So maybe my chances for soul-deep love were next to null.
But that didn’t mean that I couldn’t root for these two.
Minivans and white picket fences and heels getting stuck in the sidelines of a little league game.
There was hope for love in the world.
You had to appreciate it when you saw it, even if it wasn’t your own.
“Fenway has called down every ten minutes since you walked out the door asking when his fellow inmate will return. His last call requested a game of Monopoly when you return,” Jules informed me. “Where he gets the idea that we would even have a game of… can I help you?” she asked as a door opened and closed behind me, making me turn half-away, self-consciously hiding my messed up face.
“Delivery,” the man informed us, wearing what seemed to be bike messenger gear, complete with a big black bag hanging to his side, the strap across his chest reinforced with bright metallic duct tape.
“For whom? I have no notes about deliveries,” Jules said, standing straighter.
In response, the man reached into his bag, pulling out, I shit you not, a brand-spanking new wrapped game of Monopoly.
“That guy is smooth,” Kai said, signing for it when Jules just crossed her arms, clearly not amused. “You gotta give him credit for that, right?” he asked, reaching for a tip for the guy, then holding out the board game to me as the man left. “Just remember,” Kai told me, everything about him serious. “Park Place is never a good investment.” Then he broke into a big, happy grin, one that seemed very common for him. Even the somewhat clueless Jules sent him a half-smile before going back to work.
“I think I can count on Fenway to make a silly, ostentatious purchase such as that.”
“That’s right. Play to his weaknesses,” Kai said, pretending like a friendly time-passing game of Monopoly was of utmost importance. “Jules said she is ordering in from Famiglia tonight,” Kai said, referencing the local upscale Italian place. “Maybe I can come up and join you guys.”
There was something in his voice, something very un-Kai-like, or seemed to be, but it was not something I could place.
“Yeah, sure. The more, the merrier.”
“I don’t understand how you keep winning!” I growled an hour and a half later, four games deep into some unexpectedly competitive rounds of Monopoly.
I never lost at board games.
Back when my father was alive, he insisted that every Saturday night was board game night. The three of us, and friends if I had any available, sat down around a pop-up table in our living room with Monopoly, Clue, Game of Life, Scattagories, Scrabble, Pictionary, Trivial Pursuit, Battleship, Risk. You name it, we played it. And my parents were not of the mind that you should let children win just because they are children. I learned to lose. And I learned to hate losing enough to figure out how to win.
Monopoly, especially, was my jam.
I couldn’t remember the last time I lost.
And yet Fenway kept beating me effortlessly, not seeming even to be paying full attention to the game, looking over at a Law & Order: CI rerun on the TV most of the time.
“This is what I do,” he said, giving me one of his charming smiles.
“Win at board games?”
“Buy and sell real estate,” he countered, eyes dancing as I small-eyed him.
“No wonder you picked Monopoly! I bet I would kick your ass in Risk.”
“Dunno, sweetheart. I’ve been on every one of those continents.”
“Fine. Scrabble!” I insisted, watching as he shuffled the money into piles to put away.
“I could beat you. In three languages,” he shot back, nothing about him prideful at the boast, just relaying facts.
“I hate you so much right now,” I declared, shaking my head as he closed the box, and tossed it under the coffee table.
“Sore loser?”
“No! Not sore. I just like to win sometimes.” Or all the time. All the time was good too. It just really sucked to lose every time the first time you played board games in years.
If there was an afterlife, my father was there tisk-tisking at me.
“Oh, that must be dinner,” Fenway declared as the beep of the alarm system could be heard through the door.
The door pressed open, and in walked Kai, carrying three bags, and a bottle of wine under his arm.
“You old enough to drink?” Fenway asked, taking it from him with a smile, moving toward the kitchenette to grab the corkscrew, knowing exactly where it was. Y’know, because he had been in hideout here more than a time or two.
“Ha ha,” Kai said, spreading the plastic to-go containers across the coffee table, then pulling it closer as Fenway filled up coffee cups with the wine since actual glassware was not something they kept stocked up here. “How you doing, pretty lady?” Kai asked, sitting right down in the center of the couch, seemingly as a barrier between Fenway and me, even though both of us stayed respectfully pressed to our own sides of the couch.