Play Date (Play Makers Book 3) (36 page)

But what
did
you say?

She had asked herself that question a dozen times already, and the answer was always the same. She had said she loved being a teacher and didn’t care about money, so Patrick Murphy’s offer held no appeal. The rest had just been throwaway lines. A way to soften her zeal about “her calling” and her odd relationship with her father. Some agent-based concepts, like her respect for Bannerman’s private financial information, and the dangers of mixing business and pleasure.

If only she had just said that. A simple: “Thanks for the offer, Mr. Murphy, but I love teaching and I’m fine with my current income. And I want to keep my job separate from my social life. My relationship with Vince is too important to jeopardize.”

That would have been perfect. Brilliant, really. But instead she had droned on and on, digging her hole deeper and deeper.

Hurting his feelings, when all he wanted her to say was, “No. I’m just here as Bam Bannerman’s girlfriend.”

“Oh, God,” she whispered unhappily as she watched him on the screen, a huge grin on his bloody, grimy face. “Please send him back to me so I can fix this.”

• • •

By midnight, she knew he wasn’t coming, but still she fixed a fresh pot of coffee, since it was possible he’d surprise her, and since she couldn’t sleep anyway. Then with a weary sigh, she went into the bathroom, not to fix her makeup but to remove it completely. He had seen her without mascara a dozen times, so she wasn’t worried about looking bland. She just wanted him to see her at all, and maybe that wasn’t going to happen this weekend.

Or at all.

He said he’d call,
she reminded herself. But calling wasn’t the same thing as showing up, and in the pit of her stomach, she wondered if he would honestly break up with her over the phone. It wouldn’t make sense, since he needed to visit the school at least one more time. He had promised, hadn’t he? He would ask Mrs. Rayburn to herd all the remaining students into the cafeteria for a lively football lecture.

And after that? He might not visit Rachel’s classroom, but he’d come to the house. Because he
always
came to the house. She would apologize, and they would make love, and then they’d renegotiate. She was already willing to go back to simpler times. He could bang anyone he wanted. They would use condoms again. She’d fly to Portland whenever he wanted. Every week, every month, once a year. She would pretend to be sick on Sophie’s wedding day, and because everyone would know about the breakup by then, they wouldn’t really expect her. They would think it was over completely, but if he was willing, it would limp along, if only to give them a gentler form of closure.

The aroma of fresh coffee filled the house again, and she felt a little better as she walked into the bathroom and finally looked into the mirror.

But the face that looked back at her was so despicable, she flinched with disgust. And before she knew what she was doing, she hissed, “What did you say? You stupid, stupid bitch, what did you say to him? I
hate
you, Rachel Gillette.” Breaking down into a sobbing mass on the tile floor, she repeated again and again, “What did you
say?”

• • •

For a blur of coffee-stenched hours, she berated herself as she paced and sobbed, alternating between staring out at the front curb, the side driveway, and the poorly lit backyard. Still, there were moments of clarity—fleeting but reassuring—when she knew it wasn’t her fault.

Nor was it his fault. They had been victimized by Patrick Murphy. And to a lesser extent by Bannerman’s friends,, who had somehow undermined his confidence so completely, he actually believed Rachel Gillette—the woman who worshipped him—might see him as “just some guy” she was sleeping with.

During those moments, she still asked herself the same question:
What did you say?
But she did it gently and with full knowledge he had misheard her. Or at least, misunderstood her actual words. Because he wasn’t just some guy. He was
the
guy. The man she would love for the rest of her life.

She had never declared her love to him bluntly, but only because it might make him feel trapped. Or pressured to reciprocate. But he
had
to know on some level. If he had the kind of vision everyone said he had—if his attention to subtle signals was really acute—then surely he knew.

But she should have said it anyway. Taken the risk. And if he would only come back, or at least call, she would tell him now in no uncertain terms.

• • •

By four a.m. she was feeling optimistic. He would have landed in Portland by now, would have regretted the way he left, and would have asked the pilot to fly him back. He wouldn’t call for fear of waking her, so he would just park silently at the curb, let himself in with the drainpipe key, and crawl onto the couch with her.

