2. Liam’s Soccer Game, April 2011 #3
“Oh, no.” She struggled to find words to cheer him up that she hadn’t used before; she’d given him a lot of pep talks.
“It’s fine,” he drawled. “I’ll just have a beer and walk into traffic.”
It bothered her to see Paul being pessimistic. She felt like one of the two of them ought to believe it was possible to make a career in the arts, and it certainly wasn’t her at the moment.
“Are you committed to that beer,” she asked, “or could I make you a cocoa? I made homemade whipped cream earlier for Liam but he didn’t end up coming over.”
He glanced at the beer. “I could have a cocoa. That’s probably going to make me marginally less suicidal.” He tossed the unopened beer back in the refrigerator and slumped against the wall.
As she pulled out the fancy cocoa powder she had gotten for Christmas, she spoke over her shoulder. “Want to watch an action movie? I was lusting after your Speed DVD.”
“The DVD itself or Keanu in a buzz cut?”
“My lawyers have advised me not to answer that question.”
“Fair enough. You make the cocoa and I’ll put on the movie. But I’m stopping it if you lick the screen.”
He walked to their small living room as Sarah spoke casually over her shoulder. “So how long has Ren been playing in your league?”
“Rene Durand? Just a week or two. You know him?”
“We were friends in school.”
“That’s right. I forgot he went to McGill.” She could hear Paul setting up the DVD player. “Yeah, I met him on a shoot, and he was looking to do something active.”
“Don’t tell me he was acting in a film.” She had a horrified vision of Ren booking ‘handsome guy’ roles with no effort while Paul, attractive but not dazzlingly so, struggled to get work.
Paul was a wonderful actor; that was the frustrating part.
He was naturally funny, great at improvisation, good-looking—a bit gangly but handsome, his light brown hair in a charmingly unruly wave on his head.
He was the kind of guy you cast as the cute boyfriend or the relatable lead in a Neil Simon play.
“No, nothing like that. He was the stills photographer,” Paul said.
“He was friends with that chain-smoking director on the indie film… Remember when I played the schoolteacher ex-boyfriend who everyone thought was the killer but was actually just really socially awkward? Ren was shooting stuff for the press kit and we got to talking. He’s a super nice guy.
He looks like he’s going to be a narcissistic asshole, but he’s great. ”
“Yeah, he’s a good guy,” Sarah agreed.
Paul walked back into the kitchen and gave her a pointed look. “Do you have a history with him?” Paul’s expression shifted to horror. “Oh, God, tell me you didn’t sleep with him.”
“No!” She shook her head quickly. “I was just surprised. He and I were friends for a while, and then we weren’t.”
Paul watched her from where he was leaning against the door frame. “What happened?”
“I don’t know.” She considered the question, stirring the cocoa. “I mean I do know. He asked me to sleep with him, and I said no.”
Paul frowned. “And he pressured you, or…”
“No, no, no, nothing like that. I think he just philosophically believed in casual sex, and I didn’t, so when I turned him down it became like this intellectual problem he had with me.”
Paul considered this. “But if it was casual sex, he shouldn’t have minded being turned down, right? I mean, if it was casual, why would he care one way or the other?”
“Huh. I don’t know.”
Sarah thought back to the time when Ren had pulled away from her group of friends.
What had happened, exactly? He had simply stopped coming to their parties.
And since she had rarely been the one who invited him—that was typically Kristie, who invited everybody—Sarah hadn’t fully registered that he was gone at first, especially because she was busy getting back together with Ivan for what proved to be a last, doomed attempt to work things out.
Ren hadn’t announced to her that they were no longer friends.
He had still smiled when they passed each other on campus, still waved when they were in line for coffee near each other.
But he had never approached her again, never come over, never chatted with her in the hallways about art or music.
Had he been stung by her rejection? Was it the fact that she called him a sex addict?
At the time she had chalked it up, perhaps unfairly, to the fact that there was no chance of having sex with her and he had worked his way through all the other available women.
Now she found herself hoping he wouldn’t disappear again. She hoped he wouldn’t leave Paul’s soccer league without a word, giving no reason why. But that was silly. He was married now. And he had chatted with her like everything was normal between them.
“I do like him,” she said firmly. “He’s a good guy. He’s really decent and kind. He’s just a little weird when it comes to women.”
“Weird like…”
“Weird like he was a player. That’s all.”
Paul considered this. “He’s probably grown up since then.”
“I’m sure he has. He’s married.”