Chapter 30 Very Serious Look
VERY SERIOUS LOOK
FORD
“Ten. I did exactly ten,” Corbin gloats to Leah, then tips his chin to me as I do another lateral hop. “He just did thirteen.”
Shit. He’s right. I did more reps with the medicine ball than Leah wanted.
“I noticed,” the conditioning coach says.
Why didn’t you stop me? I want to say to Leah. But that’s a weak excuse. I can fucking count.
Fact is, I stopped counting.
“Just seeing if you were paying attention,” I say to my buddy, deflecting with an even weaker excuse.
Corbin scoffs, eye roll included. “You were off in la-la land.”
Leah gives me a stern look—but it’s chased with concern as she adds, “I think you were too.”
I swallow, then square my shoulders, trying to shrug it off. “Just thinking about the next game,” I say, owning it as best I can. “Won’t happen again.”
But the game was the furthest thing from my mind.
The truth is…I was daydreaming. Goddammit.
I was thinking of the gala. Of Skylar. Picturing undressing her after the event.
Letting slim straps fall down her shoulders.
Kissing those freckles that drive me mad.
Hiking the soft fabric of her gown up to her hips.
Fucking her against the wall as neither of us could be bothered to take off all our clothes.
Then making her a late-night snack. Again.
Taking our dogs for a walk together. Watching her clever brain spin up a social media post for her dog, like she did the other morning when she posted two pics.
One was a shot of herself, looking tired and sad, with the caption: I’ve been working all day.
He hasn’t worked since I met him three years ago and doesn’t want a job.
He expects me to make dinner and clean up every day, doesn’t help, and gets upset when I leave the house.
Followed by a photo of Simon, lounging on a pillow, looking smug, saying Talk about wrapped around my paw.
It’s seriously cute watching her brain work.
“And now?”
Huh? Oh, shit. Leah’s talking to me again.
I snap my focus to her, “And now what?”
If a laugh could say busted, hers does. “And now are you thinking about it too? Or did you want to do one hundred Russian twists?”
I have to stop thinking about how every little thing Skylar does is magic. “Yes, ma’am,” I say, then drop down to the mat and start twisting my arms side to side while keeping my feet off the floor.
Corbin stretches his arms, preening like a peacock. “I did better than him, right?” he says to Leah.
“Would you like a gold star?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. My daughter loves those,” he says, a note of pride in his voice.
I jump on that—partly so the conversation doesn’t snap back to my distracted-as-fuck brain. “Better get some for her. Let her know how good you are at working out.”
“Yes, I’m sure a—what, fourth grader?—will be so impressed,” Leah deadpans.
“As a matter of fact, I was planning on giving her one,” Corbin says.
“Then I’d better go get some. Now join Captain Distraction,” she tells Corbin, then shifts her gaze to me, “who’s busy thinking about the next game.”
Her lips twitch in a grin, and she might as well point at her eyes and say I see you, because that’s exactly what she’s doing. But at least she’s not saying it out loud.
I’ll take that victory as my core burns on the way to one hundred.
When we’re done, Corbin heads off to fill his water bottle, and Leah gives me a chin nod. “Everything okay?”
I bristle. “Course. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Just making sure,” she says gently, but with a shrewd look in her eyes. “Life has a way of being busy.”
It’s said like some aphorism Yoda would drop while training Luke. I should probably take it as such. Still, I say evenly, “It can, Leah.”
“Finding balance is equally important,” she adds, not letting this go. “Are you doing your yoga?”
I snap my fingers. Fuck. She’s right. I skipped yoga this morning to make Skylar breakfast, then I had to rush off to practice. “Good point. I’ll get back on it.”
She gives a crisp nod. “Good. I’ll see you next week.”
After she leaves, I head to the cardio machines with a renewed focus, Corbin joining me. He’s chuckling at something on his phone.
“Anything good?”
“Just a note from Charlotte reminding me what time my game is,” he says.
“Your kid’s the keeper of your schedule?”
“She’s the keeper of everything. She’s set up a color-coded calendar for all our activities. I swear I don’t know what I did to have a child so organized. But I’m not complaining.”
As we claim our ellipticals, he tells me about the way she’s even set up digital stickers for completing tasks each day.
For both of them. It’s sweet the way he talks about his young daughter, and the sticker for workout completed she sent him recently.
I’m about to pop in earbuds and listen to an audiobook—a new one on improving your focus, which I definitely need—when Corbin gives me a very serious look.
He rarely breaks it out, but when he does, it lands. “What’s going on? You stressed about the season? You’re having a great one.”
