Tiebreaker (It Takes Two 2)

Six years and that British accent still has the power to kick my legs out from under me. He slides his hand between my legs and I’m dangerously close to taking him up on his offer––God knows it’s been a while.

Oliver treats sex like it’s an Olympic-level competitive sport and he’s looking to medal every time. The sex is great––when it happens, that is. Because unfortunately it comes around about as often as the actual Olympics.

There are only so many times I can initiate and be told he has an early morning workout, is tired, or something to that effect without starting to believe that I’m the problem. That maybe he’s no longer attracted to me.

“Maybe now would be a good time to get married,” he murmurs close to my ear.

My body goes instantly cold. Every muscle I possess contracts and draws tight while my tongue lays useless inside my mouth as I sort out how to respond.

History has shown that this has the potential to blow up into a monster argument and I really don’t have it in me right now. Events in the last forty-eight hours have taken a toll on my patience and I’m liable to say things I can’t unsay.

Oliver releases me and drags a hand through his thick chestnut hair, a few threads of silver along his sideburns the only sign he’s nearing forty. “I guess that answers my question.”

“We have a good thing here. It works…most of the time.” I flash him my trademark smile, forcing it to stay up by sheer muscle alone when he doesn’t smile back. “Why ruin it with marriage? Didn’t you say that to me once?”

“I was young and stupid then.” In a frustrated gesture, he crosses his arms and pouts.

When Oliver and I met, I still had a gaping hole where my heart used to be and he was in the prime of his life, young, handsome, and successful. We had everything in common––tennis, an insatiable drive to succeed, and most importantly no time for anything other than our careers. Neither of us had marriage in mind. Neither of us broached the subject for years. Now it’s all he talks about.

I leave him to swipe the toiletries from the bathroom counter. Hugging as many as I can against my body, I carry them back to the bag and drop them in. Oliver reaches over and roughly zips it up.

“How does Spain sound?” I throw out in an effort to steer this conversation away from the danger zone. Being relentlessly stubborn is a great quality in a trainer, not so much in a boyfriend. His pouty frown persists. I drape my good arm around his neck and pull him in for a quick kiss.

“Bali,” he counters without losing any of his stiffness.

Sometime later, he helps me into the SUV waiting to take me to Kennedy Airport. “I’ll arrange for a car to pick you up at Will Rogers.”

“No, don’t. I can get a rental,” I tell him. “Don’t forget any of my gear.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

A quick peck on the lips is all I get as a goodbye. No, “I’ll miss you.” No, “I love you.” There are no false promises, or empty endearments between us. We’re both realists and the reality of our relationship is that it works as it is. Not every relationship is meant to inspire tragic love songs, or poetry. I learned the hard way that those burn hot and fast and leave a wake of destruction in the end.

You want poetry? In tennis, Love means zero. I call that poetic.

Oliver shuts the door and steps back, stuffing his hands in the front pocket of his jeans. As the SUV pulls into traffic, my composure cracks. Tears well in my eyes as I stare out the window. Oliver and the rest of the bodies tightly packed together on the sidewalks of Manhattan become a smear of color. My chin trembles, and my jaw aches from the fight to hold back the feelings rushing to the surface.

It’s not a surprise. He’s been sick for a long time. But it doesn’t make it any less devastating. Rowdy’s gone, taking with him a chunk of my heart…the little I had left.

Chapter Two

Maren

As soon as I step out of Will Rogers Airport, the heat slaps me in the face. It’s sharper, a little bit drier than it was in New York. Cruel in its own way. A man in a dark suit calls out, “Miss Murphy?” Oliver has never been good at listening. The driver takes my bags and opens the door to his SUV. A minute later, I’m on my way home.

I don’t go home. Not often. And when I say not often I mean I’ve been home only a handful of times since I transferred from the University of Oklahoma to UCLA ten years ago. I don’t go home with good reason. Because home is where the heartbreak is.