Chapter 27 Claire
CLAIRE
Sweat trickles down the back of my neck as I hustle toward the parking lot at the fastest speed I can deem a “reasonable” pace.
Otto knows I’m avoiding him. I know I’m avoiding him. We both know why.
Coach Taylor does not know I’m avoiding Otto. Or why.
And if admitting to my head coach that I had a summer fling with our new assistant coach six years ago would be embarrassing, telling her that I got drunk and showed up at his hotel room door last weekend was absolutely not an option.
When Coach Taylor stopped me after practice on Monday to highlight how well I played against LA and to ask if working with Otto was helpful, I nodded.
So, here we are again.
I’ve avoided looking at him ever since I met the team in the lobby, hungover. I’ve been waiting for him to bring that night up. At the very least to ask for his shirt back.
But he hasn’t. He left when I asked him to, and he hasn’t treated me differently from any other Siege player since, and it’s exactly what I wanted and also driving me insane.
“I liked the clearing crosses drill,” I finally say. “We should run it with Kate and Amanda.”
Otto nods. “I will mention it to Eliza.”
We continue walking. Our cars are the only two parked in the lot—my old sedan and his shiny SUV. The team lifted this morning, but we technically had this afternoon off.
“Nice day,” I comment.
It officially feels like spring. It’s a perfect day really, sunny and warm and bright.
He hums an agreement, and that’s my final straw.
“Are you mad at me?”
“Of course not. Why would I be mad at you?”
If he were anyone else, if we were discussing anything except us, I’d commend him for how neatly he turned the tables on me.
“Because of LA.”
“What about LA?”
I chew on the inside of my cheek. “You know what.”
“If you want to talk about LA, tell me what part you want to talk about.”
“I-I shouldn’t have shown up at your hotel room.”
“You should not have,” he agrees.
“S-sorry,” I stutter, taken aback by that response.
“You do not want me to treat you differently from any other player, right?”
“Right.”
“Then we should stop these sessions. If you need extra assistance, work with Meg.”
“I didn’t ask for your help,” I snap. “Coach Taylor asked—”
“I will talk to Eliza.”
“And tell her…”
Otto scoffs. He might have claimed not to be mad, but he looks pissed. “Do not worry. I will not mention Paris. What is there to say about it?”
Nothing.
There’s nothing to say about Paris. We didn’t part on confusing terms. We ended it.
We said goodbye. And six years later, I still can’t find any closure where Otto Berger is concerned.
Worse, since he showed up, any finality I felt continues to slip away.
I’m more confused every moment we spend together.
“See you tomorrow,” he says, veering toward his car before I can summon any sort of response.
I watch him walk away, the set of his shoulders strong and imperious.
It seems impossible that I could offer Otto Berger anything he doesn’t already have. It’s been well established that our lives were—are—incompatible. I know it. He knows it. So, why is he acting like I let him down in some way by saying so?
I trudge toward my own car, my mood sour despite the sunny weather.
Standing around, wondering, isn’t an option.
I have to pick up Tommy from preschool, and then I was planning to drive to Echo Glen to visit Mom.
There are sprawling gardens surrounding the care facility we can walk through.
The dahlias in the yard are beginning to bloom, and I snapped a photo before leaving the house this morning to show Mom.
I climb into the sedan, turn the key, and…nothing. I repeat the motion, thinking it was a fluke. Still, silence.
“Fuck,” I mumble, resting my forehead against the steering wheel and blowing a long breath that releases every bit of air from my lungs.
I pop my door open, walk to the front of the car, and lift the hood. Everything looks normal, not that I’d know if it didn’t.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, deliberating whether to call Lydia to ask if she can get Tommy or abandon my car here and order an Uber to get to Little Red Wagon.
“It didn’t start?”
My stomach sinks all the way to the asphalt.
Of course Otto didn’t drive off without a backward glance. Of course he’s here, witnessing another humiliating moment.
“No.”
He stops beside me, bare arm brushing mine as he leans over the engine. The brief, innocent touch burns. I stare at the spot, surprised there’s no visible scorch mark on my skin.
“Have you had problems before?”
“No. I mean, yes, it’s an old car. I’ve had to bring it in for repairs before. But nothing recent. It’s never not started before, just made weird sounds.”
