"Hello," she answered with her singsong voice.
"Mom, it's me."
"Darling, how are you?" She had grown more like the old-money families.
I swallowed, "I think he's having an affair."
She didn’t miss a beat, "Sweetie, that is wedding nerves. Don’t be fooled. Phillip loves you. He proposed long before your father and his made any arrangements."
I shook my head, "I can't marry him."
She chuckled, "Nonsense. You will, and you will correct whatever you've done to make him stray. Stop taking your pills and get pregnant before he too starts to doubt this. Come for tea tomorrow."
I felt numb. I nodded, "Okay."
"Bye, dear." She hung up, not solving my problem at all but complicating it intensely.
When Phil walked into the room, I sat back on the bed, tucking the napkin under my pillow.
“You alright?” he asked.
I nodded, thinking about what my mother had said, “Just tired.” I looked up, “I was thinking, why wait the year to get pregnant? Let's do it now. Our wedding is in two weeks, no one will even know.”
His face tensed, “J.D., we both agreed. People who have kids in the first five years always strain their relationship. We've been together for three years. In a year if you get pregnant, it'll be five years when the baby is born. Let's just have fun with this for a year, before we complicate it with kids.”
Complicate it? That’s how he saw us making a family? Why were we getting married? My insides twisted, “Why did you spend the entire party with Eleanor?”
His eyes twitched and avoided mine, “She has got some money she wants invested and wanted some advice.”
I watched him not look me in the eyes and felt like I would vomit. I nodded, “I see.”
He frowned, “What’s that tone for? Am I being accused of something?”
I shook my head, “Nope.”
“Are you mad?”
“I’m fine.”
He smiled and dropped to his knees in front of me, “Fine is the worst thing you say, ever.” He lifted my face up to his, “J.D., I love you.”
I nodded.
He frowned, “It wasn’t anything, I swear. It was just some investments.”
“Are you attracted to her?” I had no fury, anger, or pain. I was numb from the pill.
He shook his head, “No. It’s not like that.” He leaned in, kissing my nose, “I love you.” His dark hair, cool-blue eyes, and handsome face had tricked me hundreds of times, but the little blue pill prevented me from buying it that time. I could see him clear as daylight for what he was. Guilt was smeared across his face.
And as far as I was concerned, two could play at that game. I kissed his lips softly, “I have to go out.”
He stood between my legs, pushing me back onto the bed. He kissed my neck, but I reached under the pillow, clutching the napkin, and shoved him off. “I can’t; I have to go see if Muriel is alright.”
He sighed, “Okay. I’ll see you in a couple hours.”
I looked back at him, hating the version of him that I was stuck with in my mind. How did my mom and everyone else just look the other way?
I got into the car and drove from the house. I dialed the number on the napkin and hung up instantly. I took a deep breath and dialed a different number instead.
“Yeah?”
I swallowed, “Hi, Mike, it’s me.”
It was silent for a second, “Jack?”
I nodded, “Yeah.”
“You okay?”
Tears formed in my eyes, regardless of the fact I felt nothing, “Yeah, I just wanted to see what was new with you." I pulled the car over to the side of the road next to a large home. My hand was shaking as I held the phone.
“Not much. I’m hung over as fuck. We came in second in the playoffs a couple nights ago. I know that’s almost like speaking Greek to you, but in hockey lingo that’s good, babe. Second place is pretty good.”
I smiled, “I know, asshole. I sent the case of champagne, didn’t you get it? I even hand wrote the note about being the first loser.”
“Oh shit, I did. Sorry, we’ve been drunk for days.”
I laughed, “I can tell. You have that whiskey-burnt voice.” I closed my eyes and missed everything about him.
He yawned, “I haven’t seen you in a while. Wanna come over? I can show you the pics and shit from the games.”
I shook my head again, “No. I’m busy. I just missed your voice. Is that okay?”
He laughed, “Yeah, of course. Why are you being weird? Come over. I’m home for the day and then I’m heading to the beach house for a few nights. We’re having a massive end-of-year party. If you don’t come over, I’m going to abduct you and drag you to the beach house. Me and Phil can fight in the front yard over you.”
