Page 36 of The Slapshot and the Single Mom
Finally, I come out with, “It just sort of happened.” That’s true enough, at least. I made the going out regularly happen, of course, but the fact that it’s turning into more than just hanging out as friends and letting people believe what they want? That wasn’t really part of my plan at the start.
Another scoff from Connor. “It just sort of happened,” he mimics.
But I just shrug and nod. “Yeah, man. Honestly. I didn’t really plan any of this.” At his skeptical look, I cave, glancing around to make sure no one’s taking a discreet video before clarifying. “Fine. I did think about the fact that being seen out with one woman would probably help my image. But it’s not like I went out looking for that. It started when we bumped into Maggie at the Salmon and developed from there.”
His arms crossed, he gives me a narrow-eyed look like he’s assessing my story to decide how much of it is bullshit.
Sighing, I jerk my head in the direction we were running and start off at an easy pace again. He catches up, running in silence for a couple of blocks before finally saying, “It’s shitty you didn’t bother to tell me.”
I nod. “I’m sorry, Con. I …” I search for words to explain that choice, but I don’t really have a good reason. I wasn’t sure you’d understand? I didn’t know what to tell you? I didn’t want to lie to you and I was too embarrassed to tell you the truth? That last one’s the real answer, but I don’t want to say it out loud, especially not in public. “I’m sorry,” I repeat after a moment.
It takes another block and a half before he starts talking again, changing the subject, and I know that means we’re good. Or at least that he’s accepted my apology.
The rest of the run is normal, and once we’re back in our building, he follows me to my condo rather than going to his a few doors down, accepting the water I offer him wordlessly and downing most of it in a few gulps. Setting it on the counter, he perches on one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “Alright. I could tell you didn’t really want to talk about your girl while we were in public. I saw the way you were looking around, seeing if you could clock anyone recording us or whatever. But now we’re here. Tell me what’s really happening.”
After refilling my glass, I pull my hair band out and run my hands through my hair, leaving it loose now that we’re done running. Leaning against the kitchen counter next to the sink, I cross my arms and arch an eyebrow. “What do you want to know?”
He rolls his eyes. “Give me the whole story. You ditched me to hang with her that night. And now—what? You’re dating?”
Running my fingers over my mouth, I nod. “Yeah.” That’s true enough, at least.
“Since when? That night? How long ago was that, exactly?”
I shrug, tipping my head from side to side. “I guess you could count that night as our first date. It was about a month and a half ago now. We exchanged numbers, met up for lunch the next week, and …” I spread my hands, letting him fill in the blanks.
He doesn’t want to do that, though. “And?” he presses. “And what? What does that mean?”
“And we’ve been going out every Friday since then.” I don’t bother mentioning that it started out as friends but made the jump to more than that last night. At least, I think so. I want it to be more than that, and she kissed me back. She said we’re good, but I guess I never clarified if that means we’re good to kiss more or what exactly. Shit.
His eyebrows jump. “And not once in that time, all the times we’ve gone jogging together, all the times I suggested doing something—especially when I invited you out on a Friday—never did you think you should mention you’re dating someone? I mean, clearly it’s still early, but weekly dates doesn’t seem like something you’d do with someone you’re just fucking.”
I flinch at that, and he notices, planting his elbow on the counter and pointing at me. “Yeah. She means more to you than a fuck buddy. I can tell.” He narrows his eyes, waiting for me to confirm or deny. When I don’t he makes a frustrated noise. “What the fuck, man? Why are you still holding out on me?”
Running my hand through my hair, I leave my hand on the back of my neck and give it a squeeze. “I just … This is new for me, you know?”
Narrowing his eyes again, Connor studies me. “What, exactly, is new for you? Dating this chick? Or dating anyone in general?” When I don’t answer, his eyes grow wide. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait.” He looks up at the ceiling, tapping his fingers against his thumb like he’s doing mental calculations, then spearing me with another look. “Are you telling me that you’ve never had a girlfriend before? Because that’s what she is, right? What’s her name again?”
“Maggie,” I grunt.
“Right. Maggie. She’s your girlfriend, right?”
I jerk one shoulder up. “We haven’t exactly had that conversation.” That’s what people do, right? I’ve heard people talk about having the conversation where they define the relationship and figure out what labels to put on things. And we sure as hell haven’t done that. We just kissed for the first time last night, for fuck’s sake. No way in hell am I telling Connor that, though.
He rolls his eyes. “Right. Whatever, man. You’ve been dating consistently for over a month. Any plan for that to end?” When I shake my head, he nods. “And you wouldn’t consider her a fuck buddy?”
“No.” The answer is more vehement than I intend, and Connor’s eyebrows jump again.
“I see,” he says slowly. “So, yeah. We’ll just start calling her your girlfriend. And I take it from”—he makes a circle in my direction with one hand—“all of this that you’ve never actually had a girlfriend before.”
I shift my shoulders in a gesture that can be taken as a shrug. Connor cocks an eyebrow, waiting me out. “No,” I finally mumble.
His other eyebrow joins the first. “Seriously? Not even in high school?”
I shake my head slowly. “Girls were a distraction.” My mouth fills with dust as I say the words, and I take another swallow of water to try to rinse the bad taste away. Aren’t I just proving my dad right? I’ve been so distracted I’ve been ignoring one of my best friends. It’s the off-season, so it’s not that serious, but …
Connor scoffs again. “Dude. I mean, sure, I can see that might be true when you’re fifteen. Or when you’re gunning for the pros. It’s smart then to not have other entanglements that can make it harder to get what you want. But you’re in your thirties. You’re living your dream. I think you can handle adding a girlfriend to the mix.”
I grunt, neither agreeing nor disagreeing because the realization that my dad’s been right about that all along keeps chasing itself through my head. If I’m so tangled up in this relationship that I’m blowing off my best friend …
