Chapter 8
Vanessa
eight
. . .
A groan fills the bar. I scoff, and Bex rolls her eyes.
“Get with the program, babe,” she teases. “It’s Saturday. It’s time to watch college football.”
We’re at a Michigan bar in Charlestown, and even though it’s nice to be surrounded by the maize and blue, I’m not really feeling it.
“Yeah, well, there’s a hockey game on.” I turn my attention back to the game on my phone. It’s much more interesting, especially because my college football team is out of the playoff picture. After winning the national championship twice in five years (including my senior season), the guys have played particularly poorly the last few years.
“Okay, bitch. Please. We need to talk,” Elsy cuts in. “I love hockey. You know I do. But you can’t seriously be watching your boy-toy play rather than hanging out here with us and enjoying the evening.”
“I am enjoying the evening,” I mutter.
“I love Mitch with my whole heart. I do,” she says. “But if it came down to watching him play, or living my life? I’d live my damn life, every fucking time. Because I’m worth more than living vicariously through him. He doesn’t define my life. I’m worth living for me.”
“That’s different. Mitch is your best friend. Sven is…”
“He’s not the only person in the world,” Bex says gently. “I don’t care if you’re dating or whatever, he doesn’t own you. We still get part of you, too.”
“I work for the team. It’s not just watching my ‘boy-toy’ as you call him. It’s keeping up with my job.”
It’s been two weeks since Sven and I “started dating,” as I phrased it to my friends. Not much has changed. I go to work, I do my job, I come home. We don’t talk at the training facility. He’s busy with his own stuff.
It almost feels anti-climactic. Like… this is it? I just go back to my regular life?
I look down at my phone again, and Sven is on the ice. He’s an excellent power forward, and he’s on a six-game points streak. He’s scored a goal in four out of the last six games since we decided we’re dating.
Maybe this isn’t such a bad idea after all.
The girls convinced me to go out tonight. Bex’s Ph.D. program is year-round, so she doesn’t get a lot of time off, and Elsy typically works weekends at the symphony, so it’s even more rare that the three of us are able to be together on a Saturday evening. Despite the fact that we all live together, I barely ever see them, and definitely not both at the same time.
My phone vibrates as Boston scores a goal. It’s not Sven this time—it’s Reynolds, the new guy. I like him. Sometimes he’s a little out there, but for the most part, he’s chill.
With a sigh, I look through my phone at the text chain I have with Sven. I’ve reached out a few times, and he only responds with a thumbs-up or a quick one- or two-word phrase. He doesn’t have a problem communicating in English; he has a problem communicating in general.
I don’t know what to make of it.
Is it too much for me to want my fake boyfriend to occasionally talk to me?
Flagging down the waiter, I order another drink.
And another.
Two hours later, I’m more than a little tipsy when I get out of the rideshare. Although I have Sven’s address—it was on the relationship declaration form—I haven’t been to his place. The neighborhood is not what I expect of a twenty-seven-year old athlete earning several million dollars a season.
We’re in a tucked-away corner of Beacon Hill. The brick buildings are picturesque and cute. Sven’s building has two flower boxes of purple, blue, and pink asters overflowing from the ground-floor windows. It looks well-maintained, no weeds or dying flowers.
The door behind me slams shut, and I jump.
“Can I help you?”
The voice is older, heavily accented. Its owner is a small woman with dark hair in a braid halfway down her back. She’s leaning on a cane, her body clearly frail, but when I meet her eyes, I see she’s definitely in control of her faculties.
“I—I’m—” I shiver, pulling my lightweight cardigan around me. The late October wind is colder than I expected.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she says with finality.
“Oh?” I tilt my head.
“He doesn’t want you here.”
“Who?”
Her dark eyes narrow. “I think you know who.”
The door behind me creaks open, and I look over my shoulder to see Sven standing on the front stoop. A frown mars his beautiful face.
“Vanessa,” he says with absolutely no inflection. “Come inside.”
The inside of the house is white. There’s black wooden flooring and a gray shoe rack in the foyer. There are no pictures, no artwork, nothing on the walls. No clutter. A small console table—black—is off to the side, and even the keys and wallet on it are neatly organized.
“This is your—wow.” I take a step further into the townhouse and gape.
His living room is comfortably minimalist. More black wooden flooring. More white walls. A brick fireplace makes up the center focus of the room, and there’s a giant flat-screen TV anchored to a wall. A black leather sectional sofa occupies the majority of the room.
There’s greenery everywhere. Even after the flowers in the windowsill, I wasn’t prepared for the inside of his house to be alive with flora.
“Why are you here?” Sven asks.
He looks tired. He’s wearing his post-game suit, though the tie has disappeared, the top two buttons at his throat undone. His blond hair is disheveled, falling loose to his shoulders.
“I—you—we—” I wobble to the left.
“You’ve been drinking,” he says. There’s a faint note of disapproval in his voice.
“I’m not working. I’m allowed.”
He sighs, turning on his heel and disappearing into the next room. The click of his dress shoes on the floor sends sparks of electricity up my spine. I love a man in a suit. I love a man who knows how to dress.
Following him, I enter the most gorgeous kitchen I have ever seen.
Like the other room, everything is white. White marble countertops, tall white cupboards, and gleaming silver appliances anchor the kitchen. The cabinets are even tall, like they were custom made for him.
Which—frankly, with his salary? They might be.
Sven reaches into a cupboard, withdraws two glasses, and fills them from the water dispenser in the fridge door. He hands one to me and then sinks onto a black wooden stool across the bar from the range.
“Why are you here?” he asks again. This time he sounds cautious.
“We’re dating,” I tell him.
“Yeah? And?”
“And we need to date.” Nodding emphatically, a tuft of hair slips out of my ponytail.
Sven leans forward, tucking the strand behind my ear. “Is that what you want?”
My mouth goes dry.
“I—”
“This is your idea,” he says gently. “But I don’t want to get you in trouble with work.”
“The declaration form is on file. We’re fine. It’s all above board.” I shake my head. “Is that why you haven’t talked to me in two weeks?”
He shrugs. “What do you want me to say?”
I stare at him.
He stares back.
Finally, I shake my head. “I’m too drunk for this conversation.”
He mutters something under his breath.
“What was that?”
He shakes his head.
“No, really, tell me.”
Sven glares at me. The full force of his green eyes bore into me like they can see inside my soul.
“I said, I’m too autistic for this conversation.”