He says nothing, appraising the mess of gears and wires and tubes with the easy nonchalance of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing. I’m not sure if he does or doesn’t. As far as I know, his vehicular knowledge only extends to the fast, expensive variety. My ancient sedan is neither.
I gnaw on my thumbnail nervously, waiting for him to say something.
“You need a tow truck,” Otto tells me a couple of minutes later.
My heart sinks. “Oh.”
A tow truck means a serious issue. And likely an expensive one.
“I think it is the timing belt. You will need a new one.”
“Are they exp—will a new timing belt cost a lot?”
Otto studies me. He must be aware of the massive discrepancies in our salaries, but I feel like I revealed too much, asking that.
“It should not be that much,” he answers. “For the part and labor”—he thinks—“less than a thousand?”
I exhale. That’s not great. Not terrible.
“Okay. Thanks.”
“You might want to consider… Other parts of the engine have problems too. Replacing the car would make the most sense.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
I’m not sure I can afford to buy a new car right now.
I haven’t seen Mom’s royalties for this quarter yet.
I haven’t decided if I’ll retire after this season—or what I’ll do with my business degree if I stop playing.
Dipping into the safety net of my savings doesn’t seem like the savviest financial move.
Otto pulls out his phone, types something, and then raises it to his ear. I don’t comprehend why until he relays the address of the Siege’s practice facility and starts talking about timing belts.
In relationships, in friendships, with family, I’m almost always the one to take charge. It’s unsettling, though not in an unpleasant way, to watch someone else manage everything. To fix a problem before I can.
Otto hangs up a few minutes later. “The truck will be here soon.”
“Thank you,” I say sincerely.
He nods, walking back toward his SUV.
I send a flurry of panicked texts to Cassidy, letting her know what’s going on.
I even call my dad’s office directly—something I haven’t done since before the divorce—and talk to a perky receptionist who tells me my sister is in a meeting.
I don’t have a number for the sitter Cassidy hired, and today is her day off anyhow.
I try to reach Lydia, but she doesn’t answer either.
The tow truck arrives while I’m listening to her cheerful voicemail.
I hang up, watching Otto shake hands with the overall-wearing middle-aged man whose name patch reads Wally.
Wally is efficient, loading my car quickly. All I have to contribute is filling out a form and handing him the key. I also pull the booster seat out of the sedan’s back seat since it’s looking increasingly likely I’ll have to pick Tommy up in an Uber.
Cassidy hasn’t called me back by the time the tow truck pulls out of the parking lot. And Otto is still here.
“I can give you a ride,” he says.
Immediate déjà vu.
There’s a noticeable pause, during which I think Otto might be recalling our first meeting too. I should be flattered, I guess, that he remembers the details since he’s undoubtedly met lots of women since.
“I’m fine. Thanks for offering.”
Otto exhales, a muscle in his jaw protruding in an annoyed clench that’s new. “Caldwell, do not be—”
“I have to pick up Tommy from preschool,” I say in a rush, nodding toward the booster seat propped against my calf. “I’ll take a—”
“I will drive you, Claire.”
He’s no longer asking. He’s telling, and he used my first name. Then grabs the booster seat and strides away with a purpose that makes it obvious he expects me to follow.
Nerves prickle my skin as I open the passenger door. His car is brand-new, by the smell of it, with a screen taking up most of the console. He starts the engine by pressing a button.
“Landslide” is playing from the speakers. I glance at him, startled, but Otto’s focused on reversing out of the parking spot.
He brakes at the Stop sign along the side of the lot, grabbing his phone out of the cupholder and passing it to me. “Put in the preschool address.”
His screen background is green. No picture. Just solid color.
I stare at it, then state, “It’s locked.”
“Same passcode.”
It doesn’t occur to me until I tap the numbers and the screen unlocks that I remember his passcode. It’s his birthday.
I open Maps, very tempted to snoop through his three hundred eighty-six unread messages, and enter Little Red Wagon’s address.
Otto doesn’t comment on the fact that I remembered his passcode.
Just like I pretend not to notice “Songbird” playing after “Landslide” ends. Or that the music is streaming from a playlist on his phone, not a random radio station.
I text Cassidy, letting her know that I found a ride, then stare out the window until we reach the preschool.
