24. Cassandra
What happenedin Vegas should have stayed in Vegas.
“Ollie?” I asked a harried-looking man in a business suit, gesturing down to the chunky corgi running circles around him.
The man handed over the leash, phone glued to his ear.
“Yeah. I’m heading in. No, I don’t have that paperwork yet. Give me a minute,” he barked to the person on the other end of the line. “This is Ollie. He needs at least three miles, or he’ll whine through my two o’clock meeting. Just text when you’re back.”
Without another word, the man turned and walked back into the office building.
“Looks like it’s just you and me, Ollie.” I patted the pup on the head and took off down the street.
Playing Diego’s fake girlfriend definitely had its perks. Night club openings, free booze, the occasional box seat with catered meals, but it didn’t pay the rent. Or the utilities, rather. Becca would pay if I called, but she’d also give me a long speech about responsibility that would nicely dovetail into her second favorite person to worry about, Diego, and my distracting presence in his life.
Increasingly distracting presence based on the conversation we’d had the week before.
So, I’d fired up a dog walking app I’d relied on in Boston and taken a few clients. Mostly business professionals whose pandemic puppies now trawled office floors and needed to be taken out at regular intervals. It was an easy gig, and during business hours when the boredom of being alone in an apartment got to me, I could at least make a couple of bucks.
I pressed play on an audiobook and aimed us toward the tourist district, eager to distract myself from the football game in Cleveland.
Diego wanted me in the stadium, but with Lena staying in Norwalk for the weekend and utility bills looming, I offered to housesit instead. Las Vegas had shaken my resolve that I could even fulfill the contract.
Diego was a born flirt. Hell, so was I, and had we continued to teeter on the line between friendship and sex, I probably could have ridden out the season, moved back to Boston or New Hampshire or wherever I wanted to go next with a good story and an intact heart. But now…well, I excelled at complicating things. At attracting the wrong man at the wrong time, even if he didn’t realize it.
A jaunty chime interrupted the audiobook I wasn’t listening to. I pressed the side of my earphone to accept the call.
“Oh, you’re answering your phone now?” Becca barked before I had a chance to greet her.
I grimaced. “Hey, sister.”
“Don’t you, ‘hey sister’ me, Cassie. You’ve been dodging my calls.”
“Not dodging your calls.” I tugged on Ollie’s leash, preventing him from running away from a woman with a fearsome duo of Pomeranians. “You seemed upset last time we talked, and I wanted to give you room to process.”
“Room to process?” she barked out a laugh. “Coward. How was Las Vegas?”
The question hit me like a punch to the gut. She didn’t know. Couldn’t know. But a wave of guilt hit me, anyway. “Nice.”
“Nice?” Becca paused as I turned down a side street, navigating through a pack of tourists. “That’s it? Nice?”
“Fun,” I offered instead. Telling Becca I slept with Diego would be on par with announcing I’d become a sovereign citizen or a flat-earther. She’d fly down to Norwalk for a wellness check. “I went to a couple of shows and an art exhibit. The game was…a game. The Breakers won, so I guess that’s good.”
“Better than good,” Becca sighed. “They’ve really got a shot at the Super Bowl this year. Everything is clicking, and Diego looks fantastic.”
A hint of regret laced her voice. “Everything good in New England?”
“Yeah,” she rushed out. “Great. Just settling in, finding my place on the team. It’s all new. That’s not why I called.”
“Really? You weren’t reaching out to talk pigskin? I’m shocked.”
Becca laughed. “No. Definitely not.”
I waited a beat, pulling out my phone to check the connection. “So, you’re calling because…”
“I’m calling to apologize because, I guess, you’re not distracting Diego.” She ground out the words as if they caused her physical pain. Which, knowing my older sister, they probably did.
“An apology? For me?” I feigned surprise, grabbing the attention of a guy wearing skinny jeans and a toboggan. “Well, color me shocked.”
“Don’t get used to it. I just…I worry about you, specifically with Diego.”
I tipped my head, turning up the volume as if I hadn’t heard her right. “You mean you’re worried about Diego?”
“No, you,” she exhaled into the phone. “Diego’s a great guy, but he’s a football player.”
“A football player?” I stopped for Ollie to sniff at a tree, feeling oddly riled by Becca’s tone. “What does that mean?”
Becca’s discomfort oozed over the phone. She was a protective big sister. One who’d take out a bully for me. Not one who shared her feelings with me.
