Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(60)

I rinse that fucking plate very carefully and tuck it into the dishwasher. So this is how it ends. This is why I can’t fall for anyone. I should have known this would happen.

Bess is waiting for me when I come back, a shattered look on her face. “I knew it was too soon. I knew it, and I asked anyway because…” She swallows hard. “Never mind. I’m sorry to ruin a nice evening,” she says quietly. “But it wouldn’t be fair for me to have an agenda and not mention it. Say something.”

I walk over and sit down beside her. But I feel cold inside. My heart already resembles the same lump of granite that it became at the end of my marriage. For a while there I’d thought Bess had chased it away.

But I was fooling myself. She can’t fix this for me. And I’m an asshole to ever think she could.

“Honey,” I rasp. “Having a family isn’t in the cards for me.”

“I see,” she chokes out. She’s trying not to get upset. And I’m trying not to howl at the sky.

Her disappointment is like a knife through the tattered remains of my heart. “It’s not you, okay? I just can’t go there. My marriage was…not good.” A stronger man would provide all the gory details. Then again, the end result would be the same. So I don’t really see the point.

“I know,” she grits out. “You told me, and I didn’t listen.”

“This is not your fault.” I stand up again. “I should go, Bess. I’m sorry I’m not the kind of man you can make a future with. I wish I was that guy.” And why the hell did I not see this coming? “I’m sorry,” I repeat. “You didn’t do a thing wrong. And you deserve better.”

So, so much better.

“You have to do what you have to do,” she says in a low voice. “I knew it might come to this.” Her face is red, but she doesn’t cry. Instead, she lifts her chin and straightens her spine. That look of determination is something I’ve always loved about her. But now I realize she looks that way because she’s had a lot of practice at facing disappointment.

And I can’t believe I’m the kind of asshole who’s only brought her more.

She doesn’t say anything further. She just regards me with an expression that dares me to disappoint her again with more of my shitty apologies.

I walk behind the couch and grab my jacket off the hook on the wall. Then I lean down and drop a kiss onto the top of her head. She smells like lemons. I can’t believe I’m walking away from her right now. I don’t want to.

But I can’t give her what she wants. And every moment I linger in her life, I’m preventing her from going after the future she desires.

So I do it. I leave. Three seconds later I’m jogging down the staircase of her apartment building. When I hit the bottom I wrench the door open and rush out onto the sidewalk, breathing hard. I’m wearing sneakers, so it’s easy enough to just break into a jog and head toward the path along the river.

There’s no distance that’s far enough, though. Some troubles just can’t be outrun.





Twenty-Five





The Trouble with Grumpy Defensemen





Bess





December


The next month is difficult for me. I watch a lot of hockey and eat a lot of ice cream. But I do it alone. The Bruisers are winning, which is nice. But I avoid their games, choosing other times and places to see my clients.

Eric is gentle with me at work. He really deserves that plaque on our office wall. He and Alex invite me over for dinner a couple times, which is lovely. I get to eat gourmet food and snuggle Rosie in the midst of their obvious domestic bliss.

Zara is taking it hard, though. “I guess I’m not cut out to be your agent,” she says, her voice full of regret. “How do you do this? What do you say to your clients when they don’t get what they want?”

“I tell them to dig deep and go after the next opportunity.”

“But I don’t think we’re ready for that step,” Zara muses. “First we eat all the carbs and watch Bridget Jones’s Diary on repeat.”

“Carbs?”

“I’m sympathy eating. For two,” she explains.

God, I love Zara.

And I suppose there’s a silver lining to breaking up with Tank. Now I don’t have to tell my brother that I’ve been dating a hockey player.

I do, however, tell my girlfriends. Over margaritas, I fill Becca and Georgia in on the fact that I’m in love with him, but that we are not together.

It’s a good decision, too. Because the moment I share my pain, these two circle the wagons. Every week they invite me out somewhere new. They’ve more or less adopted me, and I am grateful.



That’s how I come to sit one weeknight in a brand-new massage chair at Becca’s newly opened salon. Georgia and Becca flank me on either side. And at my feet, a nail technician fills a foot bath with ginger-scented water. Meanwhile, the salon manager hands me a flute of Prosecco.

“Thank you!” I say as cheerfully as I can. “I think I could become a convert, here.”

“See?” Georgia says. “I love getting a pedicure, but it doesn’t have a thing to do with the way my nails look.”