After the tow truck arrived, I said good riddance, but Nathan showed up at my place after midnight, swore he wouldn’t do it again, and made a public scene on the front steps until his agent arrived (again) and carted him off to a “spa” for a month-long rest.
As for me, I erased Nathan’s number from my phone.
Clean break is the best way to go.
My jaw clenches as I rewind past that night to too many nights when I was younger, too many lies from people I trusted. But as I hit the bridge, the Pacific Ocean spreading out to the west, the bay to the east, I leave those lies behind—those from men, those from family.
Once I reach the city, I cruise over to Russian Hill, snag a sweet spot on the street, and meet my mom and her husband for lunch at one of our favorite cafés.
Inside, I drop a kiss to Mom’s cheek—we have the same dark brown hair and the same color eyes—then hug Tyler and ruffle his sleek black hair. The dude has locks like a K-Pop star in his fifties. “Ty, I know Mom likes you for you, but it’s hard to believe the hair didn’t factor into her saying I do.”
Mom brings her finger to her lips. “Shhh. He doesn’t know I married him for his hair,” she whispers. “Don’t tell anyone.”
“I get it. There’s nothing like a full head of hair on a man,” I say.
Tyler flicks his hair around like a shampoo model. “If you’ve got it, flaunt it.”
I love that these two are so into each other eight years after tying the knot. My mom deserves it after the shit she went through with my dad.
Scanning the table, I spot a glass of water with my name on it, and I lift it and toast, “I’ll drink to the two of you and the start of baseball.”
“Let’s all drink to that,” she says, and both of them raise their glasses.
Just a few more days till Arizona, and that means it’s nearly time for blinders.
Family, friends, and baseball.
I’m seeing family now, and then tomorrow I’ll head to New York to visit some friends before spring training begins.
That is all I need.
That is all I want.
Things I’ve learned about good friends: they will always take you out after a breakup.
Things I’ve learned about breakups: pool makes everything better, and it’s a necessity since most dates don’t work out. Most men don’t amount to much. And it’s a good thing too. Balancing a man and this life would be hard.
I circle the table, then line up the shot at The Lucky Spot in Chelsea, where I play the game with my buddy Fitz and his sister.
“Bet you miss,” he rumbles as I pull back the cue, the red ball in my crosshairs.
“Yeah, because my eye-hand coordination is soooo bad,” I drawl as I take aim at the white ball, hit it, then send the red ball into the corner pocket. I gloat at the pro hockey star, squaring my shoulders. “Take that, player of a less popular sport.”
“Ouch,” he says, wiggling his fingers like I’ve scared him. “Also, that was a lucky break.”
Emma laughs, leaning against the corner of the table, nursing the tail end of a margarita. “James, you do realize this is the third game in a row where Declan has destroyed you?” She’s the only person who calls James Fitzgerald by his first name. Everyone else, present company included, shortens his last name.
Fitz scoffs, shrugging off his sister’s most accurate scorekeeping. “I won the first game.”
“The first game last night,” I point out.
Emma holds up a palm to high-five me, and I smack back. I return my laser sights to the table, moving around it to send the purple ball, then the orange one, to their homes before I miss with the green.
“Damn,” I mutter.
“Have you considered that maybe I let you win the other games because I felt sorry for you on account of your douche of an ex?” Fitz asks as he strikes the cue ball square in the center, knocking it against a striped ball that spins straight into a corner pocket.
“You are so damn competitive that even if you felt sorry for me, you don’t have it in you to let someone win,” I say.
He growls. “Dammit. You’re right.”
I pat my chest. “Ergo, I won fair and square.”
Fitz raises his right arm and points to the side of the table. “A hundred bucks says I hit the blue stripes into the center pocket.”
“What are you, Babe Ruth calling your shot? Five hundred bucks says I crush you in this game.”
“How about both of you sit in the corner in time-out for beating your chests like boys?” Emma asks with a laugh. “It’s just a game. Who cares?”