Chapter 36 #2
“I was lonely and melancholy. All this bullshit about Clifton. People praising him like he was a saint when he was just a man. A sad, depressed man who had demons I could not help him chase away.” And dear God, had I tried.
Suggestions of therapy. Constantly monitoring his mood.
His behavior. Trying to navigate him day after day in those final years.
“In that ballroom, I would have never gone further with you if we hadn’t shared a kiss first. When I knew it was you.”
Bolan licks his lips, his shoulders falling finally. “Was it retaliation then? Were you angry at me for my past? For our college days?”
I’m shaking my head before he finishes the question. “No.” The tears in my eyes nearly blind me. “I just wanted a second chance.”
“A second chance at what?”
Love. Although I don’t know that I thought it then, standing in a dark ballroom, kissing a stranger.
Because I hadn’t known then who Bolan Adler really is.
Not his reputation. Not his past. But who he is now.
The father to a sweet girl. A good person trying to right his name. The man I call my husband.
Who kisses me like no one else ever has, and now I worry he never will again.
I make a fist at my lower belly, pressing into the ache that feels like a cement block in my stomach.
Bolan’s eyes catch on the motion, but he quickly looks to the side again. He licks over his top teeth before his jaw clenches.
His phone beeps in his hand. A reminder. It’s time to leave. He has a plane to catch and games to play states away for the next week or so.
“The last thing I need is another scandal.” His voice is hard, even and steady. He lifts his phone, shaking it in my direction. “As my agent, you’ll need to do damage control on this.”
The words cut. As if I’m nothing more than an employee. As if having a child with him would be one more mistake. As if holding onto an experimental kiss from college had been foolish and reckless, and not the fun kind of reckless, but something spiteful, something regretful.
Like he regrets me.
The hurt runs too deep, and I can hardly breathe.
“Me?” My breath hitches. “You spoke to Jared, right?” Jared called the other day to finalize discussions about the milk campaign. Surely, they discussed other things.
“You’re assigned to me. You speak to Jared.”
“Actually, I’m not.”
“What?” Bolan narrows his eyes. His phone beeps again. Another reminder.
“I quit ISM.”
Those eyes widen as big as baseballs. “When?”
I swallow, knowing the truth only digs my guilt deeper. “The day I arrived in California.”
Bolan lifts his hand, ticking off against his fingers like he’s counting back the days or weeks since I’d been there. Or possibly the infractions against me. Then he lifts his entire hand, palm outward, fingers spread, as if five is an important number. “That was weeks ago.”
“I know. Jared promised me he’d talk to you. As Imperial Sports Management represents you, he told me he’d reach out to say you’d been reassigned to him.”
In all the excitement of coming to Chicago early and then Bolan returning home, the fine detail of no longer being his agent slipped my mind.
I hadn’t been acting as his agent anyway other than suggesting to Jared that Bolan should have sponsorships and then I proposed a few brands I thought Bolan might represent.
“But Jared told me you brokered the deal for the milk campaign.”
“I simply made a suggestion on your behalf.”
Bolan continues to stare at me, and I wish I could read his thoughts because his eyes are now hollow. The inviting forest is gone; in its place, is empty, solid black.
“Was this about the money?”
“This?” I question. Does he think I kissed him for money?
“Our marriage.” He swallows thickly.
My mouth falls open, as if I’ve been struck by a fast ball. The unexpected hit so hard I’m speechless a second before the pain settles in.
“Was anything the truth between us?”
“Yes, Bolan.” I step closer to him, but again, he steps back. “I—” I love you and I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’d never hurt him like he thinks—intentionally, for gain. Marrying him for money. Kissing him for retribution.
“I got a nice deal with the Anchors.” He points at his chest. “And now I have sponsorships, and you get a cut.”
The tears on my face have shifted from guilt and grief to hot anger. “A cut?” I choke. “Did you even read the contract you signed with me?”
“Right. Because we have a contract.”
His phone beeps with another reminder notification.
Suddenly, I’m done with this conversation. He isn’t listening. While I see the hurt in his face, he apparently doesn’t see the hurt in mine. And too often, I let my late husband walk over me in similar situations.
“We don’t have a contract, Bolan. We’re married, remember? And I’m here for you. You and that precious little girl.” I glance in the direction of the stairwell and point, implying the second floor.
“You’re here as the second string. And I’m your ticket to the game.”
My head whips back in his direction. I register the wounded tone of his voice, but his words are the final strike. Out and sent back to the dugout.
“You didn’t read the contract, did you?”
His phone dings one more time.
“That’s a low blow, Ruthie. You know I don’t read well.”
Shaking my head, I grit my teeth. “No, a low blow is this: Fuck you, Bolan.” Fuck him and his insinuations and misunderstandings and not offering me grace when I gave it to him.
He was my green.
“Good luck at your games.” That’s not my phrase, but I no longer care. “You need to go.”
There are no more reminders to pop up on his phone. I know because even though I’m not his agent, assistant, or manager, I’ve still set the notifications for him. I’ve still been taking care of him, so he gets where he needs to be when he needs to be there.
Because I care about him.
To my surprise, Bolan turns and chucks his phone down the back hallway. The distinct crash of it hitting the back door and cracking before dropping to the floor echoes back at us.
Then he turns and leaves without saying goodbye.