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Amy lifts the chardonnay, swirls, and sniffs. “Mmm. This one smells delish. You like this one, Nate?”
“Not as much as you like him,” I say. “Or as much as he likes you.”
“Please. He’s just being friendly.”
I scoff, then take a sip at last. The white wine is bright and fresh.
Would Hunter like it?
Probably.
Would he go wine tasting with me?
He’d say it’s so bougie, but he’d do it just to tease me about it, then he’d call me Mister Wine Country.
I’d love that.
But I can’t have it, so I’m trying to find a new normal. I turn my focus to Amy. “So what’s the story? Have you met anyone lately?”
She shrugs coyly.
“That’s a yes,” I say, excited to catch up in person. “Gimme the deets.”
“It’s early days. I went on two dates with a guy in LA.”
“So you’re basically married again,” I joke.
She laughs. “Yes, exactly. We’ll see where it goes. He’s nice and very straight, so that helps.”
“I’m sure it does,” I say, taking another drink.
“And what’s the latest with you?”
“Oh, you know, just working on my second divorce in as many years. That’s fun.”
She rests her head on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Nate. I know it sucks.”
“It sure does,” I say with a beleaguered sigh.
When she lifts her face, her brow furrows “Isn’t there any way you can see him? It sounds like you like him so much.”
“I do like him.” That word barely scratches the surface of my feelings for Hunter. “But I’m not sure how the hell we’d pull it off.”
I’ve been thinking about him nonstop since I left London. Been turning over all sorts of scenarios in my head about making something work with him. But the ocean and our jobs keep getting in the way. I can’t make the puzzle pieces fit.
When we’re done, I walk Amy to her hotel down the block, then I wander around Napa for an hour or so till the wine is out of my system.
I drive back to San Francisco and head into my home, grabbing the mail as I go.
I wince when I see the return address from my divorce attorney. Then I sneer when I spot a rectangular box from Oliver. What the hell is he sending me?
But I’m not sure I care.
I leave the envelope and the box on the counter, then flop down on my couch, aimlessly flicking through channels on the TV.
Nothing calls out to me—definitely not Sweet Nothings—so I pop on my shades and go for a walk.
As I stroll along Crissy Field, I pass the site of the carnival. There’s a festival underway now, with vendors in flannel peddling organic baked goods—pies and brownies, cookies and cupcakes.
I bet Hunter would go with me if he were here. We’d wander around and he’d try valiantly to get me to take a bite of everything. He’d tease me about my pie aversion. Maybe call it pie enmity, even.
We’d laugh, then go home together.
I want that so badly a knot of longing tightens in my throat.
The next day I head to practice and give it my all, like I always do.
For seven years in the pros, football has fulfilled me. It still does.
Mostly.
Company would be nice though. As I walk off the field after practice, I ask Jason if he wants to grab dinner tonight or maybe play nine holes of golf tomorrow morning.
“Can’t. Beck and I are dog sitting. Snickerdoodle arrives this evening, and tomorrow morning we’re taking him to the dog park.” That much delight about a Min Pin mix and a big football player is both absurd and adorable, which describes my friend pretty well.
“You guys have a date with your dad’s dog at the dog park?”
“Dude, wait till you see the dog park. It has seesaws and jumps. Tubes, too, to run through. Snickerdoodle kills it in agility. We’re pretty stoked to take him,” Jason says as we reach the locker room.
I’d be stoked too.
That sounds like…goals.
“You can join us if you want,” Jason offers.
I know he means it, that it wouldn’t be an imposition. Jason and his dude are cool, and they’ve been together for a year now.
But I can’t go with them. It would hurt too much. All I can picture is Hunter and me going to the dog park together. And I don’t even have a dog.
Even the heartsick have to eat. That night, I’m munching on takeout Pad Thai noodles at the kitchen counter, hunting for a new thriller after that thoroughly badass ending for the last Huxley, when a notification from Vance flashes on the screen of my phone.
Vance: I’ll be in town tomorrow night. We’ve got a lot to catch up on. Be sure to make some time for your favorite agent. P.S. So sweet of Oliver to send you a wedding gift. What a douche.
