Page 86 of Thrown for a Loop
“All right, Chase,” she says with a smile.Fuck.She even has a dimple. “For lunch tomorrow you’ve got a quinoa bowl with lean proteins—chicken, salmon, or turkey. Warm it up, but add the avocado and fresh greens after, so they stay crisp. For dinner tonight you’ve got the enchiladas—chicken and bean. Whole wheat wrappers, so it’s almost healthy. Now I’ve gotta run. Time for yoga.”
“Thanks, Marnie. Really appreciate it,” he says.
She squeezes him on the shoulder. “I’ll leave you two to enjoy it.”
Then she leaves. No kiss, which seems weird, but it’s just as well, because I’d probably die of distress.
At the door she stops and turns around. “And no more cupcakes from Billy’s Bakery. I saw the box in the trash.”
Chase smiles at her suddenly, and I’m hit with a lightning bolt of familiarity. Because it’s a real smile—the kind I used to get. For a moment I feel joy fizzing behind my breastbone. But then it hits me that his smile is aimed at someone else, and I realize I’m probably going to need several of Billy’s cupcakes to recover from this evening.
I wonder how late that place is open.
Then Marnie is gone, the door closing behind her. Chase and I are going to dine together for the first time since the Obama administration. And I have no idea how to get through it.
Chase is moving around in his kitchen, pulling two plates out of a cabinet. They’re expensive-looking handmade pottery. “Let me just plate up our enchiladas. They’re my favorite. And Marnie’s guacamole makes me cry.”
It’s probably going to make me cry, too. “She seems nice,” I manage.
“She should be at these prices,” he mutters.
I play that sentence back inside my head. And then my gaze lands on one of the containers on Chase’s counter. There’s a sticker on it that readsMarnie’s Meal Service.
“She’s… your personal chef?”
Chase glances up at me. “Mine and a bunch of other players. You probably saw her van in front of the building. She drops off once a week.”
I’m an idiot. And yet a happier one. My lungs expand, and I feel like I can breathe again.
“I don’t have time to shop,” he says, and I realize he thinks I’m judging him.
“Of course you don’t!” I say brightly. “You should hire thepersonal chef.Allthe personal chefs. And nice goal against Florida, by the way. Gold star!”
He squints at me, probably to figure out why I’m suddenly babbling. We lock eyes, and suddenly I can’t look away. It’s so weird to be standing here, watching the twenty-nine-year-old Chase move around his sleek kitchen. It’s like visiting an alternate universe.
I finally drag my eyes off him and glance around the room again. The giant low sofa against the windows is so welcoming. There’s an equally massive coffee table stretched out in front of it, with a few books and magazines on top, making the space feel lived-in. This isn’t a show home. “Your place issonice,” I whisper. “It’s not what I pictured.”
“What were you picturing?” he asks. “My dorm room in Filbert Hall?”
“I never saw your dorm room,” I point out. “And I don’t know what I expected. I used to spend a lot of time tryingnotto think about your life, to be honest. Just putting that out there. I know it’s awkward.”
He studies me, and for a split second his expression softens. But then he busies himself prepping our meal. This involves a sauce and some cheese, and the broiler of his fancy oven. Meanwhile I inspect the objects on a low bookshelf—a couple of game pucks on little wooden stands, and a gleaming Rookie of the Year award. Then I move to stand near the soaring wall of windows to watch the sky turn purple over New Jersey.
“All right, let’s eat,” Chase says eventually. He uses hot pads to carry our plates to the table. “Oh, we need the lights.” He taps a panel on the wall, and the table is suddenly lit by a soft glow from the fixtures around it.
He fetches a handful of silverware and two glasses. “For drinks I have some fizzy water in a couple of flavors. Or maybe a beer…”
“Water is fine,” I say quickly. I don’t want this to feel like a date. Too confusing. I take one of the glasses and fill it from the tap.
Inevitably we settle at the table, where the most incredible plate of food has been set down before me. There’s bubbling cheese and a blob of bright green guacamole on the side of magazine-perfect enchiladas. The high-end lighting—and the proximity of my first love—make the space feel terribly intimate. Or maybe that’s just me. “Thank you for dinner. You didn’t have to do this.”
“You know I’ve always liked feeding you,” he says, which is something the old Chase would say. Then he sighs. “Look, I apologize for my tantrum the other day. It just never occurred to me that we wouldn’t be able to skate together anymore.”
“Yeah.” I study my plate without really seeing it. “And I’m sorry I made it personal when you got frustrated.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “I hope I didn’t cause a rift between you and your mom over something that happened so long ago.”
I pick up my fork and sink it into the tantalizing enchilada in front of me. “You didn’t cause a rift, because I haven’t asked her about it. I believe you, though. She lied to me. She probably did it all the time.”
