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“What a life.” My tone drips with sarcasm, and her eyes narrow on me.
She leans in, seething. “How dare you judge me? You know what? You should have felt what I did walking in here and seeing that girl on your lap.” She raises her chin, like her mind is already made up on this entire topic. “It told me everything I needed to know. I don’t ever want to date someone like you. I don’t want to constantly have to worry about how many women are lusting after my boyfriend, who he has sitting on his lap in clubs when he’s out on the road week after week. No thank you.”
I know she’s spinning this web, convincing herself of anything she can so she doesn’t have to feel this thing growing between us, but she doesn’t realize her words cut as sharp as knives.
I drain the last of my beer and then drop it on the table with a hard, finite bang. “Well damn, you have it all figured out, don’t you? You’ve certainly made a lot of assumptions about me, and quite frankly…I’m glad you at least had the courage to voice them.”
Her brows tug together with regret as she shakes her head. “You asked—”
“And you answered. Truthfully, for once. So now I get it. You’re right. This thing”—I point between us—“it won’t work. Understood.”
A beat passes. She takes her bottom lip between her teeth, worrying. Then she peers over at me.
“We could be friends, you know,” she says, her voice softening just a bit. “It doesn’t have to be like this. So…explosive.”
She’s right. We’re bickering like an old married couple. No, not even—more like two hormonal teenagers.
I want to stomp on her offer of friendship. If she can’t figure out why we can’t be friends just by looking at me, she’s delusional. Surely she sees it. I’m not even trying to hide how I feel about her.
Maybe she feels like she can choose to put me up on a shelf in a nice tidy box labeled Friend. But to me, stowing away my feelings for her would be like fighting against gravity. Some things are just meant to be.
I grab my wallet and take out enough cash to cover everyone’s drinks and then some. I drop it down on the center of the table and scoot around to leave the booth without making Tate get up.
“Grant…”
I don’t turn around. We’ve said it all, haven’t we?
It’s settled. Done.
FOURTEEN
TATE
I can’t pretend Grant doesn’t exist. I tried that, and I lasted all of three minutes before I thought of him again and my perfectly constructed No Grant world imploded on itself. So, my only option is to trudge forward and proceed with life as if everything is fine. For the next few days, I go through the motions, getting through each mundane task to the best of my abilities. I run my normal route, drink my standard coffee, work long shifts. I go out with Daphne and Sophia, and when we can’t make it to the stadium, we watch the Pinstripes play from the comfort of our apartment. I accept a second and third date with Michael, and I feel totally in control of my life, good even—until I come face to face with Grant and my forward momentum comes to a screeching halt. It’s only happened twice since the night in the club.
Once, after a game, I was about to go down onto the field with Harper and Chloe to see Luke, like usual. Grant was walking up the steps that lead from the dugout to the field, and for a split second, we were close enough I could have reached out and grabbed his hand. There was a physical ache when he turned and locked eyes with me. My lips parted as I racked my brain for something to say, some kind of magic word that could set us to rights, but then someone called his name. He stalled, giving me a chance to speak up, and when I didn’t—couldn’t—he walked away.
I bumped into him a second time a few days later. I was off work and eating lunch out with Sophia. Josh wanted to come say bye to her before he had to catch a flight with the team, and Grant happened to be with him. I certainly wasn’t expecting to see him, or I would have changed out of my running clothes, given myself a blowout, maybe had a quick call with my therapist (aka Harper).
I saw Grant first through the glass windows and my heart soared, then quickly plummeted. It straight-up sank right down through my chest and stomach until I was sure I had a real ailment, a diagnosable malady.
I stared on—wonderstruck—as he strode in the door behind Josh, carrying the sunshine into the restaurant with him. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his jeans and his gaze was focused straight ahead. His expression was closed off and stoic. He was clearly in a bad mood that only worsened when he saw me. His step faltered, his expression tightened. Frustration took hold of every feature.
