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“Then there you go,” she replies with an annoying, I-rest-my-case smile.
“You do know that you make it very hard to like you sometimes,” I taunt, happy to see the waiter back with our food.
“I know you do. But since I’m here, you might as well enjoy my company.” She winks, watching the waiter place our respective dishes in front of us.
Though she irks me to no end, she is a remarkable company.
And by the few male glances I catch from a handful of patrons here, they likely agree with me.
Roxanne Seymour is a beautiful woman with short brown hair that almost kisses her slender shoulders and molten whiskey-colored eyes that she likes to hide under thick, black-framed glasses.
Looks aside, Roxanne is not only bright, but she can also carry a conversation. She has never been intimidated by me in any way, but then again, she was born and bred in Roslindale, just a stone’s throw away from West Roxbury. Sure, on the outside, her neighborhood might have looked much nicer than mine, but it was rotten to its core, just like mine was.
Maybe that’s why we clicked right off the bat—enough for her to persuade me into getting counseling when the stress of being the general manager of one of the biggest clubs in the league was getting to me.
But it’s as she said—it didn’t take.
Especially after I made the foolish mistake of talking about Piper in one of our sessions.
After that, I lost my patience for it.
“You looked troubled,” Roxanne states, pulling me out of my pensive thoughts.
“If by troubled you mean annoyed, then you’re right,” I reply while slicing up my bourguignon steak into tiny pieces.
“Care to talk about it?” she asks before taking a bite of her ratatouille.
“Are you going to bill me for it later?”
“Do I need to?”
God, I hate it when she does that.
Ever since she pointed out that I’m a fan of answering questions with another question, she mimics me at every opportunity just so I know how aggravating it is. She says I do this to evade answering questions straight on. I say she does it just to piss me off.
“Everything is fine,” I lie.
“If that’s true, then why do you look so glum? This wouldn’t have anything to do with Rex selling off the team, would it?”
“How do you know about that?” I ask, unable to mask my surprise.
“I know a great deal of things, Trent. You’d be surprised at how people confide in a person when said person actually cares,” she taunts, always pushing the knife in further whenever possible.
“Rex told you, huh?”
“He did,” she confirms. “And all things considered, I think it’s the right choice for him.”
My knife and fork hit my plate the minute she says those words.
“Fuck, Roxanne. Please don’t tell me you encouraged him?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” she quips unashamedly. “Rex deserves to live out his days in peace. Living here in Boston this past year has only served to cause him further pain. If he can go somewhere where he’s not constantly reminded that the woman he loves is no longer here with him, then I say, why not?
“Because he’ll never forget Martha. Have you forgotten Gregg?”
Damn it.
That was a cheap shot.