Even if that last part was unrealistic, he would wake her up so they could talk. He would explain how he had been stressed out. And so, when Rachel had talked about her father and her career as reasons for turning down the job offer, rather than saying right out loud for everybody to hear, “I want to be his girlfriend, not his agent,” it had confused him. Made him wonder where he stood with her.

A huge misunderstanding but easily repaired. And she wanted to be rested for him when he arrived, so she turned off the TV, curled up on the couch, and coaxed herself to sleep.

• • •

At dawn she awoke with a start and reached out her hand, willing him to be there, devastated when he was not. Her face felt as though someone had sandblasted her sinuses while she slept. Her eyes were raw against the light of a new day, her throat scratchy. But mostly it was her rib cage that assured her she had been sobbing in her sleep.

You can’t take this,
she told herself gently.
Just call him. Tell him you love him. If his feelings are hurt, that will fix everything. Tell him you adore him and can’t live without him. Tell him the only reason you didn’t gush during dinner was that you’ve been trying not to put him on the spot. But now he needs to know you’re his for as long as he’ll have you.

It was a good plan, so she wandered into the kitchen, made the third pot of coffee in less than twelve hours, and checked her phone. No messages. Not even from Sean.

He’s Vince’s friend. He might want to call you, but he can’t.

That made sense, so she forced herself to take a long shower to clear her aching head, leaving the curtain open so she wouldn’t miss the extra-loud ring of the phone. Then she dressed in shorts and a tank top, poured a mug of coffee, and slipped her phone in her pocket. She would go outside—embrace this warm, sunny day—and then she’d stand in front of the pomegranate tree to make the phone call. She wasn’t superstitious, but still had to believe that that spot was powerful. Maybe even magical.

Approaching the tree confidently, she was surprised to see that a few blossoms had dropped to the ground. Probably normal, but still, it made her uneasy. And when she dropped to her knees to pick them up and realized three more had fallen behind it, she set her coffee down and gulped for a steadying breath.

Harold had mentioned “transplant shock.” Didn’t that explain it? No need to jump to omens or curses.

She lined up the fallen blossoms in a row on the grass. Seven in all, like seven little corpses. Then she scooped them up and brought them into the house, where she floated them in a crystal bowl filled with water. The color reminded her of her chili pepper dress, which reminded her of the lap-dance dress, which reminded her she had single-handedly ruined the best thing that had ever happened to her in her life.

Her voice was shaky. She didn’t need to speak to know that. So she decided to text him rather than to call. It would be short and sweet:
Vince, please call. I love you so much and I’m so sorry. You’re my whole life, so please please call.

She liked it overall, but winced at the words “I’m sorry.” Because she hadn’t called him “just some guy.” And meanwhile, she had tried so hard. Done everything she could possibly think of to make him happy. Not just the unlimited sex, since she had loved that too. But it wasn’t the norm for her. Anytime, anyplace, any style, no condom, adoring and laughing—yes, she had loved it. But it had also been her way of telling him he was special.

She had done everything she could, and still, when she screwed up for the first time, he had dumped her at the curb and driven away.

Except it wasn’t the first time,
she reminded herself. She had yelled at him about the pink panties. Falsely accused him. And as crazy as it seemed, it would have been better if he had stormed away that day. Righteous in his anger. She had been wrong, and she would have taken her medicine more easily, never knowing that they had an exclusive relationship, and thus, never dreaming they had a lasting one.

Why pick
this
transgression to go ballistic over? After all they had shared?

Swirling the blossoms in the bowl, she thought about that. Even assuming she had wounded him deeply, what the hell? Did it give him license to treat her with cold contempt? To drive away, knowing she was upset too? She had been sobbing when she stumbled up the pathway to her house. And he knew it. Yet all he could say was, “I’ll call you next week.”

“Fine,” she told him now, her spine straightening even though it ached. “Call me next week. In the meantime, I have errands to run.”

