I shake my head. I don’t know what’s up. Libby isn’t at the game, she hasn’t texted, and Laura is making more sense than I would like for her to.
She’s right. I need to make this right. I should have insisted Libby talk to me yesterday. I should have written her an email, even though the “I don’t want to talk until after the game, so leave me alone” message was coming through loud and clear in her last text. Instead, I listened to the voice in my head that swears it’s always better to play it cool. The voice that does its best to shut down displays of feelings and fear and other vulnerable human shit that might fuck with my image as the guy who has it all together.
But like it or not, I am vulnerable. If Libby tells me she doesn’t want anything from me but my dick, it’s going to hurt like hell.
And no amount of playing it cool or fucking other women or crocheting granny squares until my fingers fall off is going to make it better.
I need her. I need her as my friend and as the woman in my bed every night. I need her as the person who makes me laugh, who talks me back from the edge when meditation won’t cut it, and who comes to me when she’s broken and trusts me to do my damnedest to fix her. I need her for parties at her parents’ place and long walks in the woods behind the houses where we grew up together, and because all my best memories have Libby in them.
“I’ve got to do something.” I pace back and forth in front of my locker. “I’ve got to do something big.”
“Don’t ask her to marry you,” Brendan says. “It’s way too soon. You’ll scare her.”
I spin back to him, emotion galloping through my chest.
Brendan smiles. “Scary, isn’t it? When crazy shit like that doesn’t seem so crazy anymore.”
I nod numbly. It is scary, but a good kind of scary. And the thought of spending the foreseeable future with Libby doesn’t make me feel claustrophobic or depressed or trapped the way it did with Sylvia. I would feel damned lucky to spend every Friday night with Libs, whether we were going out or staying in or having a bunch of crafty friends over to make shit together. I want to make things with Libby. Things like love and happiness and afghans and maybe five or six babies so that we’ll have lots of small people to share in how good it is to be a family together.
Shockingly, the thought makes my throat tight and my eyes sting a little. “Fuck.”
“Seagulls are as scary as that, too,” a little voice pops up from behind me. I jump guiltily and turn to see Chloe holding up her finished drawing behind me. “See?”
“I’m sorry Chloe. I shouldn’t have said that.”
She shrugs her shoulders and wrinkles her freckled nose. “It’s okay. I’ve heard it before. Daddy says it when he drops things on his foot. He drops things a lot when he’s making dinner. Even just macaroni and cheese.”
“From the mouths of babes,” Brendan mutters. “You want me to hang that on my locker, baby? As a public service announcement to anyone thinking about going to feed the seagulls?”
Chloe grins, but before she can answer, my big idea comes crashing to the front of my brain and I kneel down, taking her little hand. “Hey Clo, do you mind if I borrow a few pieces of your paper? And your markers? I promise I’ll pay you back.”
“You don’t have to pay me back,” she says sweetly. “I’m really good at sharing. You can have as much paper and markers as you want.”
“But you’ve got like five minutes before we need to head back out,” Brendan warns as I hurry across the room, grateful I didn’t bother taking off my skates. “Don’t you need to meditate?”
“This is better than meditation.” The only thing stronger than the mind is the heart. And my heart needs to get a message to Libby’s ASAP.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Libby
Roger and I are completely compatible.
We like so many of the same things—biking around the city, cats and dogs, keeping arts in schools as much as our shrinking budget allows, craft beers, hiking, skiing, and making brunch last at least two hours on a sunny summer morning. Even the things we don’t have in common—needlecrafts for me and antique book preservation for him—are compatible. They are both quietly nerdy and lovely things to be passionate about.
But as far as a mutual passion for passion, we’re never going to get around to finding out more about that.
I have absolutely no urge to hold Roger’s hand, let alone anything else.
Accepting this dinner invite was a mistake. All I’ve done is create a situation that will make things awkward at work when I pass on a second date, while doing absolutely nothing to keep my mind off Justin. Of course, the fact that the Fox Brass has the game playing on the big screen behind the bar isn’t helping things.