I might be imagining it, but it looks like his cheeks flush pink.There’s definitely an extra little twinkle in his eyes. “NowthatI would like to see.” He finishes scribbling and flicks the coin tome.
I turn it over to see a black scrawl resembling exactly nothing. “Already smeared. Consider me disappointed.”
“Damn. That’s one less shirt the club sells. Or is it one fewer? I don’t suppose you’re the club’s resident grammarian?”
“Worse: I’m the new social media manager. But, for the record, it’s ‘fewer.’ ”
“Ah, fuck, social media? So this whole exchange is going to end up on Twitter?”
“Not unless you say something interesting.”
“Damn, a devastating reply from the Yank!”
He’s still grinning, still sparkling, but all the blood drains from my face and our rapid-fire exchange grinds to a screeching halt. Seriously, what am I doing, talking to this man like this? I’ve gotten so carried away by the banter that I’ve forgotten the cardinal rule of working for a professional sports team: Do not piss off the athletes. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. That just slipped out. I promise, you are the most interesting thing that has happened to me all day. Week. Millennium.”
“Well now, that’s just sad.”
“After the Spice Girls broke up, it was always going to be downhill for me.”
“Preaching to the choir there, my friend.”
“Seriously, though, I’m so sorry I said that, Mr. Ramsay.”
“If you apologize again, I will tell your boss, just as soon as you help me find her. I’ll not tell you the punishment for calling me Mr. Ramsay again, but it may or may not involve a boat back to the Colonies.”
All right, good, he’s not actually pissed. “To save you time, letme have a quick look at my contract to see if insulting the players makes it more or less likely I’ll be fired on my third day.”
“Actually, I think it’s more orfewerlikely.”
I laugh. “Okay, that’s a good one.” We stand there in silence for a minute and I’m not sure what to do. He’s looking at me funny, with a weird sort of gleam in his eyes, and my knees are beginning to feel distinctively gelatinous. I clear my throat and pretend to notice something important on my computer screen, because anything is better than being on the receiving end of that piercing, curious gaze. “So anyway, you were looking for Charlotte?”
He blinks. “Oh, uh, yeah. We’re supposed to be meeting, but I’m still finding my way around the gaff. It’s all changed from when I was last here.” He moves back to hover in my doorway.
“You’re close, don’t worry. Just go back down the hall, take your first left, and she’s in the office on the corner. Do you think you can handle that, or do you want me to find you some breadcrumbs to mark a trail?”
He laughs again, then narrows his eyes and cocks his head. It’s like he’s appraising me, like I’m a shirt he might want to buy. He looks on the verge of saying something but just closes his mouth, nods, and knocks twice on the doorframe before setting off down the hall.
I go back to Football Twitter with a smile tugging up the corners of my mouth. All of a sudden, I’m a little less hollow.
Chapter Five
The days continue to speedby in a blur, the sensation aided by the fact that I’m still doing my football crash course. It’s like learning a foreign language while also living in the foreign country—and honestly, with how thick some of these accents are in Liverpool, that may as well be the case. But I’m keeping my head above water. For instance, in a meeting with reps from Nike, I learned that what I would call a jersey or a uniform is, in this sport, a shirt, a strip, or a kit, but thatkitcan also be used for all the accoutrements as a whole (like cleats, which are called boots, and balls, which are thankfully still balls).
On Friday, after my last meeting of the day, I return to my office to find a large envelope postmarked from Boston waiting for me. When I open it, out falls a piece of paper folded several times over that opens up to display an elaborate, hand-drawn chart entitled “THE REN-AB-SANCE: ABBY’S GUIDE TO RE-FINDING HAPPINESS.” There’s a Post-it stuck underneath the title: “Dearest Abby, All good quests require good maps. We’ve made this one in the hopes it helps you find what you’re looking for. Love you lots, Erica & Josh.”
