Chapter Five Jamie #2
"Nah. I think that was spite." I pout, but I know it's too fond to come across as anything but the adoration it is.
"Even little Harper wasn't going to stand for me being an expert in something she could beat me at.
If I remember correctly, she put her hands on her hips and said, 'I don't want to score like you do. I want to be the one to stop you.'"
"Well, she seems to have succeeded."
I want to believe Mateo is only talking about soccer, and it's possible he thinks he is.
My next breath rattles in my chest anyway.
Nodding gives me a moment to recover and a decent chance to begin an awkward goodbye, but now that he's had a second chance to watch me kick a ball around, I'm curious.
"When's the last time you were on ice?" I ask.
"On ice?"
"Have you skated before? Ever held a hockey stick? Shot a puck?"
Mateo's grin lands somewhere between mischievous and suspicious. "I have skated, though it's been years, and I'm sure I'd be wobbly now. And no, nobody's put a stick in my hands."
"Somebody should take you skating and put a stick in your hands."
"Come on, Jamie. I know you didn't miss the wobbly part of that."
"Okay, then somebody should take you skating and hold you steady before they put a stick in your hands."
Harper returns to us then, sweaty and energized in a way I miss.
She's got her backpack now, and I barely realize I have the soccer ball again before she takes it from me and kicks it back to Mateo.
As she wipes her forehead with her arm, she begs to stop for pizza on our way home, and I agree, even while too much of my attention remains elsewhere.
I don't miss it when Mateo fixes his little bun and never quite looks at me as he responds to what I’d said moments ago.
"I hope somebody does."
Hope is a bitch, but it's all we've got.
The next couple of weeks pass amid contradictions I can't control.
The days leading up to Christmas bring joyful chaos and seasonal depression.
My house is full of chatter when Harper's home and nearly silent when she's gone.
And her soccer games are colder and darker, both dragged out on long tournament days, but I'm welcomed by the bright smiles of other parents and warmed by one careful hello.
Mateo and I haven't had a conversation since the evening I practically suggested a date at the rink. It's enough to be around him for now.
I haven't seen Danielle at all, which is typical.
I've seen several former teammates—and a few favorite opponents—at hockey games, and even more at holiday parties.
There, among a crowd of people who only sort of care, I'm the center of attention until I become easy to forget.
I'm not stupid enough to think it hasn't always been that way.
Coming down from my bullshit highs, I've found myself at Kai's on a few mornings after. I’d texted him back then—after back-to-school night—to say that Mateo and I wouldn’t need those barstools anymore.
Then I’d avoided him for weeks, and he’d let me.
But for as many times as I've been lost, he has never failed to bring me home.
Back to something honest.
Back to the daughter who's laughed more in her childhood than I ever did in mine. I'm glad I did one thing right.
She's at her mom's until late on Christmas Eve. We both sleep in on Christmas morning, but wake up ready for gifts and waffles and far too much hot chocolate. In a few hours, we'll be expected at my parents' house, but for a while it's just Harper and me—and a text from Mateo.
Merry Christmas. I miss you.
I look up to find my kid busy with her own phone, giggling to herself.
She and her friends entertain each other with stories about the presents they got, or the presents they didn't, and how much quality time their families will force on them in the name of holiday cheer.
It gives me time to change Mateo's contact name to M—hardly a difficult code to crack, but slightly less damning at a glance—and then I tap out half a response.
Merry Christmas to you
Ignoring the rest, I mumble something to Harper and leave to take a shower.
Because there are some things I can count on, New Year's Eve comes days after that.
Over the past week, I've been to a soccer game and a hockey game and to the bar twice.
Now, Harper and Lizzie are at Kate's for the night, and I'm alone without believing for a second that it's a good idea.
I try to get invested in any of the celebrations being broadcast from across the country, but nothing holds my attention for long.
For a moment, I consider getting dressed just to take my clothes off with a stranger, but there are better levels of stupid within reach tonight.
I pour myself a strong drink. Then another.
