“No isn’t one of the options, Chalmers,” he says. “Tina’s been counting on this. She made sure the nanny’s on until late tonight. You’re coming.”
“Got it,” I say, forcing a smile. I hope I can convince Hailey, too. Guess we’ll find out in a minute.
When I get out to the area where friends and family are waiting, I pause, scanning the space for Hailey. She’s in her usual spot toward the back, almost in the corner, like she’s notsure she has the right to be here. The thought occurs to me with a mixture of shame and anger.
How does she not realize that Iwanther here? That she has as much right to be here as Marissa or Maggie or Tina or anyone else? That if I didn’t want her here, she’d have no doubt about that?
Have I not been clear enough?
I guess not. I thought I had, but I’m realizing that my idea of clear communication isn’t enough. At least, not for Hailey. Not with her abandonment issues. Because that’s what this all boils down to, doesn’t it? She’s convinced that everyone will abandon her.
And why wouldn’t she be? Everyone already has. Her parents checked out when Hunter died. Every other relationship she’s had has ended. I barely kept in touch, leaving her to her parents’ neglect. And now? Our current relationship was initiated with the pretext that it would end eventually. That it was temporary until she could get back on her feet, then we’d divorce. And while I never meant that I would pretend she didn’t exist after that, why wouldn’t she assume as much?
Something’s changed, though. Somewhere between her moving here, agreeing to marry me, and now … I stopped wanting to let her go, even once she gets established enough to make it on her own.
Now I just need to figure out a way to convince her of that …
She spots me, and her face lights up for just a second—her usual reaction to seeing me after a game—but she shuts it down just as quickly, her uncertainty taking over.
I hitch up my own smile, though I’m aware it probably looks forced. It’s just not for the reasons I know she assumes. Crossing the distance between us, I pull her into a hug and kiss her on the cheek. I don’t want to risk a kiss on the lips yet. I’m afraid she’ll react badly. And the fact that I’m worried I’ve forced myself onher is in the back of my mind, and it makes touching her at all feel like I’m crossing invisible boundaries.
We really need to sit down and talk. Unfortunately, that won’t happen tonight. “Hey,” I say, trying to keep my voice normal. “Everyone’s going out to the Salmon. Apparently Tina has decreed that we all have to go. Are you okay with that?”
“Oh, uh …” Her hesitation makes me quail, but I do my best to maintain a calm facade as she studies my face. “If you want to …”
“It’ll be fun,” I say, trying to sound convincing, though I’m not sure if I manage it. “Like last time. We’ll have a few drinks. I know you’ve been busy lately, so if we need to leave on the early side, we can.”
“Um, yeah, that’s … uh, that should be fine.”
I manage to pull off a more convincing smile, at least I’m assuming so based on the tentative but genuine smile she gives me. “Great. Let’s head to the car. We’ll grab some tables for everyone.”
“O-okay.” I hate that I’ve reduced my usually confident and easygoing Hailey to a stammering, uncertain shell of herself. But I’m determined to make it right. Somehow.
We’re not the first ones to get to the Salmon—Jenkins and Bowman got there first, and they already have drinks. “Chalmers!” they shout when I walk in, Hailey trailing behind me.
I want … I want to hold her hand, but I don’t know how she’d feel about that. And I can’t ask her. Not now. Not here in front of everyone. I was hoping we’d get here first so I could ask, but …
I should’ve asked in the car. I thought about it, but she was talking about the game—nervous babbling, really—and I didn’t want to interrupt her or make her feel like she couldn’t talk. We’ve had so much radio silence that I don’t want to interrupt any communication that spontaneously occurs.
But now I’ve missed my window, and I don’t know how to act.
“Want me to get you a drink?” I ask in a low voice as she claims a seat.
“Oh, uh, yeah. That’d be great.” She asks for the same thing she got last time we were here, and I head to the bar to place our order.
When I get back, she’s chatting with Jenkins and seems relaxed for the first time since I got back the other night. I claim the seat next to hers, nonchalantly stretching my arm out along the back of her seat. But when she glances at me, I find a way to pull my arm back, adjusting so I’m leaning forward like I want to participate in the conversation. That way, it’s not obvious I pulled my arm down in response to her look.
See? This is why I wanted to talk about how I should act with her tonight. I don’t want to broadcast that there’s trouble in paradise, but I also don’t want to make her uncomfortable, and finding the balance between those two extremes is … more challenging than scoring on the best goalie in the league.
Soon, though, the space fills in, and conversation is flowing across multiple groups of people. I keep an eye on Hailey, visually checking in with her as I chat with Abernathy, Bowman, and the others as they show up. But she’s happily in a conversation with Marissa, Jenkins still hanging around the edges. There don’t appear to be any single women here, which is who he’d usually be going for.
After I finish my first drink, I notice that Hailey only has a little left of hers, so I stand and move to the bar to order us another round, choosing to wait at the bar as Ryan makes her cocktail and gets me a new beer.
As I’m standing there, I feel a hand slide over my shoulder, and I turn, happily expecting to see Hailey. But instead I’m met with long, red nails—Hailey keeps her nails shortand unpolished because of the violin—and a woman I don’t recognize. She’s pretty, but she’s not Hailey.
“Hi,” she says, smiling widely. “You’re Jason Chalmers, right?”
“Uh, yeah.” I dip my shoulder, hoping she’ll take the hint and remove her hand, but she doesn’t. “You a fan?” Hopefully she just wants a selfie or maybe an autograph and then will move along.
