, during the summer before junior year. Matt had come up here—he’d been on probation, sort of, since the coaching staff at Carolina said he had to go to summer school and get his grades up, and one of the conditions was that he had to live with his grandparents. We hung out a couple of times with Zelda and Tucker. That was when they were sort of dating, but not telling anyone.” I gnawed at my lip. “So if you saw a smoking hot blonde with a dude in a wheelchair at Matt’s funeral, yeah, that was Zelda and Tuck. I have no memory of him being there, but I guess he was.”

  Tate nodded. “Huh. Yeah, she was pretty, I guess.” He leaned one hip against the end of my counter and made a point of looking at his watch again. “All right,
woman. Unless you have any more reasonable objections, get your shoes and your coat, and let’s go buy some food.”

  I hadn’t been to the Italian Market on 9th Street since I was in elementary school, when my parents used to take us over at least once a month to shop. My dad’s mom had lived in the city, so we usually combined a shopping trip with a visit to her house. As Tate and I wandered the market, pausing by booths and vendors here and there to take a closer look or snag a sample, memories assailed me. I could almost hear my mother calling to my sisters to slow down and stay with us. I could feel my dad’s hand holding mine, keeping me safe from the jostling of the crowd. And I thought I even recalled my mother and father walking together, his arm around her as he stole a kiss. While I didn’t think I was making it up, it seemed unlikely and foreign. I had precious few memories of my parents when they weren’t fighting or locked in stony, angry silence.

  Tate seemed to know his way around the place. He pointed out his favorite vendors, and he made me try bits of bread torn off sample loaves, chunks of cheese, slivers of prosciutto and capicola and spicy samples of sopressata. When I protested that I couldn’t eat another morsel, he grabbed my hand and hauled me to a small stand from which was wafting the most tantalizing aromas.

  “Heyyyyy, if it isn’t the big football star. Lookit, Angel. Look who’s come by to see us.” The big man behind the makeshift counter grinned broadly. “Whaddaya doin’ here, boy? Shouldn’t you be liftin’ all the weights and makin’ them muscles bigger?”

  A small woman with salt and pepper hair and a smiling face bustled forward. “Leave him be, Dante. Stop picking on the boy. Tate, sweetie, how are you? How is your grandpa? Is he here with you?”

  “Nah, not today, Angel. I brought a friend over. We’re shopping for dinner.” Tate drew me up to stand next to him. “This is Gia.”

  “Ohhhhh . . .” Angel smiled at me before her eyes darted back to Tate’s face. “She’s so pretty, sweetie. Look at you two.”