His body language shifts. He leans back again, averting his eyes and twirling his glass with his fingers. “Nine years. I played for Orlando for two years, got injured in my third year and never really recovered.”
My god. He only played for two years. The thing he worked his whole life for, the only dream he ever had for himself, the only thing he ever wanted…gone after a few years. It makes mychest ache, as if it happened to me. Because this is what happens when you share your heart with someone. His dreams were mine at one point. I was there when he got the phone call with the offer to play for Orlando. He did cry then. We went and bought a $50 bottle of champagne to pop and drank it too fast. We had wild, drunk sex and neither of us could stop laughing through all of it. His joy couldn’t be contained, and it spilled over into me. It wasourshared joy at his future.
“I can’t be a good hockey player and a good boyfriend.”
“So you’re not going to be my boyfriend?”
“I’m sorry, Abby.”
In the end, he chose that future over me.
And then it was taken from him.
Tears prick the backs of my eyes. I feel sad for him—I can’t help it. And I feel a little sad for me, too, because he left me for something that he doesn’t even have anymore. I’ve always wondered if he regretted leaving me. If whatever success he had in the NHL was worth giving up the love we had.
Now I wonder if he regrets it because of everything he ultimately lost.
“Your turn,” I prompt him.
“If teaching isn’t what it used to be, why not do something else? You did something else before you pursued art education. What was it? In college. You had just switched majors when we met.” He’s snapping his fingers, trying to jog his memory.
“Art. I was just an art major. I had a lot of interests—graphic design, animation, illustration. I chose to teach because it was stable,” I say. It’s not the full picture, but a decent summary.
“Is that why you stay? The stability?”
“It’s one reason. I need health insurance. My migraines— I take daily meds and I have rescue meds and see my neurologist at least once a month, sometimes more. It’s not very tempting to leave behind decent health insurance.”
He seems to understand that at least, thoughtfully nodding as I speak.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
My stomach growls on cue. Iamhungry, but it feels like he’s not just asking if I want to eat. He’s asking if I’ll stay and eat with him.
I should go. I should finish my drink like I said I would and end this little “get to know you” game we’re playing. He gave his apology and we’ve proven that we can hold a conversation. I’ve proven to myself that I can hold myself together while talking to my ex. I got some questions answered and so did he. This dinner is at its natural end.
And yet…
Looking across the table into those familiar eyes, that smile, having a conversation that feels comfortable despite the years of silence between us, the way he’s looking at me…it’s hard towantto leave.
But that’s just the effect Miles has on me. On anyone, really. He’s always been a charmer. A flirt.
I won’t pretend that the weight of his attention isn’t flattering. That those dark eyes don’t draw me in. No one has flirted with me, much less looked at me with interested eyes, in ages. Even at the end of my relationship with Todd, I watched the desire flicker away like a TV set losing signal.
I didn’t recognize it at the time, but in retrospect, the signs were there. Todd lost interest in me slowly, the way a tire loses air, but I couldn’t see the warning light.
My mind and heart may feel skeptical about Miles, but my body doesn’t. Everything inside me pushes against my skin, aching for the relief of someone else’s touch. Ofhistouch.
An apology conversation and some chatter about teaching and hockey should not have me already a little wet and wanting him, but every time my eyes scan over his shoulders, his biceps,my body betrays me, the alcohol softening all the edges and amplifying my needs.
It doesn’t help that I haven’t been with anyone since Todd. I take care of myself, but it’s not the same as a pair of hands that know how to touch you.
And Miles did.
A decade ago, Miles and I had the kind of sexual chemistry that convinced me it would never be better with anyone else. Unfortunately, it hasn’t been. And if we had that kind of chemistry again…
“Abby?”
Whatever path I was just walking down is a path best left abandoned. I told Hazel I’d be down for a vacation hook-up; I’ve been feeling a little restless, sexually, but hooking up with Miles would be a bad idea. At least my brain thinks it’s a bad idea, but the heat pooling under my belly button is telling me a different story. I am, however, perfectly capable of ignoring those impulses for better judgment.
