by Sarina Bowen
Then I’ll go to the Baby Gap and buy one of everything from the baby boy side of the store. I’ll fly up here to hold my nephew, who I will love the moment I lay eyes upon him.
And when I go back home to my quiet Brooklyn apartment, my yearning for a family of my own will become even more clawing and desperate than it already is.
“Bess? Hey.”
“Mmm?” I manage to look up eventually.
“Are you okay?” My brother is frowning at me.
“Perfectly,” I say quickly. “Of course.”
“We should go inside, then.”
“Right!” I say, blinking. I grab my mug and head into the house, already wondering how long I’ll have to wait before the Baby Gap puts out the spring and summer collections.
The guest room is perfectly comfortable, and the house is quiet, but when I eventually turn in for the night, I can’t sleep. I lie in bed, my head a whirl of tangled thoughts. It occurs to me at some point that this bedroom will probably become the baby’s room. I picture Zara tiptoeing in here to check on her sleeping infant. Then I picture my brother doing the same thing.
I don’t know why Zara’s second pregnancy is hitting me so hard. Even before tonight, I’d wanted what they have. Nothing has changed, except for the better.
So why is it suddenly so difficult to breathe?
“Richie,” I say into the phone the next morning. “Take a breath.”
“But the coach hates me,” the young defenseman whines into my ear. “How many days are left before the trade deadline?”
“Lots of days,” I say soothingly. “Your job is not to try to guess what the coach is thinking. You can’t control the coaching staff. You can’t control your teammates. You can only control Richie Kristov. Open up your workout plan. Then go to the gym and get busy.” I glance up and give Zara an apologetic smile. It’s her morning off from work, and the two of us are sitting on her coffee shop’s new patio for breakfast and gossip.
“Okay,” he says with a sigh. “You’re right. I’ll stick to the plan.”
“That’s the way to do it,” I promise him. “Go drink a protein shake. Make yourself a to-do list of healthy habits and get busy. I’m counting on you.”
After a few more pats on the head, he finally signs off.
“Sorry!” I tell Zara. “That was just—”
“It’s fine,” she says. “You’re so patient with them when they panic.”
“They just need someone to listen,” I say, putting my phone away. I grab my giant latte in two hands and gulp it straight into my soul. “So tell me everything. When is the baby due?” I force my mouth to make a smile shape. I don’t know why it’s difficult. Another baby in my life to snuggle? Sign me up.
Zara cocks her head. “May. The week before Memorial Day.”
“Oh! A summer baby. Great timing.”
“Yeah. Now I have a question for you.” Zara sets her cup down.
“Hmm?”
“How much did it cost you to ask me that question?”
Shit. I lift my giant mug and try to drown myself in it.
“I’m worried about you,” Zara says quietly.
“Whatever for?”
She gives me a look of mild disdain and picks up her cup of half-decaf again. “Because you’re not happy.”
“Who’s perfectly happy? I’m happy enough.”
Zara shakes her head slowly. “You are very good at faking it. But I know you want more than what you have. How’s your life plan going?”
“It’s…going,” I hedge. “Slowly.” The truth is that Tank has derailed all my planning. And I hadn’t even had the courage last night to tell my brother I was dating him.
Zara looks me in the eye. “Bess, it’s time we had a performance review. Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to be your agent.”
“What?”
“That kid Richie Kristov has you, right? Well, you have me. I’ll be the voice on the phone who asks for a full accounting. Now tell me—have you been dating? Wasn’t that Chapter One of your plan?”
“I did a little dating, yes.”
“I see,” Zara says. She gives me a sage nod, but her eyes twinkle. “Well, that’s a good start. You’ll keep it up, right? You can’t make the right guy appear. But you can control your own attack.”
“Oh my God, Zara. You’re a little too good at this.”
She cackles. “Now let’s talk about Chapter Four.”
Oh, hell. Sharing my five-year plan with her was a tactical error. “I have made no progress on Chapter Four.”
“But you told me two months ago that you were going to make the first appointment. What happened there?”
The appointment she’s referring to is another secret of mine. I’d decided to make preliminary inquiries with a fertility specialist, just in case I decided to have a child without a man in my life.
“I’m not ready for that, as it turns out. Other, uh, things have kept me busy.”
Zara’s dark eyes double in size. “Really. What things?”
I look over both shoulders to make sure my brother hasn’t snuck up on us somehow. I’m dying to get this off my chest. “There’s this guy. He’s terrific. But he’s not in the right stage of life to settle down.”
She leans forward. “What stage is he in?”
“The just-got-divorced stage,” I admit at a near-whisper. “He said he’s never getting married again.”
“Does he have kids?” Zara whispers back.
I shake my head. “They were married for—” I do the math. “Five years. Or almost six.”
“Well…” Zara cocks her head. “Did they not want kids?”
“Maybe,” I say, because the truth is I have no idea. Tank doesn’t like to talk about his divorce, and I sure don’t like to pry into his marriage.
“So you don’t really know where he stands on kids.”
“No,” I have to admit. “But if he doesn’t want marriage, it’s pretty safe to assume he doesn’t want kids.”
“But you do,” Zara points out. “Do you love him? Does he love you?”
