Page 67 of Her Coach

I snickered as I took another pull from my wine. “Now, you just sound like her.”

“Good.”

“What?”

He pinned me with a look from across the table. “I’m glad that I sound like her. I’m glad she’s not making you feel like taking care of her is your responsibility.”

I blinked. “She’s my mother. Taking care of her comes with the territory.”

He shook his head. “When she’s eighty, sure. But not now.”

I peered back down into my wine glass. I knew he was right. I knew that I needed to get on with my life. I just… didn’t know how.

How was I supposed to just leave my mother like that? After everything she’d been through? After all of the help she gave me processing my grief? After all of the arguments she let me have with her and all of the ugly things I said to her after burying Dad?

I wanted to say all of those things. But before I could, Colton cleared his throat. “After my divorce, I was a mess.”

I turned my attention fully to him, giving him the courtesy he gave me only moments before. Long gone was my thought about food as I sipped my wine, watching the way Colton stared over my shoulder with that stoic gaze of his.

His stare grew unfocused, and I hung onto every word as he spoke. “Drinking. Smoking. Not showering. You name it, I did it at least once. The drinking stuck, and became a frequent flier during my evenings, and one particular evening while I was drinking at a bar not too far from my place…”

I decided to throw him a bone. “I’m familiar with the articles, Colton.” His gaze slowly slid to mine and I cleared my throat. “I mean, if that helps.”

He sighed and threw back the rest of his bourbon. “My point is, grief is a hard thing to process. It can completely take over and cause us to make decisions that we wouldn’t otherwise make. But if there’s one thing I’d never want for anyone around me, it’s to compromise their own life for the sake of my grief. My grief is my responsibility, just as my actions are, and I’m sure your mother feels the same.”

“I know she does,” I said softly, setting my wine glass back down onto the table.

“But…?”

I shrugged. “But she’s my mom. I don’t feel responsible for her grief, but I know Dad would want me to help her. Maybe not at the expense of my entire life, but at least for a little while.”

He nodded slowly. I could tell he wanted to say something else, but instead, he simply settled on, “No one can ever blame you for wanting to help your mother.”

My smile felt weak more than anything else. “Thanks.”

The waiter cleared our appetizer plates without either of us noticing him do it. That was the kind of dinner it was. The kind where the room kept going and we stayed still inside it.

Colton was watching me the way he did when he wasn’t trying to hide that he was watching me. Not a stare. Just attention, steady and unhurried, like he had all night and intended to use it.

“Can I tell you something?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

I looked down at my wine glass. Turned the stem once. “You already know. I saw it on your face in your office, right before Mom walked in.” I looked up. “But I wanted to say it myself. Out loud. On my own terms. Not because you cornered me into it.”

He held my eyes and didn’t say anything. Just waited. That was one of the things about him I was already in trouble over.

“I’ve never been with anyone,” I said. “Like, at all. Twenty-six years old, English Lit degree, bartender, community relations coordinator for a professional hockey team.” I reached for my wine. “Virgin.”

“I know,” he said. Quietly. No weight on it.

“I know you know.” I set my glass back down. “That’s not the point. The point is I didn’t want it to just be a thing you figured out. I wanted to be the one who told you.” I met his eyes. “It’s not precious to me. I don’t have a whole story about it. I just wanted you to have it from me.”

He was quiet for a moment. The restaurant moved around us. Someone laughed at a table nearby, and then it went back to the low hum of other people’s evenings.

“Thank you for telling me,” he said.

“You’re not going to make it weird?”