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Okay, so they weren’t that good, but for a bunch of six-year-olds, it sure seemed like they were. And for Lexi, I didn’t even think it mattered if they were good or not. She was just happy to be playing, with a whole slew of other kids who treated her like an equal. And because of that, every game day had started exactly like this one, with her bouncing around the house in excitement, her uniform on and at the ready three hours before kickoff.
Hell, she’d tried to put the damn thing on the second she’d gotten out of bed this morning.
I glanced at the time on my phone and frowned. I still hadn’t heard from Wes this morning, and I was starting to wonder if everything was okay. It wasn’t like him not to call. It wasn’t like him not to be here. But as much as I wanted us to, we didn’t live in a bubble, and Wes was a busy fucking guy. This meeting was important for the Mavericks, and the Mavericks had become important to me.
So I was trying really hard to be all casual chic about it in a mature, calm, cool, collected way. All I’d really succeeded in doing was containing the hysteria to the inside of my body.
“I’m sure he’s busy flying back from his meeting, sweetheart,” I tried to reassure her and myself.
The Winnie of four weeks ago would have assumed the worst of him—that he’d forgotten or didn’t care.
But the Winnie of today knew better. Wes was nothing but loving and patient and kind with my daughter and me, and he looked forward to her games more than she did. No, this Winnie was worried for him. Scared something had happened to him that would be far worse than him choosing to walk away—a tragedy that robbed everyone of the luxury of choice.
Shit. My thinking in doomsday scenarios wasn’t doing any of us any good.
I set my phone down on the counter and rummaged through the fridge to see what was available for lunch. “What sounds good, Lex? Turkey sandwich? Grilled cheese?”
“Text him, Mommy.”
“Text who, baby?”
“Wes.”
I shut my eyes for a moment and thanked God that my facial reaction was hidden behind the fridge door.
“Text Wes, Mommy,” she repeated. “Ask him how many minutes.”
I felt something tap against my back and turned to find my little footballer nudging my phone into my T-shirt.
“Text Wes, Mommy.”
“Okay, sweetheart.” I took the phone from her little hands. “I’ll text him and see what time he’ll be at your game.”
“Ask him how many minutes.”
I nodded my head and turned toward the large kitchen window over the sink. “Do me a favor, baby. Go get my empty coffee mug from the living room, okay?”
“Okay! One minute, Mommy!” she exclaimed, and I heard her cleats tip-tap across the hardwood floor and out of the room.
“Shit,” I muttered to myself. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”
I had a really bad feeling about today, and I had no concrete reason to back it up. At least, I hadn’t. Not until my highly intuitive daughter had shown quite clearly that something felt completely off to her too.
I reasoned that she’d just come to expect him here, or that she was picking up all the anxious vibes I had to be putting off.
But Wes and I had both put my daughter in a position where she expected everything from him. And as guilty as that made me feel, I wasn’t willing to compromise on it because of some stupid sense of pride.
If we were ever really going to work, I had to find a way to accept our relationship as safe. I needed the freedom to be fearful. I needed to feel confident in my expectation.
Wes wants to be here, I assured myself. Find out what’s going on.
Me: Still going to the game?
Delete.
Me: Lexi wants to know how many minutes until you’ll be at her game. :)
Delete.
Me: I miss you. Lexi misses you. I really hope you’re going to make it to her game.
Delete.
Christ. I couldn’t even come up with the right approach. Finally, I settled on the most honest of all my thoughts. It let go of the fear and shame and focused on fact.
Me: We can’t wait to see you.
When Lexi barreled back into the room, she set my coffee mug down on the kitchen counter and asked again, “Wes, Mommy? How many minutes?”
And for some unknown reason, I found myself saying something very similar to what I would have said about her father, Nick.
“I’m not sure, baby. He didn’t answer me yet.”
She pushed her little lip out into a pout.
God, this was exactly why relationships were so hard when you were a single mom. It wasn’t just about you. It was about them too.
“Don’t worry!” I encouraged. “You know Wes. He’s going to try his very hardest to be there. He will not miss it unless he absolutely has to.”