“You know these are tricky questions, right?” I fire back at my sister-in-law.
She laughs. “Yeah, Bess. As your agent, it’s my job to ask the tricky questions. In fact, do you have a sheet of paper? I’m going to have to ask you to make one of those decision charts.”
“A decision tree?” I ask drily.
“Yes!” She claps. “So, the first question is whether or not you love this guy.”
“I’m not writing that down,” I grumble.
“So you do love him.” Zara grins.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. It’s written all over your face.”
Well, damn it. I suppose it probably is. “I have never told him so, but he is exactly the kind of man I could love. He’s a good guy, even if he’s a little gruff on the outside. Actually I like that about him. He doesn’t suffer fools.”
“And yet he likes you,” Zara says. “When the grumpy man smiles at you, it’s like watching the sun come out.”
I feel a little pain in my chest, right in the center of my breast bone. Because she’s right. The idea that Tank would choose me over any other woman makes me feel all squishy inside.
“Next question. Do you two have a lot of chemistry? Is the sex good?”
“Check and check.”
“Excellent! So the baby-making sex would be a good time.”
“Zara,” I hiss. “You can’t talk about baby-making sex when you’re having babies with my brother. That’s got to stay in the cone of silence.”
“Fine. Moving on. Is he a good provider? If you two decided to make a go of it, would you be able to step back from your job and not starve because he’s a sculptor or a professional mime or something?”
I laugh out loud. “Do you really see me with a mime?”
“There’s a sexy version of anything, Bess. Mimes are very expressive, and I’d bet they�
�re good with their hands. But they don’t earn well. And a divorced mime…” She shakes her head.
I think of Tank’s hands and let out a little sigh. “Money wouldn’t be an issue. He’s a professional athlete.”
“Oh.” Zara sits back in her chair. “Well. Why didn’t you say so? I would have skipped over the sex and money questions at the same time. But I thought players were off limits to you?”
“They’re supposed to be,” I mumble. “And he’s very good with his hands. I have it bad, Z. He’s everything I’ve ever wanted in a man. You can skip right down to the big questions, because this player can’t be easily disqualified.”
“Ah.” She folds her hands. “Then the only question that matters is this one—would you marry him if he asked tomorrow?”
Oh boy. There’s a reason I don’t sit around indulging in this kind of fantasy. Because that’s an easy one. “Without hesitation.”
“Oh, wow.” Zara puts a hand over her heart. “So your heart is, like, play ball, but you’re afraid that his divorce puts him on the bench forever?”
“In the dugout, sweetie. If you’re going with the baseball analogies.”
“What is his sport, anyway? I need a visual.”
I just shake my head.
“Ooh, hockey!”
“I didn’t say that!” I squawk.
“You’d tell me if it wasn’t hockey.” She shrugs. “Besides, hockey players are the hottest. And you’re pretty far gone for this guy. I hate to break it to you, but the decision tree is pretty clear, honey. You have to poll him on his feelings. You have to ask him if he thinks you guys could ever be on the same page.”
I feel sick just trying to imagine this conversation. “He’d hate that. It’s too soon.”
“Is it?” Zara challenges me. “You have a lot of feelings for him. And it’s only going to get harder to hold it all in.”
It’s already hard. She’s right. “What if I ask, and he runs? Maybe I should wait a little longer. It’s only been six months since she kicked him to the curb. The ink on his divorce is barely dry.”
Zara reaches across the table and covers my hand with hers. “You might be right. But please consider giving yourself some kind of deadline. You sat here this summer and told me you wanted to have a baby. That you were willing to uproot your whole life and take a big business risk to focus on your family. Don’t let this guy stand in your way if he can’t ever be The One.”
I look down into my empty coffee cup and swallow hard. “Okay,” I promise.
“What’s that? I couldn’t hear you?” Zara cups a hand around her ear.
“Okay,” I repeat grumpily. “I won’t let this guy stand in the way of my plans. I will try to find a way to talk to him about the future. And if he says he doesn’t love me, I will let go of that dream.”
“Hot damn.” Zara punches the air with her fists, one at a time. “I’m good at this. Running other people’s lives is so exciting! I never knew.”
“Oh, you totally knew,” her brother Benito says, walking past our table. “You’ve been bossing me around since birth.”
“He had it coming,” she says without turning around. Then she gives me a huge smile. “What color is his hair?”
“What?” It takes me a second to realize she means Tank’s. “It’s brown, why?”
“Maybe it doesn’t matter, but I read an article about the genetics of red hair. Supposedly, globalization means that gingers will go extinct within a hundred years.”
“Shut the front door,” I say. “That’s ridiculous.”
Zara shrugs. “Apparently it isn’t. Redheads are only two percent of the population, and only four to five percent carry the gene. But I’m doing my share, Bess. I’m here to carry on the line with your brother.”
“My people are grateful.”
“Step up, Bess,” she says, teasing me. “Do your part.”
“I’ll try,” I promise.
Twenty-Four
I Want Tex-Mex
Tank
Come over at seven? We can order Indian Food.
