Page 12 of The Slapshot and the Single Mom
But I didn’t know what else to do with myself. Between working to get Kyle’s show to where it is now, his disdain for my friends, and then getting a divorce, I’ve grown distant from my old friends. And him deciding to take Liam was so last minute that I didn’t have time to make plans to hang out with anyone, even if I knew who to text. Figuring out what I want to do on my own is a luxury I rarely have, and I’ve spent so long suppressing my own desires, that it takes too long to even figure out what they are.
I’m not sure what made me think of the paint and sip thing once we got outside, but I’ve seen ads for it and heard people talk about it often enough that it seems like fun. I suggested it to Kyle as a date night once, and he scoffed at the idea, told me he wouldn’t want to pay that much money to do something he’d only throw in the trash later, and I never brought it up again.
Bouchard—Jack? I’m not sure what to call him—walks in big, ground-eating strides, and I skip and jog a little to try to keep up. When a big crowd approaches from the opposite direction, he glances behind, sees me lagging, and reaches back to take me by the hand, half-dragging me along behind him. He weaves us through the crowd and across a street where the crosswalk sign is already flashing red, and I hurry to keep up.
My hand clutches at his reflexively, half not wanting to get left behind, half unwilling to let go of anyone who wants to hang onto me. It’s been so long since anyone has held my hand. Even Liam barely does anymore. Occasionally, when he’s feeling a certain way and we’re walking somewhere, he’ll reach for my hand and lean his head on my arm as we go. And in certain parking lots, I tell him he has to because people in their giant trucks drive too crazy and can’t see a ten-year-old over the five foot tall hood.
But that’s obviously not the same thing as this. Jack—Bouchard? I still don’t know how to think of him—glances back at me and smiles, then slows down a bit, though he doesn’t relinquish my hand. I don’t pull away either.
It’s weird, but this whole night is turning out to be weird, and right now, I’ve decided to just go with it. I’ve had two beers, there’s a handsome hockey player wanting to take me out to have fun for the first time in years—well, it’s the first time a hockey player of any attractiveness level has wanted to take me out, but it’s the first time I’ve gone out to have fun in years in the company of anyone.
He wants to help me enjoy myself, to live life for once instead of just going through the motions that get me from one day to the next?
I’m in.
I’m not stupid. I know this is a one-off thing for him. Who knows how often he decides to do this kind of thing? He’s like the male version of the manic pixie dream girl trope who whirls into your life, shakes it up, makes you see things in a new way, and whirls away just as fast.
This’ll be that night that shakes me up and makes me see things differently—or at least gets me out of a rut—and I can look back on this with fondness instead of feeling like it was another wasted opportunity. And after this, maybe I can come up with a list of ideas of things to do when a free night drops into my lap again. Since there’s no telling when that’ll be, it seems smart to make a list of things that need to be planned ahead of time and things that can be done more spontaneously.
I guess that’s part of my problem with nights like this—they happen so sporadically that I don’t have a plan. I need a plan that can be flexible and work whenever a free night shows up out of the blue. Especially since as Liam gets older, he’ll be doing things without me more often anyway, even if it’s not a night with his dad. There’ll be sleepovers and hangouts with friends and all kinds of things that I won’t need to be there for, especially once he hits high school. I remember being off with my friends all the time when I was in high school.
So, yeah. I definitely need to figure out what to do with myself in my downtime because I’ll be getting more of it soon.
For now, though, I’ll focus on the warm, callused hand clasping mine and the way this handsome man keeps smiling at me. The divorced mom thing probably didn’t scare him off because he doesn’t intend to see me again after this. And you know what? That’s fine. It’s perfect, actually, because what time do I have for any other men in my life? I have an asshole ex, an asshole boss, and a kid. My time’s pretty well spoken for. If this guy wants to take me out, pay for my drinks, and fulfill my desire for a paint and sip, then why shouldn’t I let him? Maybe I’ll even get a kiss at some point …
We stop in front of a storefront, there are lights on, but the blinds are pulled so we can’t see inside. Jack checks his phone. “This is the place,” he says, giving my hand a squeeze. “Ready?”
