11. HOPE
CHAPTER 11
HOPE
“ A hora sí he perdido la cabeza,” I whisper to myself in the dark of my car, parked by the curb of the townhouse I share with Rose and Audrey. The lights are off and their cars nowhere to be seen, so for all intents and purposes I’m alone right now. This has to be why I’ve gone and lost my marbles and called Cade Starr.
While he was in the shower, no less.
I rub my temples. I kinda wish he hadn’t told me, so I didn’t have to imagine him sopping wet and naked, but I also understand his need to make me understand how unhinged I am.
Surely anyone can understand that seeing something like this is enough to make your brain pack its shit and screw off in a long trip away from your head socket.
I lift up my phone again and swipe the screen. The Instagram post greets me again, looking like something out of a stock photo website. Amy cut her hair into a bob and wears a floral dress that stands out against the stark white decor of her living room. Dawson, in contrast, hasn’t changed his hair one bit. It’s the same curly blond that looks beach swept. He’s wearing a khaki suit with a white button shirt that matches Amy’s dress—and also the straw vase in a corner. Like he’s trying to fit in her life in a way he never did with me, or like Amy wrestled him into compliance in a way I never could. And behind them, golden balloons shaped like letters read ENGAGED.
Everything I ever wanted but never dared to demand of him.
What’s worse, I know I should feel happy that they found the right fit in each other, the perfect combination of personalities that makes dating for a few months feel like such a definite shoo-in that marriage is the only possible next step. Good for them.
I hate it.
Just as I’m about to put my phone away and turn the Jeep back on, a text pops up on the screen and gets my attention because it’s in all caps.
Kelly
ARE YOU OKAY????
This is the second person tonight who asks me this. The true answer still remains the same in both of my languages: no.
My thumb hovers over the screen. Kelly has tried reaching out for months and I’ve been ignoring her, except to congratulate her on the birth of her baby in December. But this text is a fresh reminder of every one of her attempts to check in with me.
I let my emotions sweep me all the way and I’m a go big or go home girlie, so instead of texting her back I straight up call her. The second she picks up the phone, I blurt out, “No.”
“No shit.” Next, she curses even worse than that, and takes a deep breath to say, “This isn’t about me, though. How do you feel?”
I run my hand through my hair and grouch, “Is this conversation going to get to the ears of a certain newly engaged couple? Because I can’t possibly take any more drama than this.”
“No, I promise you. Not even to Mitch’s ears or the baby’s if you don’t want to.”
I shut my eyes tight. My hurt has clouded me so much that it’s not just that I no longer know who to trust, but that I no longer trust myself too. I can’t help wondering how I could’ve been so wrong in my judgment of Dawson and of Amy, that I wonder if I’ve been wrong about Kelly all along too. Maybe even about Rose and Audrey and Cade Starr and anyone not last-named Garcia.
And yet, Kelly has only ever been a ray of sunshine. She’s spent months trying to make sure I’m okay. That was Starr’s second question after I cold-called him a few minutes ago, if everything was okay. I’m sure my roomies would drop kick me if they found out I’ve been thinking this way. There’s a different level of trust with people you do laundry loads with.
“I… I’m feeling a lot of things,” I start in a hesitant whisper.
“Anger? Fury? Ire?”
A corner of my lips lifts. “I think those are all the same.”
“Well, I’m not sure any of them really fit what I feel right now.” There’s some shuffling on her end and the distinctive click of a door closing. “I want you to know I told Amy this was a bad idea since the moment she first told me she and Dawson went on a date.”
“Why did you never tell me?”
Kelly sighs. “We didn’t want to hurt you—or I didn’t. I think Amy’s motive simply was that she didn’t want to be stopped.”
“I see,” my voice shaking slightly. “When was that?”
She hesitates for a brief moment and finally responds, “I think their first date was um, two Decembers ago.”
“What the…” I do a double take in the dark of my car. “That’s only a few months after we broke up!”
“I know. This is why I couldn’t say anything. It just wasn’t right.”
Something inside of me feels like glass crashing on the ground, and one of the shards pierces the last thread of my sanity. I burst out in guffaws that hurt even my own ears. Half gasping, half laughing, I ask, “So basically you’re telling me that Dawson broke up with me so he could date Amy? Is that it?”