She smacked her lips. “It means that he can’t be serious about football and someone else. It’s just not possible. And Diego, well, he’s Diego. He runs hot and cold. He’s obsessive about whatever’s new. But ultimately, he’s just gonna go back to football, because he has to. He doesn’t have a choice.”
“And you know that how?” I bristled. “Because, according to you, you don’t care about player’s personal lives.”
“Because you’re my sister and I love you? Because I know Diego better than most players?” Becca fired back.
I bit my tongue. “We’re just pretending.”
The words sounded unconvincing, even to me. The silence drug on, and I kept walking, Ollie wagging his tail happily, completely unaware of the tense conversation.
“I don’t want you to get hurt, Cassie. And you know his history, right?” I didn’t want to get hurt, either. Becca sighed loudly. “Anyway, it’s not important, right? You’re just pretending?”
“Right,” I agreed half-heartedly, desperate to change the subject. “So, how’s Boston?”
“Framingham,” she corrected. “And it’s not Norwalk.”
* * *
I returned Ollie to his owner and headed to Becca’s apartment after a quick stop for takeout. Diego had left a key to his place, but I’d avoided using it, doubting my ability to be in his home and not snoop, end up wearing a bunch of his clothes, and convincing myself I shouldn’t have turned him down when he’d asked me on a date. A pathetic visual and probable reality if I went to his empty house.
As much as I craved video games and snooping and the scent of turf and sun and Diego, I stayed strong, buoyed by a sizable backlog of trashy reality TV that I hadn’t gotten around to consuming. I popped the cork on a bottle of wine and sat on Becca’s couch with a plastic container of curry in my lap and the bottle tucked beside me. A veritable tableau of all the reasons Diego shouldn’t date me.
I belonged in relationships with emotionally unavailable line cooks and guys in decades-old bands waiting for their big break. Sure, I’d had the occasional relationship with a go-getter, a guy with a job and a retirement plan and an apartment they didn’t share with a dozen other people. I’d been wined and dined and played a trophy girlfriend for a dinner party or two. But those relationships fell apart as soon as someone asked what I did.
No guy with a salary wanted a girlfriend who did odd jobs and ghost tours on the weekend. They could accept two extremes: women with a plan and a future, and women interested in a ring and a pretty house and a picture-perfect social media presence. I didn’t fit either box.
And when those guys left, I wasn’t heartbroken. Disappointed? Sure. A little pissed? Absolutely. But heartbroken?
Witnessing Diego’s dawning realization that I was a mistake would break my heart.
I lost myself in the drama on-screen, emptying the wine bottle over the course of a love triangle going awry. My eyelids grew heavy, and I fell asleep on the couch.
A jaunty chime startled me awake. On screen, ten contestants had been whittled down to three, and above Diego’s name on my phone, the time read 11:35 pm.
“Hey,” I answered the call with a yawn.
“Hey, I’m guessing you didn’t watch the game?” Diego said from the other end of the country.
“Of course I did. You won, in triple overtime. You kicked the game-winning shot.”
His laugh rumbled. My stomach warmed in response. “Close. We won in normal time, and the defense ran in a scoop and score for the win.”
“I don’t know what that means, but yay, Breakers.”
“You’re a terrible fan. You know that, right?”
“Well aware. How many did you score?”
He sighed heavily, exhaustion seeping into his voice. “None. I blame the lack of points on the absence of my good luck charm.”
“Good luck charm? Hardly. You win and lose on your own skills, Salazar. No dragging me into your subpar performance.”
“It’s hard to concentrate when you aren’t in the stands.”
“Worried about me?”
“A little. You didn’t hang out at my house tonight.”
“I’m at Becca’s apartment. I walked some dogs earlier and it wore me out.” His low chuckle warmed my body. “Hey, you just had to stay out of reach of some big guys and throw a dumb ball. I had to corral a Doberman through downtown.”
“I’m not arguing. You’re clearly the physical superior in this relationship.”
“Fake relationship,” I corrected.
“Currently fake relationship,” he lobbed back.
“When are you coming back?” I asked, pushing myself off the couch and pacing the living room.
“Tomorrow morning. I hoped you’d be at my house when I got there.”
“I’ve got a tile install tomorrow,” I said, pausing to gauge his reaction.
“Sounds like fun. My place when you’re done?”
“It might run late.”
“I’ll make dinner.”
“You don’t cook.”
“I don’t cook well. There’s a difference.”
“Not if I have to eat it,” I laughed.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Cassandra. I miss you.”
He hung up the phone before I could respond.