Same Time Next Year

Like I should have asked him to stay.

We text each other daily, but it’s not the same as seeing him face to face. Last night, he informed me he’d hurt his right wrist during the final day of training camp, and not being able to see that he was okay in person made me feel helpless. He’s returning to Bridgeport today, and I’m checking the impulse to show up at his house with ice cream and magazines, as if he’s suffered a traumatic injury that landed him in the ER. I might even sit through another showing of A Dog’s Purpose, if it made him feel better.

Freakishly wifely behavior.

You are his wife, Britta.

Yes. I am. He has a shiny new green card to show for it.

And I don’t think about our almost make-out session in the parking lot before the interview at all. I don’t think about the way he drew me up off the ground with his meaty forearm and offered to pretend we’re friends while he was nine deep and ringing my bell.

Like I don’t think about that on a nightly basis. At all.

I realize I’m staring down at the pile of mail in my arms and shake myself. Sumner might be coming home tonight, but I can’t dwell on it. I have concert tickets. My two best friends, Kelis and Trisha, who I’ve known since middle school, scored babysitters for their infants, and I’ve finally, finally convinced them to set aside the mom guilt and party like we used to. My shift is being covered at Sluggers. Just because I’m a part owner now doesn’t mean my bartending days are over—they’re still very much alive. And exhausting.

Which is why I’ve been looking forward to tonight for months.

A chance to blow off some steam. Reconnect with my friends.

On my way into my apartment, I happen to notice one piece of Sumner’s mail is a certain famous swimsuit edition of a sports magazine, a gorgeous woman on the cover tossing her hair provocatively. A stab of jealousy in the dead center of my throat catches me off guard. Is he going to . . . look at this? Does he wait for it to arrive every year?

Am I ridiculous to be jealous over a magazine when pornography is famously free on the internet? Yes. Especially when the jealousy pertains to my fake husband. It’s just that my stomach has been tied up in knots since he left.

That’s not how people feel about their friends.

We are friends.

That’s what I wanted.

No, want. Want.

Meaning, my breath shouldn’t catch in anticipation every time he texts me.

I hold out my hand so I can look at the golden band I haven’t taken off in months and—

My phone dings, distracting me. But it’s not Sumner; it’s Kelis.

I’m so sorry, Brit, the baby is sick. Picked up something at day care and gave it to the whole family. We’re plague ridden.

My shoulders sag, and I flop onto the couch, preparing to text her back. I’m disappointed that I won’t be able to see my best friend, but mostly I just feel sympathy.

Oh no! I’m—

Before I can finish my text, another one hits the group. From Trisha.

You got it, too, Kelis? We’re down for the count, too. Much puking. Fevers through the roof.

Can you give our tickets to someone else, Brit?

So so sorry. Was so excited for this.

Heat presses in behind my eyes, and I let the phone drop into my lap as I stare off into space. I’m a little ashamed of the way I feel. Let down.

Depressed. Frustrated. They are the ones with sick children to cure. They have it much harder than me right this very moment. Meanwhile, I can still go to the concert if I want to, right? Alone?

No one will even know if I got home safely afterward.

That’s never really bothered me before—and it doesn’t bother me now.

It’s just that lately I feel a little left behind. Like everyone is checking off the boxes of life, and my pencil is broken. Or I didn’t bring one to class at all.

Sluggers used to be the place I felt happy. Safe. Competent.

I’m not sure when going there began to feel like a chore, but lately when I turn off the lights, I don’t feel as much contentment as I used to.

I’m restless.

Still, I send an upbeat text to the group, wishing Trish and Kelis good luck battling the germs and offering to pick up groceries or medicine, if needed. Then, despite the tears that seem determined to hover in my eyes, I rally, heading for the bedroom to change into the concert outfit I’ve been planning for weeks. It’s a purple strapless minidress and cowboy boots— My doorbell rings right as I’m pulling the garment over my head.

Frowning, I leave the bedroom and stop in front of the front door buzzer, holding down the button to talk. “Hello?”

A brief pause. “Hey, it’s me. It’s Sumner.”

“Oh.” It’s nothing short of drastic, the way my skin heats at the sound of his deep baritone, my pulse pumping in my ears. There’s no mistaking the happiness that jumps inside me, like popcorn popping in a microwave bag. “Welcome back, big guy. Come on up.”

I hold down the button to open the door.

“That didn’t sound remotely casual,” I mutter to myself.

He has only been to my apartment once, before our immigration interview, just in case they asked about the layout of our “primary residence.” Most of the time, I was careful to keep all our meetings in neutral territory so he wouldn’t get the wrong impression. There’s no use for it, though; I’m excited to see him back here, among my things.

I’m excited to see him, period.

I run to the kitchen barefoot and shove a pile of dishes under the sink, swiping crumbs into my hand and dusting them off into the trash can. A firm knock on the door shoots my heart rate to the moon, but I order myself not to fuss with my hair on the way to let in Sumner.

But I find myself wishing I had taken a few minutes with my hairbrush when I open the door, because yeah . . . there’s no pretending he doesn’t look really, really good, despite the black wrist brace on his right hand. The injury might even enhance his ruggedness quite nicely?

For all the sense that makes.

His black hair is still wet from a shower, messy, his plain white T-shirt clinging to all sorts of thick muscles. He’s got that pale hockey player complexion that makes his dark eyes look wildly intense, the veins in his biceps starting a flutter beneath my belly button. The jeans he’s wearing are ancient. Worn. Tucked into untied boots.

Extremely large boots.

Don’t think too hard about that.

I have to remind myself to not think about Sumner’s, ahem, attributes a lot. But my resolve is pretty weak thanks to the memory of its generosity between my thighs in the parking lot over two months ago. Yeah, that recollection has remained firm. Just like Sumner.

“Hey—oh. Shit,” he rumbles now, bracing his forearm on the doorframe and sweeping me head to toe with a thirsty look. “Britta, you look . . .” His swallow is audible. “Jesus.”

A pleasureful blush sweeps into my cheeks before I can play it cool.