It’s reassuring. Friendly. And totally off-base. But I’m not about to admit I’m too caught up in the woman I’m fake dating, even though it hardly feels fake.
“Nah, I’m all good,” I say. “Just an off day.”
But as I work out, the lie lingers—like the scent of smelly socks.
And it reminds me of the end of my marriage. The lies my ex told me.
Just took a nap.
Just out with friends.
Just an extra Pilates class today.
All to cover up the fact that she’d been spending time not-cooking with the private chef.
When I hop off the machine, the lies—by omission—I’m telling now gnaw at me.
As I push open the door of the gym, heading out on Fillmore Street, I turn to my friend, my gut still churning. “And the other thing is—this woman? The one I’ve been…”
I don’t even want to say fake dating.
But he gives me a reprieve by asking, “Yeah?”
I heave a sigh. “I fucking like her.”
Corbin claps me on the shoulder, his smile sympathetic. “Had a feeling.” Then he adds, “What are you going to do about it?”
I shrug. “That’s a very good question.”
I haven’t devised the answer yet, but that night I text her in bed, hunting for another answer.
Ford: Show me.
Skylar: You think I’ll bend that easily?
Ford: You love when I give you orders.
Skylar: In bed, Ford. In bed.
Ford: C’mon. Just a peek.
Skylar: Aren’t you supposed to be in bed? You have a game tomorrow. Get some sleep.
I’ve got five more minutes till it’s lights out. Told myself I’d focus—and with a game tomorrow, I need to focus. That means no sleepover tonight. Too bad being without her is making it harder to fall into the land of nod.
Ford: But I’ll sleep better if you show me a picture of what you’ll be wearing to the gala.
Skylar: I would never have pegged you as the kid who peeked at his Christmas gifts before Christmas morning. I’m going to be discussing this with Mama Devon at the gala this weekend.
Ford: I did not peek.
Skylar: I don’t believe you.
Ford: I still don’t see that picture, Skylar.
I sit in bed and wait. And wait. And wait. My chest is tight. My fingers are busy, scrolling articles I’m not really reading on a news site. A few minutes later, a text arrives—with an image. I open it so fast.
It’s not the dress I expected. But it’s her, right now, on the other side of the bridge working late at night. Skylar’s standing triumphantly in front of the new cabinets at my parents’ home, with the words: Just finished!
She’s wearing a black T-shirt, the neckline sloping just right. On the front, there’s a picture of Princess Leia and the words: A Woman’s Place is in the Resistance.
Her next text reads.
Skylar: I’ll wear this.
I don’t tease or goad. I simply speak from the heart.
Ford: You look stunning.
At last, I turn off the light and set down my phone. But I miss her. More than I should. And this is getting to be a problem.
I adjust the lapels of my charcoal suit. Run a hand over the purple tie. Adjust the cuffs and give my girl a kiss on the snout.
“Be good, Zamboni,” I tell her as I settle her into her dog bed with a new stuffy Skylar gave her—an armadillo with a plastic-free squeaker.
Zamboni bites into it. The noise must be satisfying, because she does it again.
“You love that toy, don’t you, girl?”
She answers with another love bite. I ruffle her fur one more time.
After grabbing a gift I picked up for Skylar earlier today, I leave, shutting the door behind me. Outside, I draw a deep, soldiering breath in the crisp autumn evening, then walk down the steps.
It’s surreal strolling across the path to the sidewalk and then doing a one-eighty to head up my neighbor’s steps.
My heart is beating so fast, I feel like a teenager on his way to the prom. My palms are sweating. I tug at the tie. Skylar told me not to wear yellow, so I listened.
Before I knock, though, I briefly consider playing one of my focus games.
Hell, I need it with my skyrocketing pulse. But I’m not about to break out my phone on the porch and start playing a game just so I can handle a damn date to a gala.
I play professional sports at the highest level—I can get my nerves in check.
Briefly, I picture navigating the penguin through the maze. Even though I’m not actually doing it, the muscle memory and the mind memory somehow settle my nerves.
I square my shoulders and knock.
The first time I met Skylar, she was wearing a floral bathrobe, her jammies underneath covered in martini glasses, and gardening boots.
When she opens the door now, she’s dressed to the nines. I grab onto the doorframe—because if I don’t, I’ll fall flat on my ass.
I let out a low whistle of appreciation. “Holy shit.”
I didn’t know what to expect. I don’t really think about dresses. But instantly I know: this is so her.
She’s wearing some kind of 1920s flapper dress in a shade of yellow so soft, so subtle, it’s like the color of a lemon cookie.
And I want to take a bite.