The Catch

35. Chapter 35

Ames

Saint is being pulled in a hundred directions, as the team prepares for the big event.

I've barely seen him. The little moments we have, he holds me close and kisses me.

Sometimes that leads to sex— sweet and tender, or hurried and urgent.

Sometimes, he lays his head on me. It can be my shoulder, or my tummy, or my thigh.

Then he falls asleep with me as his pillow, long sighs escaping his lips.

Despite these short stolen hours, I miss him. It's terrifying to feel as much as I do for him. I'm barreling down to an epic love story that's doomed to end, and I'm helpless at stopping myself.

In fact, I'm eagerly doing more. Including little things I know will put a smile on his face, like brunch food in the middle of the day. He's leaving in a few hours. There's no reason why I can't make his favorite meal when it's too late for lunch but too early for dinner.

That's why I march down the sidewalk, trotting back to the condo after a shopping trip.

I carry a few brown bags in my arms, full of his favorite food.

I have about an hour to cook before he comes home, we eat, and he leaves for curfew.

If I time this right, he'll go to San José with a grin on his face .

The smile I had of my own weakens— one of the paper bags breaks right as I take a step up the stairs to his building.

Three oranges roll away, and the berries I just bought crash on the floor.

The eggs remain close to my chest, luckily, shielded by an arm and a box of cornmeal.

I'm making my own version of chocolate con queso, and I'm not sure where the chocolate is.

My cheeks warm up but I return to the curb and start picking things up. I get the berries but a few things are missing. The chocolate is still MIA, as is another orange. I get up and search around me. The single fruit magically appears in my field of vision.

"I think you're missing this," Aidan says.

I freeze. Nothing moves, except for my eyes. I'm stiff, but Aidan isn't. He's relaxed, standing in one of his signature casual poses.

A small smile tilts his lips. "Hi, Ames."

"What are you doing here?" I manage.

"Helping you pick up the mess, it seems."

"Don't try to be funny. It's not welcome."

"Alright, alright." He lifts his hands in an innocent gesture.

There's an orange in one large palm, and the chocolate container in the other.

"What are you doing here?" I demand.

I can barely hold the things I carry in my arms. I cling to them like they're lifesavers.

"I think you have my music book." The smile on his lips intensifies. "The one where I wrote my album and some of my poetry."

"Bullshit."

He shakes his head and drops his hands. "I bet it's still inside the piano bench."

Shock dissipates, to be replaced by the clear punch his presence knocks into my stomach.

"Have you ever lifted the cushion?" He gives me a smug look. "It has a small storage space there. "

I purse my lips. It's a gesture I know well, but used to think was endlessly cute. I'm fully annoyed now. Especially because I didn't know that the bench had a small storage box.

"That's the last place I saw my things," he adds. "I promise. They're not anywhere else. You have to believe me."

"Why not text me?" I frown. "I could have left it with the concierge."

"And who would have helped you take these things up to the condo?" He shakes the ingredients he's holding hostage.

"What did I say about trying to be funny?" I pretend I'm going to walk past him and leave him with my food.

He can keep them prisoner. I'll make do with what I have.

"Ames— no. Please. Wait a second."

I don't know what stops me. I don't turn around.

"Look," he says. "That book is important to me, and I thought you maybe had me blocked. I know I made you angry enough to deserve it."

I turn. "So you came here and fancied yourself on a stakeout?"

"Tell me everything you still need to say to me, yeah? You can mutter to yourself all the way up the elevator, like you used to do when we were together. Remember?"

"You're not going upstairs with me."

"But— Have you heard the song I wrote for you? The radio version. I could play it for you up on the piano—"

I scoff. "No and no—"

"Listen." He takes his phone out and, before I know what's happening, a song plays between us.

The piano notes— those he composed in my abuela's keys. I remember them like a distant memory. The kind that's as solid as a cloud, and just as hard to grab a hold of .