I laughed, “Be there in ten.” I loved the fact he played NHL hockey. He was so chill and easygoing and still the same person he had been a million years before, when we met in school. I smiled, remembering the face of the scholarship kid who everyone sneered at until they saw him play. Then he was a god.
To me he was just always France. He was never the famous Mike France, lead scorer for the New York Rangers. The money never changed him the way it did other people.
I put the car back in drive and sped to his place. I sat in the driveway, looking at his modest house. He was funny with his houses. He bought the one I was in front of because it was homey and reminded him of the one his mom bought, when he was a teenager.
Mike opened the front door and pointed at me, "Get out of the car."
I nodded and got out. I knew he could see the stress and worry on my face. He stopped mid-step, “What’s wrong?”
I shook my head, climbing the stairs alongside the driveway, “Nothing.”
He gave me a look of disbelief, “You're such a bad liar.”
I stopped, “You think so?”
He folded his arms over his chest, “I know so. I've played strip poker with you. You have too many tells to count, which is why I always win strip poker. The way you’re bending your left thumbnail is one, the way your lips are white all around the edges because you’re pinching your lips is another. That one causes wrinkles too." He took a step towards me, "The main one though, is that haunted look in your eyes.”
I snorted, “That’s the wine and Xanax.”
He gave me a look, “Why are you taking that shit?”
I shrugged, “Sometimes I just need to.” I pointed at him, “This was a mistake. I better go.”
I backed up a step but he was too fast. He lunged and grabbed my hand, pulling me into him. “Tell me what’s going on.”
I shook my head, “Sometimes I just miss you,” I whispered into his huge chest. The feel of his cotton tee shirt was like a blanky I had as a kid. He was my soother.
He wrapped around me, “Stay calm, crazy—no more weird pills. I’ll order pizza and we’ll chill, ok?”
I shook my head, “I can't.” I struggled from his grip and backed up another step, “I need someone to touch me and it can't be you.”
His dark eyes narrowed, “I offer every chance I get. Stay.”
I hurried back down and opened the car door with him hot on my heels, “No. I love you. It would hurt us both too much.”
He stepped close to me again, spinning and pinning my back against the car, “Stay.” His dark eyes were like tools a hypnotist would use. They sucked me in with their dark lashes and intensity.
I shook my head, “I shouldn't stay.”
He bent his face close to mine, “Let me be the one who touches you. Please don’t let someone else touch you.”
The second type of silence I hated to be caught in was the tense awkwardness of longing. The stolen glances at one's lips and eyes as the act was played out in the mind of both parties. They'd lean into one another but neither moved the last ten percent, and the air was filled with all of the things neither would say. The guilt of the act was already a thing. It had energy and consequences without the actual crime being committed. A forbidden kiss and the desire one built within it, created expectations that could never be met. There was no kiss that was as great as the one you could never have.
We were stuck there, leaning against my car, unable to move the last ten percent. I lifted my face but pressed my lips against his cheek, “I love you,” I whispered into his rough playoffs beard.
He shook his head, “You love torturing me.”
I nodded and laughed, “I do.”
He stood up, pulling back from the awkward tension, “I want you to come to South Carolina with me.”
I shook my head, “No.” I pulled the napkin from my purse and passed it to him, “Destroy this.”
He looked at the number and the dirty words drawn next to it, “Are you fucking kidding me? Is this some random guy’s number?”
I nodded.
He sighed, “What are you doing? I didn’t get why the fuck you're getting married in the first place; Phil’s a douche and now this?”
I passed him my phone, “Delete the calls I made, so I can’t press redial.”
He growled down on me, “What are you, five?”
I nodded, “Something like that.” He deleted and tossed the phone into the car. He grabbed my face in his huge hands, “Jack, stop this okay? You’re taking drugs with alcohol and numbers off dudes you don’t know. This isn’t you anymore. Is Phil hurting you? I’ll kill him. I’m cool with prison, I got a lot of fans in there. We won the cup last year and made playoffs this year—I’m golden.”
I blinked at him, feeling lost in the buzz from the drugs and wine. “I just need to go shopping. I’ll feel better.”
He pulled me to the passenger side of the car and shoved me inside. He slammed the door and got in the driver's side. He threw the car in reverse and lit the tires up. I sighed and closed my eyes. I felt his warmth next to me and curled towards him.
