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“Fine,” Tanisha said with a groan. “If a woman wears something short or tight, or short and tight, does that means she’s broadcasting that she’s easy?”
I frowned. “Absolutely not. It means she feels confident in her skin, enough to show off a body she works hard to keep in shape.”
“Okay,” another girl chimed in. “What about if a guy wants you to put your mouth on his-,”
“Girls! He’s the principal, not the sex ed teacher. If you have so many questions, ask Mr. Benson.”
They all laughed. “Mr. Benson is more afraid to talk about sex than we are, and he’s like fifty.”
He was thirty-five, but I had a feeling that was the same thing to these girls. Luckily, a twenty-something waiter with boy band hair came to take our drinks and promptly stole their attention. And a few hearts.
“Thanks for the save.” I leaned over to whisper in Joss’ ear and her scent caught in my nostrils.
“It wasn’t for you, listening to teenaged girl problems gets tiresome after awhile, and with a fresh perspective, things might have gotten very graphic.”
I looked around the table at the girls that made up the varsity soccer team and laughed. “With these girls?”
“These girls are young women. Most of them are seventeen and college bound, they talk about things like blowjobs, third base, sexy lingerie and my personal favorite, fingerbanging.” The way she said the word told me that it was her least favorite topic of conversation.
I was so caught off guard by her words that my gaze was glued to her mouth and my own mouth was glued shut.
“See? It wasn’t for you, it was for my sanity.”
“Well, thank you anyway.” She shrugged off the gratitude and kept the table focused enough to place their orders before one of them offered to marry the waiter.
Ten minutes later we had our drinks and the girls were whispering and texting, giving me the perfect time to talk to Joss. “Are you all right, Joss?”
“I’m fine, Principal Rutherford. Why do you ask?”
Principal Rutherford. Again. “You can call me Ben, you know?”
“We’ve already been over this. I’m fine. Thank you for supporting the girls, they won’t say it, but it means a lot to them.”
“Like I told them, it was my pleasure. I wished all the teams could have the support that football and baseball do, but I can’t force attendance at extracurricular activities.” All I could do was show them that I noticed their hard work. “You look like you’ve been crying.”
She shook her head quickly. Too quickly to be believable. “I’m fine, like I told you. Just a little sleep deprived.”
“Hot date?” It was an asinine thing to say, but I couldn’t help myself.
“That is none of your business. Let’s just stick to PHS and soccer.” That’s what her mouth said, but that little pulse in her throat told me otherwise.
“What if I want to know more about you, Joss?”
She shrugged. “I’d say we should keep things professional. That’s the appropriate way to go, isn’t’ it?”
“Dammit, Joss. Why won’t you just let me apologize?”
She turned to me, her blue eyes magnificent as they glared angrily at me. “Why won’t you just let it go? What’s with the need to force a meaningless apology on me? Ego? Guilt? Workplace cohesion?” I blinked, stunned by her words, and even more stunned that I didn’t have a response. “You don’t even know,” she grumbled and smacked her hands on the wooden table before she stood and walked away.
“Ooooh,” Tanisha sang. “Was that a lover’s spat? Please tell me that was a lover’s spat, because Matt and Lara are so boring.”
“It wasn’t a lover’s spat,” I denied to an eager audience.
“Bummer,” they groaned, almost collectively while my gaze searched, in vain, for Joss.
Now I owed the woman two apologies. This was getting out of hand.
Joss
Game days were long days in general, but post-season games always left me feeling completely exhausted. By the time we finished our celebratory dinner—with Principal Rutherford—and made the ninety minute drive back to Pilgrim, I felt totally drained and in desperate need of self-care.
Self-care. It sounded like such a luxury, and it wasn’t something I let myself indulge in too often, not with the voice of my perfectly practical mama in my head, reminding me that working women didn’t have time for such indulgences. Today, I ignored that voice and made use of the spa kit Olive had given me as part of our Secret Santa exchange last year. It was a great little kit, filled with bath bombs, tea candles, a bath pillow and even shatter-proof glasses for the wine I didn’t drink, but I was happy to fill it with bourbon as the tub filled with steaming, bubbling water.
Sinking into the hot water, I willed away negative thoughts that invaded my mind with every moment of silence. Of peace. Ben and his stupid, half-assed apology meant to make sure things didn’t get too tense at the office. I didn’t want to think of the man who had vaguely, yet somehow soundly, rejected me. The same way I didn’t want to think of the two other men who’d rejected me. My brothers. Half-brothers.