I don't want to grab it, but it grabs me . It surrounds me and I'm forced to breathe it in. It imbues me with those feelings I used to have, when I thought all I had to do was push for it and bend for him and we'd be happy.

Ever since his album was released, I've avoided this song. Both in my mind or the radio, I've not allowed it near me. Now it's slow dancing in my ears, and stomping on my heart.

Love, dry your tears We're settled It's settled

I gave myself into loving someone I didn't truly love, and who couldn't love me the way I needed. Not with the respect and generosity I gave.

My shoulders come up into my ears. I'm hypertense, holding back my tears, hoping my body will shield me from all of this if I pull myself in harder. The song keeps playing, but I'm not following the lyrics anymore.

It's terrifying to think I would have kept going, oblivious, making myself believe I was with the right person. If he hadn't cheated, I would still be telling myself I had found my happily ever after. But the cheating was a symptom of how bad things were.

Should I thank him for freeing me? Never. There were better ways to realize the mess I was in.

But I still want to learn from it.

"Why did you cheat, Aidan?" I cling to the bags in my arms.

"I regret it," he says. "Everyday. I've been dating and I hate it. I miss you—"

"Stop. Don't. That's not an answer. You've never told me why you did it. That's the only reason I'm still here."

"You have to miss me too. That's why you want to know, right? I didn't mean to break your heart. I was immature and selfish… "

"I do not miss you, Aidan. I want to know why you did it so I can— I don't know. Prevent it next time. Do my part. Do better than you next time. A time when it's not with you. And you keep on not answering!"

"I was lonely, okay? We were busy and in a rut and we didn't— you disappeared on me. I didn't know what to do."

"Are you kidding me? I did everything to make you happy. If you were lonely, you should have told me. What does it mean, I disappeared on you?"

"We were so happy when we met. We wanted the same things, right?

Or so you said. But the longer we were together, the harder it was to believe.

You stopped having opinions. You never asked for anything.

Did you even need me? Fuck, day in and day out, we went through the motions, but you were never there.

I couldn't find you. I thought you were going to look for someone else and not even tell me. "

"So you did it first? How childish! What about fucking talking to me?!"

"Alright, yeah, I went about it wrong. But we're talking now, aren't we, love? We can come back from this. I don't even care that you've done who knows what with Saint—"

"Don't you dare."

I try to take a step away but he stops me with a hand on my arm. I pull away, but it's too late. He's already talking.

"You're going to regret not listening to me.

Whatever you've done with him, it will end right here with you outside of his building again.

Did you think I wouldn't realize you jumped into his arms?

You moved in with him like you did with me.

You're changing to be more like him— jumping from one relationship to the next like he does.

Even faster than before. Because he chased you, didn't he?

And now you're into sports? Don't make me laugh. "

"You have no idea what you're talking about."

"I saw those clips of you at the stadium. Wearing his jersey. Please. You’ve never had a jersey in your life. Now I bet you're watching his games and tracking points. You told me you hated sports. But he's an athlete, so of course now you're into American Football, too. Because he is. "

That shuts me up. I have been engaging with sports a whole lot more. For Saint.

"The way he flirted with you in the club— and the way you let him.

Like you were one of his— Shit. He flirted with you every second of that bloody TV show," he adds.

"Now you're not happy to have your catering business anymore.

Did he suggest the TV show? Is that why you're doing that?

Maybe when you said you were happy with your small business that was another lie you told yourself.

Maybe it's only what you thought I wanted to hear.

Now you're doing what you think he wants. "

"That's not…" I manage.

But it is. He's talking about how I lost myself in relationships.

He keeps on going, my feelings invisible to him. "I bet he loves oranges, too. You're making his favorite food, I just know it."

It's such a petty, ridiculous accusation, but I flinch. Because it's true.

I don't know what to do with that, but I know I will not let him see how he's affected me.

"Feeling better now?" I find balance where there's none, and I steal the chocolate from his hand without dropping anything. "Did you finally say everything you wanted to say?"

"No. I'm sorry. I'm angry and venting, but I really don't mind what you've done with him—"

"You're making a spectacle, Aidan."