“You can just pull up…there,” I say, pointing toward the curb that runs parallel to the sidewalk in front of the brick facade.
It’s 3:02, according to the clock on the dash, so I’m only a couple of minutes late.
As soon as Otto stops, I’m out of the car, hurrying toward the front doors.
“Claire! Claire!”
I spin, tracking the shout to the playground. Tommy’s waving at me from the top of the slide, the boy beside him giggling and waving too.
I wave back, walking toward the wood chips. A little girl with matching pigtails joins the two boys, all three talking animatedly.
Tommy glances this way again, his expression lighting up, and he rushes down the slide before running over. I smile at his excitement, until he reaches me.
“Otto’s here?”
I spin toward the SUV. Rather than sitting in the driver’s seat, where I assumed he’d stay, Otto has one of the rear doors open and appears to be installing Tommy’s booster seat in the back.
He’s taking charge again. Annoyance and appreciation coalesce in my chest.
“My car wasn’t working,” I say.
Tommy isn’t listening to my explanation. He’s headed toward the SUV, leaving me to snag his backpack from the pile by the bench, wave a hasty goodbye to Mrs. Combs, and follow behind.
None of the well-dressed moms I pass are staring at me. They’re all focused on the eye candy that is Otto squatting down to talk to Tommy at eye level. His biceps flex as his elbows balance on muscular thighs, and the sight is practically pornographic.
They’ve only met once, but Otto appears perfectly at ease as he chats with my nephew.
“Time to go, Tommy boy,” I announce cheerfully, setting his backpack in the footwell.
Tommy pouts. “I want to stay and play.”
“Not today.”
“Why?”
“Because you can’t today.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m telling you no,” I say in my firmest listen to me or else tone.
Tommy sighs dramatically but climbs in the back seat.
“You should check his seat,” Otto tells me quietly. “Make sure it is installed right.”
I nod, ducking my head in to check the clips and ensure the straps are tight. While I do, Tommy perches on the console and admires Otto’s car.
“This is nicer than Grandpa’s,” he comments as I tuck the seat belt under the arm of his booster seat.
I’m tempted to laugh. I settle on a noncommittal, “Mmhmm,” before stepping back and shutting the door.
Otto’s standing about a dozen feet away now, surrounded by one, two, four women.
One exclaims, “Oh, I loved Berlin!”
I round the trunk and climb in the front seat, feeling young and frumpy, tempted to sniff my shirt to assess how much I smell.
Tommy chats nonstop from the back seat, mostly about his upcoming birthday party, then abruptly asks, “Is Otto your boyfriend?”
I glance over my shoulder. “No. He’s one of my coaches, remember? We’re, uh, friends.”
“I like him,” Tommy continues, blessedly oblivious to how much his question unnerved me. At least he didn’t ask it in front of Otto. “He’s nice.”
“He is,” I agree, watching through the windshield as Otto’s fan club grows to six sophisticated women. “Super friendly.”
Luckily, Tommy has yet to discover sarcasm.
“Can I invite him to my birthday party?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
I exhale. “He’s too old.”
“You’re old, and you’re coming.”
I laugh despite the jealousy seething in my stomach. “I’m your aunt. Otto isn’t related to you.”
“Josh is coming, and he’s old and not related to me.”
Otto’s headed back this way.
“It’s different, Tommy, okay?” I say quickly. “Are you hungry? I might have a granola bar in here…”
I’m happy to have an excuse to lean down and dig through my soccer bag as the door opens and Otto climbs inside. I locate a bar, avoiding eye contact as Otto starts the car.
“Here you go.” I hold the snack out to Tommy.
“I don’t like that kind,” he informs me.
I sigh, tossing it back in my bag. “Okay. I’ll make you something at home.”
“Can we stop at Freeze Palace?”
Otto asks, “What is Freeze Palace?” before I can say, “No.”
“It’s the best ice cream in the whole world,” Tommy announces dramatically.
Otto glances at me. “Do they have non-dairy?”
I’m too startled by the fact that he considered that to speak. I just nod.
“Sounds good to me,” he says, shifting into drive.
Tommy cheers in the back seat.
I assumed the past six years of silence meant he never really cared. I blamed Otto for not fighting for us.
But the truth is, I gave up first.
And for the first time since I left Paris, I allow myself to wonder if that was the wrong choice.