Perhaps I’m a selfish man, but I almost wish we’d been caught. He would hate her if he caught us. He’d hate me too. But it would finally put an end to all this nonsense, and she would finally be with the man who loves her most. The man most deserving.
I don’t want to sneak around with her. I want to wear her on my arm. I want to be free to love her openly. Proudly. I want to show her off. I want to marry her. I want to spend the rest of my life with her.
And I can’t do that until he lets go of her once and for all.
Eighteen
Ace
* * *
Aidy’s been on my mind all day.
Actually, she has been for the last three days, since she rang my doorbell with an armful of groceries Sunday morning like some crazy person.
I’m seated at some sidewalk café in the Lower East Side. I’ve never been here before, but coffee sounded good. The server reminds me of Aidy. Her hair, at least. She doesn’t smile as much and she doesn’t make much eye contact. Her shoulders are covered, and for some insane reason that makes me miss Aidy’s shoulders.
Shit.
Never thought I’d see a day when shoulders made me hard as a rock, but damn that Aidy Kincaid and her repertoire of shoulder-baring blouses. Guess when you haven’t been laid in over a year, it doesn’t take much to get stirred.
Thumbing through the contacts in my phone, I stop when I find hers at the top.
I could text her.
But I know myself. I’d sit here, staring at the screen, waiting for the notification that my message has been read, and then I’ll stare at the bouncing dots, anxiously awaiting her response like some lonely, pathetic loser.
Manning up, I pick up the phone and call her. If she doesn’t answer, fine. I won’t leave a message, and she’ll never know what I wanted unless she calls me back. I’ll take that over the chance that she might read and subsequently ignore my text.
I don’t want to feel like a schmuck.
“Hello,” she answers on the second ring.
I clear my throat. “Aidy.”
Aidy laughs. “You sound surprised that I answered.”
I am.
“No, no,” I say. “Just calling to see if you wanted to maybe meet for coffee.”
She’s quiet.
My breath suspends.
“Oh, um . . . yeah. When?”
“Now.”
She pauses for an endless couple of seconds.
“Where?” she asks.
“Arcadia Steam,” I say. “It’s just off-”
“I know where it is. Give me fifteen, okay?”
Easy enough.
“Hey.” Her voice greets me before she does, and I turn in my chair, eyes honing in on her shoulders, which are tragically covered on this unusually cool late June afternoon. Aidy grabs the seat across from me and dives for the menu. “Love this place. Great neighborhood actually. Topaz and I do lunch around here all the time.”
“This is my first time.”
She flips a page in the menu. “What brings you all the way down here?”
“I had a photo shoot earlier.”
Aidy stops, her wide eyes glancing across the table and settling in mine. “Oh, really? What for?”
“American Athlete magazine.” I say it like it’s no big deal, and it probably isn’t a big deal to someone like Aidy, but every red-blooded American athlete in this country would give their right arm to be on the cover of American Athlete.
“That’s cool. Are they doing a story about you?”
“My old agent’s trying to get me back out there. He’s the one who talked me into co-hosting Smack Talk. He thinks I can make some kind of comeback, and he still thinks I’m in therapy. Hate to tell him this thing’s useless.”
I cup my hand over my lame shoulder.
“Never going to get that range of motion back,” I say. “Just finished ten months of intense physical therapy and it hardly made a damn bit of difference as far as pitching goes.”
“That’s depressing.” She slumps forward.
I nod.
“So what kind of comeback does this Lou guy think you’re going to make?” she asks.
Shaking my head, I chuff. “Who knows. He gets these crazy ideas sometimes. Hate to tell him he’s been praying for a miracle that’s never going to happen.”
“Never know.”
“Least I can do is let my fans know I’m still here.” I take a sip of my coffee and spot our waitress returning from the corner of my eye. She takes Aidy’s order, a hot tea with milk and sugar, and shuffles away. “Not a coffee drinker?”
“Not unless I have to work late,” she says, running her hands along her thighs, like she’s cold. She’s in long sleeves, a sweater that’s gray and nearly see-through, and jeans that hug her every curve. “Can you believe how cold it is? It’s June. We’re supposed to be melting, and I can’t stop shivering.”
Yesterday was hot. Today is cold. This month can’t decide what it wants to do, and I can sympathize with that.
“We can move inside,” I offer.
“No, I’ll be fine once my tea gets here.” Her teeth chatter, and she wraps her arms around her sides.
“Don’t be a martyr. Come on.” I stand, taking my coffee cup in one hand and offering my other hand to Aidy.
She hesitates at first, and then she slips hers in mine. For a second, I can’t breathe. It’s like I’d completely forgotten how good it feels to touch someone. To hold their hand. To revel in that brief, heart-stopping “what if.”
I lead her inside and we take up residence at a small table for two in the corner, away from the door.
“Thank you,” she says when we sit down.
There’s a flickering candle between us and a single pink carnation in a white vase. It’s almost romantic in here.
“There you are.” Our server returns, balancing Aidy’s tea and a side of milk and sugar on a small tray.
“Can you believe this weather we’re having?” Aidy says to the two of us. “Hope it’s not going to be like this all weekend.”
“I think it’s supposed to warm up.” Our server slips the tray beneath her arm. “Can I get you anything else?”
“We’re good, thanks.” Aidy smiles.
“Why? What are you doing this weekend?” I ask.
“It’s the Fourth of July,” she says.
It had completely slipped my mind. Living a life with no set schedule, the days and weeks tend to blur together, and with no family around, holidays are like every other endless fucking day.
“That’s right,” I say. “Got any plans?”
Aidy mixes her tea, pouring little drips of milk on top and stirring until it turns a creamy shade of caramel. Adding just a sprinkle of sugar, she stirs it again and takes a sip. The whole concept of milk and tea together has never sat right with me, but it looks good the way she’s mixing it.
“Normally Wren and Enzo and I sit on the roof of our building and watch the fireworks from there. But this year, Enzo’s going to his dad’s and Wren’s going to Chauncey’s building and watching them with Chauncey’s parents.” She palms the white tea cup, blowing across the steamy liquid. “She invited me, but I don’t want to be the third wheel, you know? This is going to be her new family. They need time to bond and all that.”