He stops.

"You ruined what we had. If you had told me we had a problem, we could have done something about it. Back then, I would have. Not now. You're four years too late to be who I needed."

"You're not going to give me another chance?"

"No. We've been over since the moment I caught you. You have to hear it, this time. Don't show up again."

"Do you love him?"

It's my turn to halt .

I think I might. If not, I'm just a few steps away from falling for him.

I haven't felt like this in… ever.

I feel more than I thought possible.

But I'm not telling Aidan that.

I try to leave, but he follows.

"Ames. Come on. You know you're just going to make the same mistakes with Saint. You're walking right into a new thing without figuring out who you need to be."

I face him again. "How dare you point the finger at me like that? Who I need to be? What about who you needed to be? What about what you should have done differently?"

"We'll talk it out. Please, love."

"Do not call me love. We will not figure it out. I made mistakes, but that's as true as how wrong you were for me. I just never realized until you showed me."

"I fucked up," he admits. "I'm sorry."

"You did. I hope you are sorry. Maybe you'll learn a thing or two from how things happened between us. I am sure as hell trying to learn my part."

"Fuck." He shakes his head. "This can't be the end."

"It is. We've been done for a long time, but what you did shot a hundred extra bullets into what was left of our relationship. You showing up here like this? It's just the last one."

He closes his eyes, pain marring his brow.

"Bye, Aidan."

I don't wait to see how he reacts, but his final nod puts an end to us.

My head held high, I go up the stairs to the entry hall and into the elevator. As soon as I enter the condo, my eyes fill with tears.

I leave the food on the kitchen island in a heap. My heart is in my throat. Without a conscious decision, I make for the piano. Aidan was probably lying, but I check the bench anyway. I pull at one edge of the seating cushion and it opens on its hinges .

The booklet is there. It's blue like his eyes, with nothing written on the front. It's worn, and memories of him writing on it come up until my eyes blur. I sit on my knees and flip through it. The song he wrote is there, right in the middle. The bridge enrages me all over again. Settled, my ass.

We weren't settled. I settled.

I don't know what to make of Aidan and his excuse. Loneliness is a word I didn't know I could use for what he and I had, but it fits. Being with the wrong person leaves you alone.

I deflate. Knowing why he did it doesn't fix anything.

It doesn't explain where he and I failed.

How I didn't realize that the rhythm we had was really a rut, or why he chose to betray my trust instead of fucking talking to me and telling me he wasn't happy.

Beyond being a self-centered, egotistical coward, that is.

It doesn't explain how I didn't realize I was changing myself to be right for him.

Worse, I may be doing the same with Saint. Am I?

I throw the booklet into its house in the bench and close the lid on top. It's easy to let myself crumble on top of it. With my arms for a pillow, I cry.

Tears stream down my face. They wet my arms. It's the last time I weep because of Aidan, but it's not because of his cheating.

It's a release of the unresolved pieces I still carried inside.

I'm forced to see the thoughts and feelings pass me by.

They're threads out of my mind, heart, and soul, showing me where we were, and how far I am from that these days.

They entwine into a braid of hopes I used to carry with me, when I believed I had found a way to make things work no matter what.

When I thought I had cracked the code and outdone my parents in one fell swoop.

Now I don't believe either.

Fuck. Could Aidan have a point? I have done things for Saint I had never done before.

I found ways to be into football. His favorite foods are the real staple of the home and our cooking.

Hell, they're in a small mountain on the kitchen island right now.

All my friends are his friends. My clients are his teammates.

The TV show is in the works thanks to what he did.

I'm afraid I'm repeating the patterns even when I told myself I wouldn't .

Failure is everywhere. Everything I set out to do in relationships escapes me. Including what I hoped to do with Saint. I'm feeling more than I planned to, and I've changed more than I thought, and the realization adds drops of acid to my blood.

I promised it would be different this time.

It's scary.

It's a mess.

Because if this is love, then I'm in real trouble.