“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to hash this out. Hopefully, like the adults you are.”
I study Mitch’s shocked face as his mother leaves the kitchen. I’m still staring at him when her bedroom door closes behind her. Has Mitch always been only for himself? Did I settle for someone who didn’t really love me, because I couldn’t bear being alone anymore? Or did I imbue him with qualities I wished he possessed rather than see him as he really was? I may never know.
“Have you hired an attorney?” I ask.
“Yes. You didn’t leave me much choice, did you?” He says this with quiet fury but not a shred of shame.
“Then I suggest we let them get to it so that we can get this over as quickly as possible.”
“You’re going to be sorry, you know,” he says.
“Oh, I’m already sorry. But not for the reasons you think.”
“No, I mean it. Because your precious house will have to be sold and the proceeds divided up. And there’s quite a lot of debt that you’ll have to help pay off. Both of us will be worse off.”
I straighten my spine. Raise my chin. “You just worry about yourself,” I say stiffly. “Like you apparently always have. I wonder how long it will take Margot”—the name rolls off my tongue for the first time, no longer a woman to be afraid of but perhaps one to pity—“to realize that the man she’s stolen is no prize.”
wish·ful think·ing
/ˈwɪʃ·fəl ˈθɪŋ·kɪŋ/
noun
the imagining of an unlikely future event or situation that you wish were possible
Ex: “Expecting Mitch to grow up and put others first is a tragic case of wishful thinking.”
Jazmine
Derrick and I sit at the bar at Valenza, sipping negronis and waiting for our table. The Italian restaurant is packed and noisy, which is how a restaurant should be on a Friday night. I come here often because it’s just a ten-minute walk from the house.
This is only my third date with Derrick, and if I hadn’t put my foot down, Thea and Jamal would be here, pushing us together and grinning like banshees over their success as matchmakers.
“So, what is Maya doing tonight?” Derrick asks between sips of his drink.
“She’s spending the night at her grandparents so that my father can take her to her match tomorrow.” I do not add that Maya asked me not to come or that my father promised that he would have a talk with her about her on-court behavior.
“I’d love to come watch her play sometime.” He smiles. “Jamal says she’s really something and has incredible potential. ‘Like her mother.’ And that’s a direct quote.”
“I think she’s way more talented than I ever was.” I feel the wrench of regret as I think about how proud Xavier would be of his daughter’s athletic ability and how much of that ability came from him. “But I’m starting to wonder if it’s becoming too big a part of her life. If maybe it would be better for her to pull back and, I don’t know, just be a teenager.”
“Did you wish that when you were her age?” he asks, his eyes on mine.
“No. I practically slept with my racket. All I wanted was to win as often as humanly possible. To be the best. And, of course, I wanted my father to be proud of me.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
“No, but I’m not sure whether I’m pushing her to fulfill my dream because I couldn’t. Or if it’s really what she wants.”
“Maybe you just need to talk it over with her.”
My snort is pure reflex and not particularly ladylike. “Said the man who has clearly never had to face down an angry thirteen-year-old girl.”
His laugh is easy and uncomplicated. If men were awarded a theme song, and perhaps they should be, Derrick’s would be “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.”
“Completely true,” he replies. “But I have no doubt you’re up to the task. Maybe it’s just a matter of finding the right moment.” He smiles again, a flash of white teeth when I roll my eyes. “There. Now, is there anything else I can solve for you?”
At the table, we take our time perusing the menu. Actually, I don’t peruse because I pretty much know it by heart. And though our waiter explains the specials and answers all of Derrick’s questions, I choose the fritto misto for our first course and the coniglio (braised rabbit) for my main dish like I almost always do.
Derrick tut-tuts over what sort of person could consume a relative of Bugs Bunny, then goes for seafood, with no qualms at all about devouring Charlie the Tuna. I make sure we get an order of the butternut squash ravioli because I can never let anyone leave this place without at least tasting it. I let Derrick choose the wine.
He’s remarkably easy to talk to. It’s almost like being with a girlfriend who happens to have a hard body and “man parts.” We cover a lot of ground while we sip wine and eat our way through some of my favorite foods. I can’t imagine him losing his temper or doing anything remotely underhanded like— I’m about to think of Rich Hanson, except that it turns out Rich Hanson isn’t quite as big an asshole as he leads everyone to believe. I think back to our visit with Isaiah and his aunt. There aren’t many agents who would go to such lengths to save a player from himself.
“Jazmine?”
“Hmmm?” I blink back to the man across the table from me.
“I know you’re the expert on desserts. Which ones should we order?”
“I commend you for leaving this important choice to a professional,” I tease, then talk him through my three top picks.
“Only three?” he says. “I’m shocked.”
* * *
• • •
“Wow. I’m glad I left the decision to you,” he says later as we linger over the final bites of tiramisu and the strawberry crostata with vanilla bean gelato. “These desserts are amazing.”
I nod my agreement. “Glad you like them. I can never fall completely in love with a restaurant that doesn’t deliver all the way to the very last bite.”
“No pressure there.”
We laugh again, and I think how easy Derrick is to be with. There’s no need to press a point or to argue. No hint of dark secrets or hidden layers. If he hadn’t mentioned his father’s addiction to drugs, I’d never guess he’d dealt with anything unpleasant.
Unlike Rich Hanson, with whom sparring is not just encouraged but required. Appalled at his second intrusion into what is proving to be a perfect evening, I shove him and his cocky smile right out of my head.