Beauty and the Baller(89)

“You’d make a great wife, Tuck, but I prefer blondes.”

He flips me off while sticking a cube of cheddar between his lips. He chews and swallows it down. “So? Give me the deets.”

I nod and sit on a stool. “It was good. Met the new guys. They seem great. Jasper has a great arm. I like his enthusiasm. I caught up with some people on staff and a few players. The stadium, ah, it was fucking great to walk inside. I closed my eyes and pictured a hundred thousand fans on their feet for us . . .”

“Like coming home?”

I pause, glancing around at his modern apartment, the one I shared with him for years. The gray leather couches. The expensive, fancy Swedish swivel chairs he insisted we had to buy. The mirror coffee table that broke once when one of his girlfriends danced on top of it. (He ordered another one.) The bright yellow painted on one wall, black on the other. My eyes end on the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The curtains are spread, and the view of Manhattan twinkles like stars in the distance.

Stars.

Nova.

I take a steadying breath, feeling the loss of her like an uppercut to the face. It’s Saturday, and we could be hanging out, playing pool or darts, watching a movie, watching football . . . I never showed her my comic book collection. My lips twitch. She’d fall over laughing. Then there’s the Matchbox cars and video arcade machines. I wonder if she likes Ms. Pac-Man—

“Ronan?”

I look up. “Yeah, man, it felt like home. It was awesome.”

“Hmm, I see.” There’s a question in his tone, but the doorbell rings, and he leaves to grab our food.

Later, after we’ve eaten, I clean up the mess while he tells me about his ankle, his therapist, the new neighbor who plays music too loud, his new yoga class . . .

He lets out a breath. “All right, then. I’ve told you everything. Whew. What should we do tonight? There’s a new club I want to hit—”

“You can’t dance on that ankle.” I toss a dish towel over the faucet to dry.

“No, but I can talk to pretty girls.”

Several moments tick by as we lean in over the island.

“Well? Hot chicks or stay at home?”

“Let’s take a ride somewhere,” I say, easing up.

He nods, not asking me where. He already knows.

He grabs keys from a drawer and dangles them. “Ferrari or Maserati?”

I roll my eyes. “You got a new sports car?”

“Meh. Got rid of the Escalade.”

A few minutes later, we back out of his garage in his silver Ferrari. He lets the car idle at the exit. “Connecticut, I presume?”

“Yeah.”

He pulls out on the road and points the car away from the city.

I gaze out the window at the passing buildings. I roll my neck. This entire day I’ve been unsettled, a pricking sensation eating at my insides. It’s fear, that I’m fucking something up, but I don’t know how to stop it.

“You’re quiet. Whatcha thinking?” Tuck asks a few minutes later, glancing over at me.

I smirk ruefully. “That you’re my best goddamn friend in the whole world. I might not be where I am today if it wasn’t for you. You got me dry. You sent me Leia. Like a boss. You bought an outfit and found the perfect girl. Fuck. I love you, man.”

I hear him sniff. “Asshole. Why are you making me cry like a girl?”

I huff out a laugh. “You’re almost a girl anyway.”

It’s close to ten by the time we pull into the landscaped and well-lit memorial garden. Tuck drives through the park, around the curves and hairpin turns. We stop at the bottom of a hill, park, and get out. He leans against the car and crosses his legs. “Take your time, bro.”

I nod and walk to Whitney’s grave. It’s set next to her grandparents’, a gray stone carved into a heart that ends in a flat stone on the bottom. Her parents picked it out, and I feel like she would have loved it. I sit down next to it and stare at her name, the date she was born. It’s been over two years since I visited. In the beginning, it was a lot, sometimes with Tuck, sometimes without. It usually involved a bottle of whiskey.

The last time I came was the day after the Mercer Hotel.

I settle my hands on the stone. Is it possible to have two (or more) loves in a lifetime? Does fate select your possibilities, and if the stars are aligned, you meet them? Is it possible to love them differently?

Whitney was the first girl I let into my heart. Our love bloomed into a gentle thing, sweet and uncomplicated. I planned a happy life with her. Then watched her die.

Nova. Jesus. I’m in deep with her. I love who she is. How strong. How sure she is of her feelings for me. How she treats others. How she’s devoted to Sabine. How she puts up with Lois. How her accent thickens when she’s pissed. Her hair. Her smile. Her damn cat. Her spunk. Her old cowboy boots. Her words about living a meaningful life, and fuck me, I miss her.

I glance up at the night sky, stars gleaming. I swallow thickly. Whitney’s up there in heaven, scowling and huffy. I bet she has her little round glasses on, the ones I said made her look like a professor. She’s pointing her finger at me, telling me I’m a fool, that I need to let go and live my life.

I exhale. My gut knows that to feel alive, to taste what life has to offer, I must conquer my fear of losing people and letting them down. I need to loosen the guilt that burdens me. Fear and guilt have built a fortress in my heart, the stones laid with anguish and pain. It’s whispered to me that it’s safer to just skim through life, lurking in the dark, never living in the light.