Worth it though.
I fucked up four years ago. I don’t want to fuck up again.
“How much longer are you in the sling?” I ask.
“Five to seven days. Depends on the scans.”
I make a noise that I hope is acknowledgment mixed with sympathy.
Pretty sure I sound like a drowning goat instead.
“Surgery?” I ask to cover the noise.
“Depends on the scans.”
I gather more of her hair near her head, rubbing the suds into it against her scalp.
She makes a noise herself.
It’s like a stifled moan.
I’m studiously counting the drips of water on the white fiberglass shower wall so I don’t look at her naked body any more than necessary.
That ass—fuck me, that ass.
I loved holding her ass back when she let me in her life.
And now it’s mere inches from me, and I need to stop looking at it and thinking about it and being aware of its existence.
I meant it when I told her I woke up this morning with acceptance.
But what I didn’t tell her was how long I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror, contemplating life in general.
How I’m creeping closer to my late thirties.
How much I feel that pang of jealousy in my chest anytime I visit my teammates who’ve retired and are loving their domestic lives.
The way I feel more sluggish in general, like my body is telling me it’s time to slow down.
The way I’ve always figured I’d be married with kids by the time I retired, but I’m realizing that’s not my path. Retirement from hockey is coming within the next few years regardless of what my personal life looks like.
So I made a choice.
I choose to take responsibility for my part in breaking up with Addie. I choose to acknowledge I put her in an awful position. I choose to forgive myself for it too, because I can’t be good for anyone if I’m busy beating myself up for my mistakes instead of learning from them.
I choose to find out if Addie’s still the woman I fell for.
I choose to do everything I know to do to see if I can fit into her life.
To see if we can complement each other as easily now on purpose as we seemed to by accident four years ago.
Seeing her last week wasn’t an unfortunate coincidence.
It was the universe’s way of telling me to quit lying to myself when I say I’ve let her go. When I say it was her fault we broke up. To face the fact that I’ve consciously or subconsciously compared every woman I’ve dated in the last four years to Addie Bloom, and every last one has come up lacking next to her.
“What did I text you?” she asks the spray of water hitting her front.
Where she has the most glorious breasts known to man.
