Page 107 of Play Along With Me
"Oh." Her voice is flat with disappointment. "Well, that's... unexpected."
I can practically see her mental recalibration—the adjustment of her fantasy that Daniel would eventually realize his mistake and return to me, the reluctant acceptance that her vicarious revenge against Janine via my continued single status has been thwarted.
"It's recent," I explain, feeling oddly protective of this new, fragile thing with Jake. "But special. Different."
"I see." Evelyn's tone makes it clear she doesn't see at all. "And who is this... person? Anyone I know?"
"His name is Jake. He's a professional hockey player." Even saying it out loud feels surreal, like I'm describing someone else's life.
"A hockey player?" Evelyn repeats, unable to keep the disdain from her voice. Sporting events weren't exactly a priority in the Westfield household, where cultural discussions revolved around opera seasons and gallery openings. "How... physical."
"He is that," I agree, unable to suppress a smile as memories of exactly how physical Jake can be flash through my mind. "But also intelligent, thoughtful, funny, ambitious. His parents are lovely, too."
"You've met his parents already? Audrey, how long has this been going on?"
"Like I said, it's new," I hedge, unwilling to explain the bizarre timeline of our relationship. "But sometimes you just know when something feels right."
There's another long pause before Evelyn sighs dramatically. "Well, I suppose I should be happy for you. Though I must say, I always imagined you with someone more... academic. Like Daniel."
"Daniel is happily married to Janine," I remind her gently. "And I'm moving on. Actually moved on."
The words feel monumental as they leave my mouth—a declaration of independence from a past I've been clinging to for far too long. Daniel is no longer the sun around which my emotional planets orbit. He's just a guy I used to know, who's now living his life while I live mine.
"I suppose you are," Evelyn concedes, sounding both sad and strangely proud. "Though you know you'll always be family to me, regardless of who you're dating. And I suppose by extension, this hockey player is now family too."
The comment is clearly meant to be inclusive, but it hits me sideways, a reminder of how quickly things are moving with Jake. Family. The word buzzes in my mind like a neon sign, simultaneously thrilling and terrifying.
"That's... generous of you," I manage. "But let's not get ahead of ourselves."
"Of course, Audrey. Just know that I'm here for you, whatever happens. And I expect a full report on this Jake person at our next dinner."
We chat for a few more minutes before Evelyn has to go ("Bridge club, darling—Meredith always tries to cheat if I'm not watching her like a hawk"), and as I hang up, I realize something profound: I just had an entire conversation with Daniel's mother without once asking about him. Without once feeling that familiar pang of loss when his name came up.
Progress, thy name is Audrey Mazzone.
The Uber pulls up to my apartment building as I'm still processing this revelation. I thank the driver and head inside, already mentally calculating how much time I have before my café shift starts.
"Mr. Darcy!" I call out as I unlock my door. "Your neglectful mother has returned! Please withhold judgment until you hear about the extraordinary circumstances that led to my absence!"
My disgruntled feline appears from beneath the couch, his expression suggesting I've committed crimes against cat-kind that might never be forgiven.
"I know, I know," I sigh, dropping to my knees to scratch behind his ears. "Abandonment issues. Catastrophic neglect. Emotional damage that will require years of therapy and premium cat treats to overcome. But in my defense, it was a boy. A really nice boy who happens to be a professional athlete with excellent abs and surprisingly gentle hands. Here, you can probably smell him on me. This hoodie," I inhale, "is his scent."
I put the sleeve to his nose. Mr. Darcy's judgment is unabated, but he does deign to allow the ear scratches to continue.
"You'll like him," I continue, rising to feet and shedding my wrinkled dress. "He's tidy, which I know you appreciate, given your constant disapproval of my laundry system. And he's a good listener. And he says he likes me, Darce. Like, actually likes me. Not in a 'you're convenient and available' way, but in a 'I think about you when you're not here' way."
I twirl around my cluttered living room in nothing but Jake's hoodie and my underwear, feeling a lightness I haven't experienced in years.
"I like him too," I admit to Mr. Darcy, who has followed me to the bedroom and is watching my impromptu dance with feline disdain. "Like, embarrassingly much. In a way that makes me want to write bad poetry or learn how ice hockey works or wear his clothes just to have his scent close to me. It's disgusting, really. I've become a walking romantic comedy cliché."
My phone buzzes with a text, and I lunge for it with embarrassing eagerness.
It's not Jake. It's a reminder about my café shift starting in forty-five minutes.
Right. Real life. Jobs. Responsibilities. The mundane necessities that continue regardless of romantic epiphanies or overnight transformations into someone's girlfriend. Or almost-girlfriend. Whatever we are.
As I rummage through my dresser for clean work clothes, a wild impulse seizes me. I grab my phone again, scrolling past the usual suspects in my contacts—Leila, my mom, various work colleagues—to land on a name I rarely call: Dad.
