“There is no competition.” I hold up my phone to show Jack the side-by-side graphic meme someone created: a svelte, glamorous Courtney Woods next to a still of me from the interview, in my pink blouse, looking like a meek extension of my ugly-ass garage sale couch. “And talk about not being able to compete.”
He sighs. “Here, can I show you a little trick?” He takes my phone and closes out the page. “What do ya know? Just like that, none of it exists anymore.”
“Funny.”
“Let them be miserable while you’re working on bangin’ my idol.”
“Jack!” I’m shaking my head at him, but a smile tugs at my mouth. “That’s never gonna happen.”
He pulls himself back to a sitting position, hauling me up to sit next to him. “Seriously, can’t you just find someone normal? First you fall in love with your art teacher and you almost send him to jail. Then you get knocked up by a drug dealer who can’t help you out because he does go to jail. Then you have to go and pull Brett Madden out of a burning car and make him fall all over you like a lovesick puppy on national TV. Why can’t you just find . . . I don’t know, a banker, or a plumber?”
I’m giggling because, as harsh as that reality is, it’s coming from Jack, who I know doesn’t judge me at all. “Or a used-car salesman?”
“Now you’re on the right track. I need a car.”
I wipe the remaining tears from my face. “Thanks, Jack. For being here. For knowing when to come.” I never would have asked.
He sighs. “Just keep your head up. And promise you won’t ever look at that shit again. That was dumb. I’m going to cut off my hotspot when I come here if I catch you doing it again.”
“I won’t. I promise. I’m done. I’m moving on.” I toss my phone to my bed stand, the weight of it suddenly unbearable. “I take it the game’s finished?”
He nods, his dour expression telling me that the Flyers won’t be playing again until next season.
“Twenty eighteen’s our year, right?” Jack grumbles to Hawk as they ease down my porch steps, Jack dressed to jog home.
“Hope so,” comes the bodyguard’s deep response. The radio in his SUV buzzes with low voices, the commentators dissecting the game, highlighting all the ways that the Flyers screwed up and lost their chance at playing for the Cup. I’ve heard “Madden” said at least twice in the past twenty seconds, even though Brett wasn’t playing. It’s not hard to figure out where the brunt of the blame is going to fall, regardless.
But it’s almost a relief to me that I won’t have to face Brett sitting in a box with Courtney Woods beside him again anytime soon. I’m sure there are already more than enough stills of them splashed all over the Internet.
Maybe now everyone can move on.
Including me.
“You should go home, Hawk,” I tell him.
The fierce-looking man frowns a little. “I’m supposed to—”
“I’m good. Look, they’re all gone. There’s no one around anymore.”
“But Mr. Madden insisted—”
“That you stay until I feel safe. I feel safe now, so you can go.” I cap it off with a smile.
After a long pause, he offers a curt nod and heads for his truck. To phone in to headquarters and get permission to leave, no doubt.
“You gonna be fine to get home?”
Jack is leaning over to fix his loose shoelace. “I’ve only had three beers.”
“Keith is going to notice that they’re gone.”
“Good. Tell him to buy better stuff when he restocks.” With a wink, Jack is off, running down the lane.
“Stay on the sidewalk!” I holler after him.
My phone is ringing from my bedroom as I step back inside, and it’s a piercing sound, carrying through the silent house. While Brenna’s a deep sleeper, I still run for it, afraid it might wake her.
My heart stutters when I see Brett’s name on the screen.
I already know why he’s calling. To tell me what I’ve seen with my own two eyes. What everyone has seen. What people—complete strangers who don’t know me, will never know me—are now gossiping about. And as trivial as Jack made it all sound, every little reminder makes me nauseous.
I don’t know what to say to him.
And so I simply sit there, the volume muted, staring at his name as I wait for it to go to voice mail. It takes me almost a minute to collect my nerve and listen to the message, a sad smile touching my lips as his voice fills my ear. “Hey, Cath, it’s Brett. I figured you’d be done work by now but maybe not? I was at the game tonight and just got home. It’s the first time I have a moment’s privacy. Anyway . . .” He heaves a sigh. “I wanted to warn you that there was going to be some stuff floating around in the media about me and my ex getting back together . . .”
Just the way he says it feels like a punch to the gut.
“. . . Simone thinks that’s the best way to deflect the Weekly spin. Courtney was up for it, so she flew in from LA today to lend some weight to the story that Simone pitched.”
Simone pitched it. So she’s the reliable source. Makes sense. That was her tagline they used.
He pauses. “Did you watch tonight’s game, by any chance?” I don’t miss the touch of wariness in his voice. “Anyway . . . it’s all for show. We’re not back together.”
I close my eyes, the familiar burn in my stomach flaring painfully.
“So . . . yeah. I just wanted you to know that. And I was hoping I’d get to talk to you in person, but . . . anyway . . .” He sounds so sedate, so unsure of himself. I imagine that has to do with his team’s loss tonight. Though, it’d be hard for any of those guys to muster up a smile right now. “So, yeah . . . Good night . . . . Or good morning . . . I don’t know. Talk to you soon?”
As far as bumbling voice mails go, Brett just beat out my “take your money back” one from last week. I wish I could laugh about it.
I wish I could just take his words at face value.
I wish I could believe him.
I crawl into bed and close my eyes. I press my phone against my ear and get lost in Brett’s message—not in his words, but in his voice: a deep, melodic song that I can somehow feel right down to my very core.
Each time I hit Replay—seven times in total—I hope something will click, something will change. Something will tell me that I can accept his explanation and find the guts to talk to him.
But I can’t.
Because his words are words I’ve heard before. This explanation is one that I’ve heard before. This kind of false hope has consumed me before. And the probability of facing heartbreak again . . .
I set my phone on my nightstand, Brett’s message unanswered.
I promised myself I’d be smarter.
July 2010
I walk swiftly toward his house, my bike cast aside at the park across the street, where I’ve been sitting for three hours.
Waiting, for the familiar rumble of Scott’s motorcycle.
Gathering my nerve to speak to him for the first time in four months.
His house is on a quiet street, in a quiet neighborhood, in the oldest part of Balsam. It was his grandmother’s bungalow, willed to him when she passed away. It’s small and charming and, best of all, its front door is set back a little to offer privacy.
I reach his porch as he’s sliding a key into his front door, the creak of the wooden steps announcing my approach.