“I’m so sorry, Hope.” She grunts in frustration. “I tried to stop them but?—”
“Yeah, there was no stopping that. I sure couldn’t. And you wanna know what the shittiest part of all of this is?”
“What?”
“That asshole had the cojones to gaslight me into not being able to show my hurt, to not tell everybody how I bent myself over backwards to keep our relationship afloat when he didn’t even care—all on the excuse of not affecting the friendship group. And I agreed! I went along with this flimsy-ass reasoning because I’m apparently more spineless than a squid. And you’re telling me that all this time it was so he had an open field to pull moves on one of my friends?” I bark another harsh laugh and shake my head at myself.
“Wow, I have no words,” Kelly whispers and to her credit, her voice vibrates with anger. And that’s still nowhere to the levels of virulent rage I feel right now.
“I’m gonna go now.”
“Talk later?” she asks.
“Later,” I say, at least having the presence of mind to accept that it’s not Kelly I’m upset at, even if in a smaller way she also hurt me.
The enemy is Dawson. He clearly didn’t give a flying turd about me, or he wouldn’t have done something like this. And Amy’s a fool if she thinks she’s safe from his scheming. What I need to do is show them I’ve moved on and don’t give a turd about them in return, and this is why I need Cade Starr. I turn on my car and drive off.
*
I get to the ice cream shop a whole five minutes before Starr, and I take that time to unfollow everyone from the friend group who is giving effusive congratulations to the couple, and the two jerks themselves. I’m archiving any picture I have on my social media where they appear, when the bell at the door dings with a new arrival.
I lift my eyes to Cade Starr’s entrance and my stomach dips at the disappointment in his face as he strides over to me. It feels like I’m being kicked when I’m already down.
But he toes the chair beside me to turn it my way, plops down with his massive legs spread out around me and leans his elbow on the counter by the front window. “A yoghurt ice cream place, really? And here I was excited that you were gonna let me cheat on my diet, darlin’.”
My lips part and I release a soft breath in relief. He wasn’t disappointed to see me but the healthy treats. Well, healthier—this still has more sugar than he should be consuming at this time of night.
“You have a whole season ahead of you, Cowboy.”
He twists around, setting those weird blue eyes of his on the overhead menu. “Can I at least get the chocolate syrup? Your treat, obviously.”
“Obviously,” I repeat in a deadpan but push away from the window counter. “Fine, but I’ll get you the kid’s cup.”
He looks up at me, eyebrows scrunched up in annoyance and lips curved into a pout. “Meanie.”
I shake my head and leave the man-child behind to place our orders. I’m not ready to start this conversation until there’s some dopamine in my system, so I hang out at the cashier’s until one of the two employees returns with our order. With my left, I carry Starr’s smaller treat, and on my right mine.
I place them in front of our seats and his eyes bulge. “Excuse me but what happened to equality?”
“I’m the one who’s suffering tonight,” I mumble as I sit down and stab my spoon into my large swirl with strawberries, bananas, chocolate syrup, and caramel monstrosity.
“Fair.” His attention shifts to his and he grabs his spoon. “How did you know I like peanuts?”
“It’s part of my job. I know what each player absolutely can and can’t eat, and what they should or shouldn’t avoid.”
“Oh yeah? What am I allergic to?” His eyebrows lift as he puts a spoonful in his mouth, his lips closing around the spoon.
“Nothing at all. You could probably eat a rock and be totally fine,” I respond, doing the same.
“I’m impressed.” A corner of his lips lifts, even with the spoon still in his mouth.
I shrug one shoulder. “You’re one of the easy ones.”
Once he’s done swallowing his cold mouthful, he asks, “What about you? Any allergies?”
“None, I’m easy like you.”
His lips twitch but he has the decency of not turning that into an indecent joke. “So tell me, Garcia, why is it that we can hold a low key conversation like this and you can’t do the same with dates?”
My mouth drops open. Belatedly, and only because his face lights up with barely contained laughter, do I realize my mouth is full of food. I turn away for a moment to swallow without scrutiny and wipe my mouth with a napkin just in case.
I swivel back around. “Who’s the meanie now?”
He observes a strawberry that hangs precariously on the rim of my cup, and I motion at him to just take it. “Thanks.” This makes his eyes light up even more and he carefully spoons the fruit and shoves it in his mouth. It’s a very different look compared to when he’s on the pitcher’s mound in the middle of the game, radiating so much intensity that it even translates into television screens. Or compared to how he is when flirting with women at a bar.