The chart has three columns: MOVE BODY, MOVE MIND, and MOVE SOUL. Underneath each is a checklist of fifteen ortwenty items, written in Erica’s meticulous hand and annotated with Josh’s doodles. Some of the items are obvious:Walk a mile, make a new friend, meditate for ten minutes. Some are more whimsical:Buy something you never thought you’d wear. Choreograph a dance routine to Duran Duran. Befriend a local rapscallion.Some are aspirational, to put it mildly:Cook a seven-course meal. Go skydiving. Fall in love.
I run my fingers along the columns of activities and it’s so easy to picture Josh and Erica at their kitchen counter, brainstorming activities to kick-start me out of my funk. I imagine Erica’s initial draft was a series of longer and longer running distances culminating in a full Ironman, whereas Josh’s probably ran more toward the “Make a wish on a falling star” end of the spectrum. But because they are such wonderful complements to each other, the final product is absolutely perfect. I’m seized by a sudden burst of emotion, a short and sharp burning sensation that starts in my chest and escapes in a solitary sob. It’s not exactly sadness—it’s hard to be sad in the face of such thoughtful friends—but I can’t really describe it. Concentrated loneliness mixed with a dash of excitement—what would we call that? Ex-sad-ment?
I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking about loneliness and the different shapes it takes. This is a new one, and it fits nicely alongside the others I’ve recently added to my collection: the loneliness of being alone in a crowded room, the loneliness of watching two people in love bicker about taking the trash out, the loneliness of Netflix asking if you’re still watchingParks and Recreation(for the hundredth time).
The loneliness of knowing that everyone who cares about you is an ocean away.
Josh keeps pressing me to come home for a weekend; I think he and my mom are in cahoots, because every few days I get a textfrom one of them with a picture of Fenway or Harvard Yard or sailboats on the Charles. My friends from the Sox are also maintaining a persistent pressure: I left in such a hurry that all I could do was go out for one last, rushed cocktail with whoever was around. I know they all mean well and just want to have a proper goodbye, but my mad dash for the exit was kind of intentional. In that hazy, miserable fog after the breakup, momentum was the only thing keeping me going. If I had stopped for one second to think, to explain myself, to say goodbye, the whole effort would have fallen apart. And though I’m perhaps marginally more stable now, I’m still not ready. I can’t stop picturing myself standing in front of the departure gate at Logan, unable to board the flight back to Liverpool. Unable to return to this life I’ve started to build out of Scotch tape and dreams and denial. Was it utter foolishness to start from scratch, away from everything and everyone I’ve ever known and loved? Is this the world’s most unusual game of conflict avoidance? It’s entirely possible, but too late to back out now.
I check my watch; it’s past seven and my work is done, but all that awaits me outside of these walls is some reheated lamb curry, an uncomfortable twin bed, and the all-too-familiar frosted tips of the Westlife boys. The Iqbals are away for the weekend, so literally the only thing on my calendar is a phone call with my parents—well, that and all the unscheduled bouts of depression that pop up when I think about the state of my life.
No. I can’t face all that nothingness just yet. I guess that means it’s time to get cracking on the list. The first box under MOVE BODY is simple:Walk a mile. Easy. In a fit of optimism last week, I hauled a gym bag into my office, full of the very best athleisure fashion. I do an aggressively casual stroll through the Comms Department to make sure all my coworkers have left, because thethought of Charlotte Collins seeing me in pink tortoiseshell running tights fills me with existential dread. When I’m sure the coast is clear, I head down to the gym. Like every one I’ve ever been in, it’s full of machines I have no earthly idea how to use. Straps and poles and handles and that weird cushy vinyl, and everything smells vaguely of antiseptic with an undertone of man sweat. And even though I know I’m allowed to be here after training is done and the players are gone, it still feels like a transgression. It’s like I haven’t been at the club long enough to have earned this, as if I’ve just transferred to a new high school and am immediately putting on a mandatory one-woman show in the auditorium. But fuck it.
