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She lets out a barely audible sniff that might be an embarrassed laugh. “No. I’m just there.”
She points to a Toyota Corolla.
“I’m in the back.” I gesture over my shoulder.
“Well. Good night.” She dips her head primly and turns for her car. I can’t help feeling two things simultaneously: bad that I embarrassed her and confused about why I refused her. She went out on a limb to invite me home with her, and the kiss suggested that she knew what she was doing; that we both would’ve had a good time.
But I said no.
What the hell was that about?
—
“You’re going to Beth’s wedding?” I ask in disbelief.
My best buddy from college, Barrett Fox, is sitting across from me, beer in hand. I was never good enough to go pro, but he did. Until he blew out a shoulder.
Like his last name implies, his hair is reddish brown. He’s a good-looking bastard with charisma to spare, which is probably how he’d landed his former/once-again position as field reporter for ESPN. Since his shoulder is shot, the TV gig became his fallback career. Not bad work if you can get it. Anyway, Beth was his college girlfriend. They dated on and off for six years.
“Why wouldn’t I go?” Barrett shrugs and lifts his beer bottle.
We’re in a bar called McGreevy’s. I like the place. It’s casual and comfortable. Another guy we played college ball with—former tight end Dax Vaughn—owns this place and a few other bars in town. He’s rarely here.
“Because it’s hard to watch your ex-girlfriend marry another guy?” I hazard a guess. I think of Xavier McCormack and sneer.
“Nah. I have Catarina.” Barrett’s smile lifts one side of his mouth. The Bad Boy of the NFL has been downed by his exact opposite: a type-A perfectionist who writes a column for The Columbus Dispatch. “I’m happy for Beth.”
“Sure you are.” I chuckle.
“Best way to get over someone—” he starts.
“Is to get under someone else,” I finish. We tap the necks of our beer bottles, and for the first time in my life I think deeper about that cliché. “I didn’t, though.”
“You didn’t what?” He pulls his gaze from the overhead television.
“I didn’t get under someone else. I had a chance, too.” It’s like a confession I have to unshoulder, though Fox makes for an unlikely priest. “Allison’s in town.”
“No shit?”
I told Barrett I was remodeling Allie’s parents’ bedroom because we started our conversation talking about work, but I failed to mention that last bit.
I nod. “When she walked into the house last week and found me there, she ran into my arms and cried on my shirt.”
My friend is blinking in disbelief, his mouth screwed into an uncertain hitch.
“I had a date the day after. Kim. I didn’t go home with Kim. She wanted me to. I just…I don’t know.”
“You weren’t into her?”
“No. Kind of. I couldn’t stop thinking about work.” And about Allie. I realized later that night that the reunion with her had acted as a cock-block. Not surprising. It’s not like a crying ex-girlfriend is a turn-on. “I think she was jet-lagged.”
“Kim?”
“Allie,” I correct. “Jet lag can make someone unreasonably emotional, right?”
“Uh-huh. So can being dumped publicly. I heard McNina is no more. What’s she doing here? Thought she was in rehab.”
“Hell if I know.” We each take a pull of our beers. “Think if I texted Kim and asked for a hookup rain check, she’d agree?”