I watch old episodes of a melodramatic teen drama.
A third drink is paired with the laziest version of a charcuterie board anyone has ever seen, and a fourth gets carried upstairs when I decide I don't want to fall asleep on the couch.
I'm not drunk, but I'm not sober, and once it's officially January, I pick up my phone.
If I'm supposed to make a resolution about the man who isn't ready to be my friend, it'll have to wait until tomorrow.
Mateo doesn't answer when I call, maybe because he's busy partying in all the ways I'm not.
Maybe it's because he's already asleep. A moment later, I swallow hard and wonder whether I'm Jamie or Jameson Sinclair or Harper's Dad in his phone, and why he’s ignoring every version of me.
Whatever the reason, he's telling me to leave a message, and I do exactly that.
Hey, I—it's New Year's Eve. Well, technically, it's New Year's Day, I guess?
But it's the middle of the night, and I need to tell you—fuck—it's—you said you miss me.
On Christmas. You said you miss me, and you can't do that.
I miss you every fucking day, but I will deal with it and pretend to be okay with waiting, but I need you to pretend, too.
I need to believe you're okay. Because it hurts so much, and I don't want you to hurt like this.
And I know—I know you do. We had one perfect night, and I was ready for a lifetime of everything else, but I can't—you can't remind me you feel the same way.
It hurts. You miss me, and it hurts. I'm sorry.
I don't think that's why I called you, but it's fine. Happy New Year, Mateo. I miss you, too.
By the time I wake up, I remember little of what I said, and he hasn’t called back to fill me in. At Harper's next game, I get the same careful hello, and it's still enough to be near him for now.
My birthday comes and goes after Harper and I celebrate with dinner at my favorite seafood restaurant.
As her soccer season winds down, she gets more playing time, even starting twice.
Danielle reappears when they make the playoffs, a habit I'm familiar with from years ago.
When she sulks at their defeat, that's familiar, too.
I shrug her off from where I stand, closer to a few parents I've started talking to, and further away from my ex and the man who just feels like one.
Harper is upset by the loss in the way most competitors would be, but she's proud of everything she’s learned.
I'm proud of her too, and selfish when I count the nine months we’ll wait to start again.
It would be a good time to take Mateo skating, but my leg throbs and my chest tightens.
A couple of weeks later, on the night of the soccer banquet, I do everything wrong.
It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last.
The banquet is an opportunity to recognize the team and everything they've accomplished over the past several months.
Everyone gets a little dressed up, and there's a nice catered dinner, and the coaches give out awards.
I take pictures of Harper with her teammates, and of Harper with Mateo.
When she runs off for selfies with friends, I shake Mateo's hand and congratulate him on a successful season.
His thumb brushes against my skin like it had on the bench, and I pull away before I can ask him to meet me there again.
Then I find myself in a conversation with Melanie Bishop, the gorgeous single mother of the team's leading scorer.
We've talked at games, but there's something different in her eyes now.
She's intent when she wraps her small hand around my elbow and laughs at something that isn't all that funny.
Women have flirted with me since long before it was appropriate to do so, and I recognize it easily now.
When I flirt back, I swear it's because I want her to be someone else.
And not because that same someone else is watching.
Nothing really happens—not there in the middle of my daughter's high school soccer banquet.
But Melanie wants me to text her sometime, and she wants me to meet her for drinks sometime after that, and she's told me enough about where she lives for me to know she wants me to take her home sometime after that.
Nothing really happens, but ten minutes later, when Mateo barely waves goodbye to Harper from across the room, I think maybe I flirted enough to ensure that two of us will have trouble keeping dinner down.
There's no good excuse for me to see him after I leave that night.
I only hear about his English class and consider revisiting the classic literature I dodged in my youth.
With soccer behind us for now, I find myself waiting for a formal email requesting an in-person meeting about my daughter's academic performance, but none come.
I hope for the kind of holiday when he might miss me again, but a look at the calendar confirms none of those are coming either.