“Anyway, I just wanted to illustrate the point,” he says while eating. “You don’t really need me.”
“But I do,” I whine bad enough that the two store employees glance our way. Ducking, I continue, “You don’t count. I go completely blank when it’s a stranger, like…”
“Like?” Starr prods.
“I lost my confidence,” I admit for the first time in almost two years. “Dawson, my ex, he destroyed it. He said—He said…” I interrupt myself to clear my throat when my eyes start to sting. I refuse to shed a single more tear about my jerk of an ex boyfriend, and especially not in front of Cade Starr.
But the latter surprises me by taking a clean napkin from the pile between us and offering it to me. No pity in his expression, no empty platitudes tumbling out of his mouth. Like he’s fine either way if I cry or not, but like he cares if I do just as smidge.
I take the napkin and lightly blot my eyes. Two small wet dots remain on it, proof that I’m nowhere near as strong as I wish. Sucking it all up for almost two years has led to this, so I try a different tactic. The one where I open up at least a little.
Biting my lip, I whisper, “He said he was no longer attracted to me because I’m boring, like one of the boys. I hate to admit that his words swirl in my head every time I try to talk with a guy.” I push away the half eaten, quickly melting ice cream away. “Every single time without fail, I worry that the guy finds me too bulky, too loud, not cute enough, not feminine at all. Or worse, boring. And guess what? So far my dating track record confirms that.”
“Hey.” His voice is harsh enough it snaps me out of my funk. Starr leans his face lower to meet my eyes. His hair is wet and he’s not wearing his usual baseball cap, so the while halogen lights make his eyes glint like the waters of the Caribbean sea. “Cut that shit out.”
I snap my mouth closed.
“You don’t let a bad ex take you away from yourself.”
Oh no, my eyes are welling up for real now.
I only have enough strength to contain the quivers of my chin, but tears start streaming down. Starr reaches for the pile, sees my fists balled up around the hem of my windbreaker, and pats my face dry himself.
After the worst is over, he leans back on his chair, sighing and running his hand through his brown hair. “I have a very simple question.”
I sniffle. “What?”
“Have you ever thought about just maybe… dressing more feminine?” He lifts his hands as a protective barrier the second I start glaring. “I’m not saying you should change yourself or anything like that, just that maybe you should try some armor. Just like how our team uniforms are the armor we go to battle with, you know?”
“I think the issue is deeper than what I wear.” I fold my arms.
“And I don’t see an issue at all.” Starr shakes his head. “I wear an Orlando Wild uniform by day, sweats by night—” here he pinches the fabric of his hoodie, “—dress suits for galas, cowboy boots at a bar. And yet I’m the same Cade Starr every single time.”
“I get your point.” I huff and tighten my arms around me.
“Men are simple, in both good and bad ways,” he says, resting his jaw against his fist. “The first thing we notice is what we perceive with our eyes. I just think if you hold your date’s attention that way, you’ll have an easier time unwinding and showing who you really are.”
“And then if he doesn’t like who I really am anyway?” I ask, getting to the core of the issue.
“You throw the whole man in the garbage can where he belongs,” Starr says with a lopsided smirk. “Then we find a new candidate until you succeed.”
I run the tip of my index finger down the wall of the plastic cup, following the trail of condensation like it’s another tear I’m trying to clear. “Or we give up.”
“We’re the Wild, darlin’, we never give up even when all the odds are stacked against us.”
That springs a small smile on my face. Historically, we’ve been one of the bottom feeder teams of the league, with more hecklers than fans. And yet the lineup consistently tries their best in every game, even when facing superstar pitchers from historical franchises like New York or Los Angeles.
Taking a deep breath, I extend my hand. “You’re right. I won’t give up, but that means you’ll have to put up with me longer for literally nothing in return. Are you in?”
Starr studies my hand, as if deciding whether to tie himself up to someone who is clearly not normal. But then he shrugs. “It’s more entertaining than TV, so I’m in.” He wraps his much— much —larger hand around mine for a strong handshake and I pretend like I don’t notice the calluses in his hand, the texture and heat of his skin.
Pretending like this isn’t the huge deal it actually is.