Page 33 of Clear Shot
She laughs. “Maybe, maybe not, but where there are feelings, love is close behind.”
“You’re not helping me,” I mutter. “I need advice, not old-fashioned platitudes.”
“My advice is to make him fall in love with you.”
“To what end?”
“If he loves you enough, he’ll want to do whatever it takes to make you happy. Even if that means having a baby or two.”
“That feels manipulative.”
“He’s a grown man who can make his own decisions. There’s nothing manipulative about showing him that his life could be better with you in it.”
“You don’t think I should go back to school?”
“I do but stay married while you do it. This way, you don’t use all the money you saved.”
“Then I’ll feel like I’m using him.”
“You were always using him. For a visa or a place to live while you go to school—what’s the difference?”
“The difference is I’ll need two years or so to get my master’s, and we only agreed to one year.”
“Then I guess you need to hurry up and make him fall in love with you.”
“You’re not helping. At all.”
She laughs again. “I’m a lot more help than you think. Wait and see.”
Chapter 12
Aiden
Depression is a tricky little asshole.
It can come on out of nowhere, for no reason, and stick around for hours, days, or even weeks. I’ve been dealing with it since my early teens so I recognize that faint black cloud that pops up in my psyche, but since I’m finally on a medication that works, it’s nowhere near as bad as it was in the past.
When it happens now it’s more of an annoyance—a faint adjustment to my mood that makes me grumpy and unmotivated. Luckily, I’ve learned coping mechanisms that help me through when the occasional bout hits, and hockey forces me to be productive no matter how much I want to crawl under the covers and eat my weight in pizza.
An extra long workout and/or a romp in the sack with an energetic lady helps too.
Except today is a game day so no extra workouts for me, and the only woman I want to romp with is my wife.
The same wife I friend zoned.
Again.
Jesus, the situation has turned into a cluster.
Hana looked so confused when I told her I never wanted kids, and then before I could back pedal or soften the blow, a mask slid into place, effectively shutting me out.
I recognize it for what it is—a way to protect herself from whatever she’s thinking or feeling—but I’m still ticked off about it.
And there’s no one to blame but myself.
So now I’m in a depression spiral, on a game day, with no one I can talk to.
I have a therapist I can call but I don’t have time today. Like it or not, I have to put one foot in front of the other and get my ass to the arena. Once I’m on the ice, I’ll be fine—hockey is my safe place and my happy space—so until then I have to find a way to muddle through.