Sitting on the weight bench in the gym, I pump my fist. I’ve been waiting for Bess’s text all day, and when it finally arrives, I’m elated. It’s been eight long days since I’ve seen her.
“Something happen? What did I miss?” Silas Kelly is watching me with a grin on his face. He crosses the room and drops down onto a mat to stretch.
“Aw, it’s nothing,” I say, tucking my phone under the bench and leaning back for another set of warm-up presses.
“I think I made that same face a half hour ago when Delilah said she’d be home tonight by eight.” Silas folds himself in half as he says this, because goalies are all made of rubber.
“Yeah,” I grunt. “It’s been a long road trip.”
“TV, takeout food, and sex,” Silas says. “That’s what everyone on the team will be doing tonight.”
“Not me,” Anton says, strutting into the room. “I’m too tired to find a playmate. I’m going to be face down on the sofa, watching reruns and shoving Doritos into my facehole.”
“Sexy,” Silas teases.
I do another light set of presses and then sit up again. I return Bess’s text. What if you leave the food to me? I want Tex-Mex. I’ll make it happen. And then I add, Can’t wait to see you. Because it’s a hundred percent true.
Rationally, I know it’s way too soon to jump into a relationship. When I told Bess I was never getting married again, I meant it.
But a few hours later I’m standing outside her apartment building at five minutes to seven, pressing the buzzer like a junkie who needs his next fix. And it’s hard to remember why I shouldn’t go all in with Bess. Spending time with her is the brightest part of my week.
The door latch releases, and I enter the building and jog up the stairs.
“You’re early!” she calls from the bedroom when I push open her apartment door.
“Sorry! Just a couple minutes.”
“Oh, I don’t care. I just like to bust your chops.” She appears in the doorway, wearing tight jeans and a Colorado Avalanche T-shirt, and my heart thumps a little harder.
“Missed you,” I blurt out.
Her expression softens. “Same here.”
“How was your trip to Vermont?”
“It was good. They always are. What did you bring?” She eyes my two large shopping bags—one in either hand. “How hungry are you, anyway?”
“Very hungry,” I drawl, giving her tight T-shirt a very appreciative glance. “I can’t decide what I want first.”
She gives me a shy smile. “Let me know when you figure it out.”
I carry my bags into her tiny kitchen and set them on the counter. It occurs to me that I should get the dinner started before I seduce and debauch her. I take out a rotisserie chicken, a bunch of tortillas, sauces, toppings and various cheeses. And then I take out the pan that I bought to cook in, because Bess doesn’t own pots and pans. It’s hilarious.
I’m preheating the oven when she comes in, her face full of questions. “What are you doing?”
“Making enchiladas. I can’t find any in New York that taste how I like.”
“Really? I’ll bet there’s authentic Mexican food somewhere in New York.”
“That’s the problem. I don’t want authentic Mexican,” I tell her. “I want Texas Tex-Mex, with gooey yellow cheese all over it.” My stomach rumbles at the thought. “Want to help?”
“Sure,” Bess says. “But I’m the kind of girl who helps by setting the table and keeping the beer cold. If you ask me to dice an onion, be prepared to provide detailed instructions.”
“We all have our strengths. Can you shred up this chicken meat?”
“I can probably manage that.” She grabs a breast and pulls off the skin. “How, uh, small should the pieces be? I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“It couldn’t matter less.” I put down the package of tortillas I was unwrapping and pull her close. “I don’t care if
you can’t even boil water.”
She kisses me on the jaw. “That’s nice of you to say, because it’s a little embarrassing. I notice you brought your own pan. Smart man.”
“Haters gonna hate, Bess. Fuck ’em.”
“Did you just become the only thirty-two-year-old man to quote Taylor Swift?” She lifts her pretty face and studies me.
“Maybe I did. The girl has a point with that song. Now get back to work, or dinner will never be finished.”
After assembling my ingredients, I roll shredded chicken, cheese, and beans into a dozen tortillas. I place them in a tidy row in the baking pan. Then I drizzle two whole packages of enchilada sauce everywhere, followed by loads of yellow cheese and some diced chilis. I cover the pan and slide it into the oven.
When I look up, Bess is watching me with a soft expression on her face. “What?” I ask. “Did I do something funny?”
“Not in the least.” Her eyes flick away. “When I told you I can’t cook, I meant I really can’t cook. I can’t even scramble an egg. It’s pathetic.”
“No it isn’t,” I say quietly, leaning over to kiss her jaw. “I like you just the way you are. Scars and all.”
Bess swallows hard. Her eyes hold mine, like she’s trying to figure something out. “Wow.”
“Wow, what?”
“I’m just…happy to see you. And I really like the sight of you in my kitchen, making dinner like it’s no big deal. I know I’m not supposed to bring it up, but your ex-wife must be stark-raving mad. That’s all I have to say about that.”
Something inside my chest loosens. “Do you know what we’re supposed to do now?” I ask, stepping closer.
She shakes her head, and her big blue eyes look up into mine.
“Right after I set the timer, we’ll have forty minutes to kill,” I whisper. “So I’m going to need to kiss you, nice and slow. And then take you to bed and show you how much I missed you.”
Bess shivers. “What are you waiting for, then?”