She still looked completely let down. Just the saddest little girl in the whole world.
God, my heart ached. I was feeling a lot like a sad little girl myself.
“But guess what?” I said before thinking it through. I just wanted her to feel better, but I wasn’t even sure I had anything to back up the change in conversational pace.
“What?” she muttered suspiciously.
Shit…Uh…Think quickly.
“Uncle Remy is going to be there, and he said he’s so excited to watch you play and…”
I paused, and she noticed. Goddamn tiny detective.
“And what, Mommy?”
“And he said he’s going to take you out for ice cream after the game.”
Her eyes lit up ever so slightly. “Vanilla with rainbow sprinkles, Mommy?”
“Uncle Remy said you can pick out whatever kind of ice cream you want,” I fibbed.
She grinned. Crisis averted. I internally sighed a breath of relief.
“Grilled cheese sound good for lunch?”
She shook her head. “Peanut butter and jelly. And yogurt. And an apple. And chips. And a cookie.”
“Oh my, someone is hungry. Are you trying to get big and strong for your game today?” I asked and reached out and tickled her belly.
She giggled. “Stop, Mommy!”
I did, and it didn’t take her long to change her tune. “Do it again!”
I tickled her again, and eventually, she ran out of the room, her giggles echoing down the hall as she made a beeline for her bedroom.
Once I knew she was no longer in sight, I picked my phone back up and texted Remy—after checking twice to make sure there wasn’t anything back from Wes.
There wasn’t.
Me: Oh, hey, by the way, you have to buy Lexi ice cream after her game.
Remy: I love how you use me to get yourself out of situations with my favorite niece.
Me: But isn’t that what big brothers are for?
Remy: You’re buying your own damn ice cream.
Me: Cheap bastard. Won’t even buy his adorable baby sister an ice cream cone?
Remy: Nope. She might be cute, but she’s a total pain in my ass.
Me: :D
My watch said 9:40, and I was seconds away from walking out of Starbucks on Seventeenth Street in Baltimore when the bell over the door chimed with Amelia’s arrival. Granted, I’d only arrived twenty minutes ago, a good twenty minutes late myself, but I was antsy this morning. So much so, I was surprised I’d managed to wait it out as long as I had.
She was dressed in a long wool overcoat and dark brown leather gloves, and her makeup looked as if she’d never removed it the night before. Thick and meticulously applied, I knew that wasn’t the case. She wasn’t the type of woman to sleep in her makeup, and she wasn’t the kind of woman to go without. She wanted to paint the illusion that she was born with this beauty just as competently as she worked the canvas of her face.
Winnie had this subtle glow about her—I wasn’t sure if she even wore any makeup at all. But whatever she was doing worked in a big way.
God, I miss her. I hadn’t texted her last night, too caught up in my own thoughts and fears and bullshit to man up and tell her how I felt. I’d unsuccessfully tried to convince myself this morning that it was better talked about in person anyway.
“Wes!” Amelia called when she spotted me, a huge smile on her face as she tossed her auburn-red hair off of her shoulder and shrugged her way out of her coat.
A low-cut top nearly smacked me in the face immediately. I was human, male, and straight, and they were breasts, so I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that it took some effort to look away.
But what struck me as different was the urge to do so—look away, that is.
Outside of biologically, I didn’t have any desire to ogle anyone’s breasts other than Winnie’s. Imagine that.
I smiled at the thought, and unfortunately, the wattage of Amelia’s grew brighter.
“I’m sorry I’m so late. Everyone is freaking out about the weather. Apparently, it’s supposed to be a bad one.”
Shit. “The weather?” I asked like an idiot, sitting up straighter.
“Yeah,” she nodded. “Snow, I guess. It might sit here, right on top of us for a while.”
Fucking fucking shit.
I needed to hurry this along. “So, did he change his mind after I left last night?” I asked.
She blushed slightly before shaking her head. “Unfortunately, no.”
Okay…what the fuck were we doing here, then?
When I struggled to figure out how to ask that without cursing all over the goddamn place, she waded in. “But we’re friends, right? I figured we could use the time to catch up.”
