Page 49 of Playing for Love

Mia

Monday night after my shift, after cooking dinner for Tate, I left without eating with him. He knew something was wrong but didn’t press me about it. How could I confess to him my crisis of conscience, how I’d betrayed both Denise, my best friend and Gabe, who I might as well refer to as the love of my life if I was being emotionally honest. A drastic change in attitude.

So as soon as I stepped into my empty apartment, the setting sun streaming through the living room window, I collapsed onto the couch and slipped out my phone. After pausing for one unsteady heartbeat, I called Denise. Guilt forced me to wait while I listened to the phone ring three times, made me bite down on my lip, made my stomach knot up. I had to tell her about the kiss, but even more than that, I had to confess that I’d wanted to kiss him, that it had been more than just a kiss, however brief it was. It had been symbolic. It had been heart-melting in its tenderness and soul shattering in its electrifying excitement and I wanted so much more.

“Mia. I wasn’t sure if I would hear from you. Wasn’t sure I wanted to hear from you.” Denise’s voice was as cold as I’d ever heard it, filled with unleashed anger and self-righteous indignation, tight and readying for an assault. I held myself still against the shiver.

“I’m sorry, Denise. So sorry.” My voice was soft and warm but fell short of pleading. The full blame wasn’t mine.

“I can’t believe you told him that I wanted you to kiss him, that I—”

“I can’t believe you asked me to kiss him. You put me in the middle from the beginning.”

“Really? How was I supposed to know that my best friend had a thing for my boyfriend all along? Tell me?”

“I . . . always had a crush on him. But it was only—”

“Spare me, Mia. He was my boyfriend, we were serious. We had four and a half years—” She broke off and I heard the tears in her voice. My chest clenched tight. What had I done?

“I know. I’m so sorry. But it’s not about me, Denise. I wanted to kiss him, I admit. I’ve always had a crush, I’ll admit to that too, but you know Gabe and I have nothing. You know he split up with you because of football, not me.” It hurt my heart to say the words, to know they were true. The shuddering pain I felt was for both of us. I waited with the phone to my ear, listening to the silence, straining to hear a breath or a sob or a word. I don’t know how many beats of quiet went by before Denise spoke again.

“It kills me to admit you’re right.” There were tears in her words. “Tell me the truth, Mia. Are you in love with him?”

It was the hardest question I’d ever had to answer, one I knew I needed to answer truthfully, for Denise—I owed her that—and for myself.

“Yes.” My voice was definitive, strong yet breathy, sure yet fearful. “Please forgive me.”

Now I heard her sniffling. “How can I, Mia? I loved you like a sister.” She sobbed and I waited, listened to nothing for too long, so long I checked the connection. Then she came back on the phone.

“I still do. Still love you. Still love that bastard Gabriel Wyatt, bless his damn soul.”

I laughed through tears, covered my mouth to stop.

“But I can’t forgive you, Mia. Or him. Not yet.” Her voice was strong and tear-free now, the old tough-as-nuts Denise was back. “I will,” she said. “Sometime. Not now. Not for a long time.”

“I understand.” My heart broke, my voice wobbled.

“Goodbye, Mia.” She ended the call. I sobbed. For a long time.

* * *

I spentthe next week as if I were in mourning all over again, this time over the loss of my best friend, or at least that’s what it felt like. Not that I was over grieving for my dad. In some ways, it didn’t feel like I’d even started. I was too busy sorting my relationship with Denise in my head, and in my heart. Too many times I held my phone in my hand and itched to call Gabe. Each time I stuffed my phone back into the pocket of my scrubs, or into my bag, or tossed it onto my kitchen counter.

By Thursday, I needed to talk to someone, not one of my coworkers who knew nothing of my friend Denise, nothing of my relationship with Gabe. I thought of calling Tate but knew that would be grossly unfair. The last thing I wanted to do was bother my mother with my problems, but I needed her.

Sitting with my knees bent up, huddled on my favorite chair by the window, dressed in old cut-off sweat pants and a tank top, I was ready for bed. But I didn’t want to spend another restless, nearly sleepless night, so I picked up my phone and pressed in her number.

“Mom, I hope it’s not too late.”

“Mia, it’s good to hear your voice any time,” she said. Of course she would say that. I hesitated a beat, not knowing where to start. She lived in New York and I could hear street noises as if she was outside.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” I heard the concern in her voice.

“Are you out?”

“Just my nightly stroll with Pepsi.” I smiled, thinking of her little dog. Dad had bought it for her after he got sick, as if he’d known he wouldn’t make it. A wave of longing, a sharp pang, went through me.

“What’s wrong?” she said again.