• • •

She didn’t run errands for fear of missing his return. He would drive up that driveway, flash his trademark guilty grin and sweep her into the kitchen or bedroom for make-up sex. So she mindlessly scrubbed red clay tiles, keeping the phone within reach at all times.

And when it finally rang, she trembled with relief. Of course he would call. He would
never
let it go this long. He might not be the man she thought he was, but he was a stand-up guy in the end.

But it was Beth Spurling, calling to make plans for Sophie’s wedding. Or more specifically, plans for Rachel’s date for said wedding.

“Unless you’re really, truly hot for Sean Decker,” the cheerful drill sergeant told her, “I say we dump him. Move on to greener pastures.”

“What?” Rachel asked, dazed by the change in focus.

“I have two other guys on the hook. They’re both friends of Jayce’s and he says they’re reliably horny. So come to dinner next weekend and let them audition.”

“Both at the same time?”

“Why not? Jayce thinks direct competition will help.”

Rachel responded mechanically. “Next weekend is Easter. So how about the one after that?”

“Seriously? I was sure you’d put up a fight.” Beth’s tone softened. “What’s wrong, sweetie? You sound awful.”

“I have a sinus infection.”

“Damn, do you want antibiotics? I’ve got a cabinet full.”

Ordinarily, Rachel would have smiled at that, knowing how relentlessly Beth conned drugs from doctors, then hoarded them like a nut in a tinfoil hat, all so she wouldn’t need to drag her babies out into the cold when they were actually sick. But today, the image fell flat.

“I already saw my doctor so I’m all drugged up,” Rachel lied. “I’m supposed to sleep, drink clear liquids, then sleep some more.”

Beth approved the treatment plan and, after reminding Rachel she could be there in five minutes if she needed her, she ended the call with a firm “go to bed.”

After brushing away a tear of disappointment, Rachel returned to her scrubbing. She had no intention of meeting two more football players—not in two weeks, not in two years. Her hope was she and Bannerman would patch things up, then she would get his permission to tell Beth about their affair. Beth would gnash her teeth and wail, and why shouldn’t she? She was right. This affair
would
end badly someday.

She had had a taste of that now, and knew it would be even worse next time. Her dream that he would let her down gently was a crock. He would do what guys always did in the movies and on TV—slither away. Maybe he’d find some way to blame her again too. But she’d be ready for that part at least.

And in the meantime, God help her, she just wanted him back.

• • •

She wasn’t sure when she dozed off that afternoon, but it was dusk when she awoke on the couch, the remote in her hand. Her face ached from crying, and her neck muscles spasmed from sleeping in an unnatural position.

You’re making yourself sick,
she warned herself.
Next you’ll need those antibiotics for real.

If only she had kept the rest of the chicken soup. She hadn’t eaten all day and didn’t have the will to cook, so she forced down the cherry pie. Then she made peppermint tea and took a steaming mug outside to check on the tree.

She assumed there would be more fallen blossoms, but nothing could have prepared her for the actual carnage, and she dropped to her knees, aghast. There were dozens of them—so beautiful. So fragile. So dead.

“Transplant shock,” came a knowing voice from behind her.

She whirled to see her neighbor, who drew back like she was Typhoid Mary. “Are you sick?” he demanded.

She nodded, swiping at a stray tear. “Sinus infection.”

“Those are rough. Not contagious, though.”

“Good to know.”

“Don’t worry about the tree,” he said soothingly. “It’s not dying. And there are a few blossoms left, see? So maybe you’ll get some fruit after all.”

She stared at him like he was the world’s most persistent idiot. “I don’t care about the fruit. I can
buy
fruit. I just want my tree to survive.”

“It will. It’s just dropping flowers because of transplant shock,” he repeated stubbornly. “Happens all the time.”

“But why today?” A sob wrenched through her, bending her over at the waist. “Why today?”

“What?” He winced and backed further away.

“They didn’t fall when we planted it. They didn’t fall on Monday or Tuesday or Wednesday or Thursday or Friday. Why
today?”