I give him what I hope is more smile than grimace. “As I’ll ever be.”
He grins back at me, then releases my hand and pulls open the door. I close my fingers over my palm as though to trap the feeling of his hand in mine. I might be thirty-seven, butsomething about this makes me feel like a teenager again. I haven’t felt this carefree in years.
It’s the manic pixie dream girl effect, I guess.
Stifling a chuckle at how a manly hockey player would react to be called that, I step inside. The class has already started, with people sitting in front of tabletop easels, paints and drinks arrayed around them. There are several couples and at least one group who appear to be having a ladies’ night out.
The instructor—a woman who looks a little older than me, gray sprinkled through her dark bob, looking every bit the part in an open paint-splattered denim button-down covering black overalls and wearing Birkenstock clogs—pauses her explanation and gives us a warm smile, holding up a finger to indicate she’ll be with us in a minute. She finishes showing everyone how to paint the clouds in the picture we’re apparently painting tonight then makes her way to where Jack and I stand next to each other at the edge of the space.
“Welcome!” she says, offering us a warm smile. “Did you pay online?”
I start to shake my head, but Jack cuts in. “I did, though I have to confess it was just a few minutes ago. We were looking for something fun to do tonight, and Maggie here mentioned she’s been wanting to do one of these classes. I know we’re a little late, but I was hoping you wouldn’t mind squeezing us in?” He gives her a thoroughly charming smile, and I’m not sure if it’s that or if she’s just genuinely happy to include latecomers.
Either way, she motions us in. “There are a couple spots near the back here. Let me get you easels and canvases. There are brushes and paints already there, and then help yourself to drinks.” Shegestures to a counter in the back corner set up like a bar with bottles of wine and beer, plus cans of soda and bottles of water. “Go ahead and make yourselves comfortable. I’ll come over and walk you through what you’ve missed in just a moment.”
She takes a meandering path through the room, making encouraging comments to people as she goes while Jack and I select drinks. He holds up a bottle of wine in silent offer, but I shake my head, reaching for a diet soda. With a soft scoff, he shakes his head and pours himself a glass. “C’mon, Maggie. Isn’t the point of this kind of thing to get a little tipsy and see how terrible of a painter you are?” A middle-aged woman shoots him a censorious look, but he either doesn’t notice or ignores her entirely.
“Fine,” I relent.
“Don’t have wine if you don’t want it,” hisses the nosy woman that glared at Jack. “Don’t let a man pressure you into drinking and compromising your judgment.”
“I’ll drink it slowly,” I reassure her, and Jack stifles a laugh as he pours a glass of wine for me.
The lady still glares at him as we head to our seats. “Little does she know, my judgment’s already compromised,” I say in a low voice once we’re seated.
Jack studies me, not responding to the joke the way I’d intended. “Is it?” he asks, face serious. “You don’t have to drink the wine if you really don’t want it. I was just playing before. I didn’t really mean to pressure you into anything you don’t want to do.”
Giving him soft smile, I pat his arm reassuringly, filing away the firmness of his muscles in my mental office to take out and examine later. “I’m fine. Really. I was joking too.” I shrug,feeling embarrassed. “I just meant that all of this is out of character for me, that’s all. I’m good, though. I really will drink the wine slowly, but I wouldn’t have taken it if I didn’t actually want some. I’m just …” I stop that explanation in its tracks. With Kyle, I always had to watch how much of anything I drank when we were out. At home, it wasn’t a big deal. But if we went out to eat, or we were out with friends, or anywhere, really, he’d get all annoyed with me for drinking “too much” according to some weird idea of expected liquid intake in his own head. And it wasn’t just alcohol, which would be somewhat understandable, especially if I had a habit of getting drunk and acting out—which I don’t and never have—but with everything.
Eventually I decided it was a weird control thing, and even though I know he’s not here and we’ve been divorced for a couple years now, some part of me still expects anyone I’m with to criticize basically anything I do.
