BETTSY
“If it makes you feel any better, Langer’s missus hasn’t turned up either,” Danny says, leaning into me and lowering his voice.
“She’ll be here,” I say, but even I don’t believe it.
The more I check my phone, the more I’m worrying she’s stood me up.
Maybe she’s come to her senses. Looked in the mirror and saw her worth. Maybe?—
I flick my gaze towards the bottom end of the table where Langer and his league team buddies chat and joke, completely oblivious to the crippling heartache happening at this end of the table. Selfishly, I’m grateful Danny’s here without a plus one—it makes me look a little less pathetic.
“Poor woman probably wanted a break,” Danny says.
“A break from what?”
“All the shit you talk,” he grins.
“Har-har,” I say, taking a swig of beer from a fresh bottle.
It’s my third of the evening, the two before this being short-lived, a failed attempt to push down the anxiety.
“But seriously—is everything okay?” Danny says.
He keeps his voice quiet, and I force a nod, putting my attention on the paper label stuck to the bottle, picking at the edge of the logo adhered to the glass.
What if this is it? What if the something she needed to do involves an ex she’s never mentioned? Maybe she realised…
“Mate?”
I snap out of my spiral. Angling my head towards Danny as I force a smile.
“Uh, yeah, all good,” I say.
He doesn’t buy it. I know he doesn’t .
I wait until he’s pulled into another conversation before sneaking a peek at my phone, curious to see if I’ve missed a call.
There’s nothing.
She should be here by now, but I’ve not received so much as a text from her. Nothing. Radio silence.
“Maybe I should check in on her? Call her, perhaps?” I say, nudging Danny in the arm.
“What? Oh … well, it’s your funeral. Women don’t like it when you nag them,” Danny says. “And they don’t like being told that they’re taking too long to get ready—learn from my mistakes.”
I push my seat back and stand anyway, moving towards the far end of the bar area, avoiding Greer and Frenchy.
Once I’m out of earshot, I pull up her number and hit dial.
Voicemail.
It doesn’t even ring.
And automatically, I try again.
Voicemail.
I exhale, pinching the bridge of my nose as I slip my phone away and head back to my seat, putting all my effort into being passive.
Luckily, I’ve done this enough times to pull it off. Though, this time, it feels less like a rejection and more like a punch in the stomach.
“All good?” Danny says.
“Oh, actually…” I say, pulling an excuse out of my ass. “She’s got a headache. I think it’s the weather,” I say. “Barometric pressure, temperature, humidity … you know.”
Danny blinks before taking a sip of his own drink. “Right.”
Lucky for me, that’s when Greer and Frenchy return to their seats, setting down a tray of drinks. Bottles of beer, shot glasses, and a magnum of champagne. It’s enough to draw Danny.
I finish my beer and grab another one while contemplating whether I should call her again .
Whoops and cheers fill the air around me as the drinks flow. I half-zone out of the conversation going on around me, replaying the events of the evening instead, trying to figure out where I went wrong.
Maybe it was the rings—rings I was sure she’d love, but maybe it was too much. Maybe I spooked her and ruined all my chances.
“How about you Betts?” someone says, as I snap my head up to see Greer looking at me, waiting for a response. “Come on, everyone’s got something.”
“I’m sorry what?” I say.
“Your secret pre-game superstition?” he says, taking a swig of his beer. “You know, something you do, but don’t tell anyone else about. Time to come clean.”
I force a laugh. “I don’t have anything.”
“Yeah, right,” Greer snickers. “Everyone’s got one.”
I’d usually be all over this sort of thing, but I’m not in the mood. I’m tense and anxious, desperate to know if Ellie is okay … if we’re okay.
There’s jeering around me, encouragement, so I make something up about only using a fresh roll of tape before I excuse myself, telling the guys I need to take a leak.
I head towards the lobby in the direction of the men’s room and when I round the corner, my eyes land on a figure in the far corner.
My heart stops in my chest.
What the—I can’t believe she’s here.
I freeze on the spot, my stomach practically falling out of my ass when I spot her, leaning against a window wearing a tight red dress.
I look around, surveying the immediate area, grateful that I’m alone and no one is here to witness the shit show that’s about to unfold.
“Bettsy,” she calls. “I was hoping to catch you. Have you missed me?” The shrillness of her voice has me shivering with disgust, memories of the shit she dragged me through flooding to the surface.
The fake pregnancy. The lies about Rodgers and their broken relationship. I mean, she told me she was single for Christ’s sake, and I fell for it. Desperate for the attention—the fake admiration.
I’m such a fucking loser.
She’s walking towards me, pushing her boobs out, trying to distract me, no doubt. And I’ll be damned if I let her this time. I focus my attention on the floor—telling myself not to look her directly in the eyes; don’t look the devil directly in the eyes.
“Oh, come on—you’re still not speaking to me?” she says, reaching out a hand and setting it on my forearm.
I pull away, taking a step back. “What do you want, Roch?”
“I just want to speak to you. I heard you guys were here tonight, so I thought I’d stop by and—I want you to know how sorry I am.”
I swallow down the bile rising in my throat and glance up, risking a look. “What are you sorry for?”
She bats her eyelashes. “Excuse me?”
“I said, what are you sorry for? You said you wanted me to know how sorry you were, and I’m keen to understand the details.”
She rolls her eyes. “If I knew you were going to be like this, I needn’t have bothered.”
I gape at her. She’s delusional—more so than I led myself to believe before.
“Why are you being like this?” she says.
I scoff. Complete disbelief that she’d even ask such a question.
“I was the best thing to happen to you. We both know that you won’t do better than me, so why are you trying to hide from your feelings?” she says .
My temper rises from zero to one hundred before simmering back down after several deep breaths because the last thing I need is this getting out of hand.
I stare at the floor, trying to come up with anything to say to her that may make me feel better. A bitter retort, perhaps.
I’ve got nothing.
Nothing except a tiny voice in the back of my head whispering to me, she’s right, and Ellie’s not here because she realised she can do better.
She steps forward and puts a hand on my chest. A hand that doesn’t feel quite right.
It feels heavy and tainted. It makes me think about Ellie’s hand, and how she touched me.
How different she felt. And how she kissed me at the rink, with no care about who could see.
No hiding in the shadows, meetings behind closed doors.
And the feeling in my chest intensifies and I realise I’ve done exactly what Johnny warned me not to do—let myself get attached.
Attached to someone who isn’t here. Someone who?—
I shake my head, desperate to push her out of my mind because what good is this? Pining after someone who’s already checked out.
“You need to go,” I say, stepping aside and moving towards the exit.
“Bettsy, don’t do this,” she says. “Hear me out and I promise I’ll stop the forum stuff. I mean, it’s getting old now, anyway.”
“Oh well, at least you admit that,” I say.
“Come on,” she says. “Let’s get a drink. Have a chat. Figure things out.”
I should say no. I should tell her to fuck off and leave me alone, but I can’t. Not because I want her, but the deep-rooted human desire to feel loved fights its way to the surface. Ellie doesn’t want me, but Rochelle can pretend enough to pass for someone who does.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe she is the best option for me. And maybe that’s enough.