Page 55 of Hard to Love

Just to hear his voice one more time.

STEVIE

MY DAD WAS THE ONE who handled the heat of the media for me. He’d interrupt the harsh questions, stop the errant interviews, and protect me from the negativity.

He handled all the tough decisions about my career. The contract negotiations, the fees to be charged for endorsements, and the day-to-day management of my training.

He thought for me when I didn’t want to think so that all I had to focus on was the game of tennis. The next match. Perfecting my stroke. Learning my opponents’ weaknesses and strengths.

If there is one thing I’ve learned in the past two months—hell, in just sitting here and being forced to listen to the noise in my own head during the past five days—it’s how much, in fact, my father did do for me.

And now it seems he also tried to protect me from the woman who birthed me but never cared to mother me.

I couldn’t sleep last night after my tears had dried and my resolve had replaced them. Instead, I moved to the railing of this deck and watched the moon reflect off the froth of the waves and forced myself to feel.

The pain of losing my dad.

The anger regarding my supposed mom.

The fury over her coming forward and starting bullshit that after sitting back and thinking about it, changes absolutely nothing other than if she is my mom, she’s made her desires more than clear—money. At no point has she attempted to reach out to care for me. To love me in my loss. She’s just asked for money.

I forced myself to feel all the emotions when for the past two months I’ve numbed them with alcohol and by surrounding myself with people who wouldn’t leave me alone too long so that I could.

I took the mental steps to take my life back.

And I will.

With a soft smile, I sit in one of the lounge chairs with my eyes closed and hope I didn’t just make a huge mistake. It’s taken me a few days and a lot of tears, but it’s definitely time I face everything head-on. It’s only then that I can move forward without it hanging over my head. At least I hope so, because I can’t undo the steps I took moments ago. The phone call I made is over and done with.

Maybe that’s why I did it. There’s definitely no turning back now.

I hear Finn before I see him when he steps out on the deck. In fact, I’ve been listening to him in some way or another all morning as he’s moved from one phone call to the next with Zoom meetings in between. There was a call to calm a client down, another to help clean up a mess someone made, and a third to introduce and possibly recruit another athlete to his firm.

There was something comforting about listening to him. The professionalism and authority with which he spoke. Two things that I’m more than certain he treated me with but that I was too wrapped up in breaking all the rules—in numbing myself—that I dismissed it and him.

And that was only a week ago.

It feels like a lifetime.

For some reason, I close my eyes when he approaches me from behind. Maybe I need a second more with my decision—more time for it to get set into motion—before I tell him and it can be stopped. Because that’s one thing I have to give him, he hasn’t pushed other than the grilled cheese night. Although I’m occupying his house and interrupting his life, he’s given me the space and distance I need to figure this all out in my head.

I jolt at the sound of the splash and then startle seconds later as drops of water hit me. But when I open my eyes, Finn isn’t standing there in his pool smiling at me like I expected. Instead, he’s headed toward the other end of the pool. His hands slice through the water in powerful strokes, his broad back and shoulders rippling like the water and his legs kicking before his body folds in some sort of elaborate turn when he hits the end.

And when he hits the near wall, he does the same flip turn without stopping to look up.

He swims laps with a purpose that I can relate to. There’s efficiency to his movements that makes me think he’s not only getting his exercise in but is also solving a million problems in his head.

I may be guilty of doing something similar when I’m conditioning. Going over conversations I need to have, rehearsing them with each step, or reliving a match in my head so I can learn where I messed up.

I’m not sure how long he swims for, but I’m mesmerized by him as he does. Perhaps it’s because it gives me something to concentrate on other than my own thoughts, and perhaps because my body is reacting to the sight of him when it feels like it had died over the past few days.

Or maybe it’s just because sitting on a deck that overlooks the beach while watching an attractive man exercise feels like something a normal twenty-four-year-old woman would do.

And God, how I need life to feel normal.

I emit a chuckle he can’t hear and lean my head back, eyes closed, so the sun that just broke through the morning clouds can warm my cheeks.

The splashing stops at some point and for reasons I don’t understand, I opt yet again to keep my eyes closed. Is it because I’m embarrassed—he’s seen me at my lowest these past few days—or is it simply because the man clearly stirs something in me? Something that I almost feel guilty for feeling when so many other parts of my life need to be settled.