Chapter Two #2
Three paragraphs into Xavier’s Wikipedia page, Steven’s face swims unbidden into my mind.
My heart lurches, a ship passing through an unexpected squall.
I lean back against Amina’s pink cushioned headboard and close my eyes.
My plan to keep nonfootball stuff out of my mind worked for a few hours of the most intensive googling, but he’s broken through my ramshackle defenses and now here he is, looming large before me.
It’s the same scene it’s been for the last several days, his pathetic little shrug of goodbye as he left our apartment for the last time.
As I breathe deep and wait for my heart palpitations to settle, my right hand finds my left, fingers idly twisting the engagement ring that is no longer there.
My finger feels naked without it; I wonder how long that will last.
I zone out and stare at Amina’s wall, my eyes landing on a faded poster of a boy band called Westlife.
They’re the epitome of late ’90s fashion, all frosted tips and center parts and matching white outfits, slightly less handsome versions of their American contemporaries.
Looking at them is far more pleasant than picturing Steven’s stupid fucking face, but I can’t seem to shake him.
And even though it’s past midnight, I won’t—can’t—let memories of my failed relationship be my last waking thoughts.
Instead, I type in the final name on the list: Lachlan Ramsay.
His Wikipedia page loads, and as I see him, something twists inside me: It’s the guy from the parking lot.
The picture is him with one arm raised, pointing at something and yelling.
His authority seems to march straight out of the internet and into the bedroom.
It makes me want to sit up straight, take out the garbage, help an old lady cross the street.
It makes me want to…well, let’s just say it’s the kind of look that makes me want to do anything he says.
But despite all that, it doesn’t do him justice.
It doesn’t capture the sharp, staggering angles of his cheekbones, or the light eyes that twinkle with mischief right above them.
It doesn’t convey the easygoing air or the quick wit.
It doesn’t do enough to explain why my mind has drifted back to him time and time again in the eight hours since we sort of met.
I devour his Wikipedia like it’s my last meal on earth, and I learn the following things: Lachlan Ramsay is from Scotland, hence the delicious accent.
He’s thirty-two years old, and unless football is different from the other sports I follow, that means he’s probably past his prime.
So I guess we have that in common, as I’m definitely feeling like day-old bread these days.
He’s a midfielder at a team in Madrid but actually started his career at Mersey.
That’s cool—there might be an angle there, about his homecoming.
Over the course of his career, he’s scored a couple dozen goals; something about Ramsay’s gravitas makes me think he’s more of a playmaker than one of the flashy, goal-scoring strikers Amina talked about.
Like a general marshaling the troops rather than, I don’t know, the best sniper in the army?
I shrug off the analogy, the military being perhaps the one field more opaque to me than professional football.
I slide my finger over the trackpad and hover over the table of contents, clicking on the Personal Life section—famously the best part of anybody’s Wiki.
My stomach clenches again as I read the brief paragraph about his childhood.
I won’t let my eyes skip ahead, though I’m certain I saw the word married down there.
What are the odds it says, “Lachlan Ramsay is not married but is romantically interested in recently dumped American social media managers in tragic polyester pantsuits”?
Because this could be a make-or-break moment for old Abby McIntyre…
. As if performing for an audience of Amina’s childhood dolls, I mutter little comments here and there as I inch my way down, reading about the charities he’s involved in, his older sister who’s a nurse, and his parents (Moira and Michael).
I actually say out loud, “Oh, that’s interesting!
” when I read that his family runs a restaurant in his hometown of Oban, but then I can’t prolong the charade any further.
I reach the last line of the section: “In June 2016, Ramsay married Claire Walker, whom he has known since childhood.”
Well, that’s it, then. My momentary, fantastical, completely unrealistic dreams of marrying Lachlan Ramsay are dashed almost as soon as they’ve arisen.
I snap my fingers at the dolls. “Aw, shucks, ladies. So close.” Claire and Lachlan got married right around the time I met Steven; hopefully that whole relationship thing is working out better for them than it did for us.
But I’m a masochist, so instead of letting the fantasy completely die, I google Claire, like I need to see what I’m up against. And okay, yeah, she’s gorgeous.
But what makes it even worse is that she also seems really normal.
It would be one thing if she were some untouchable goddess, but she’s just…
a woman. A stunning woman, to be sure, but a woman who probably has stretch marks and acne and bad hair days like the rest of us—though perhaps a little less frequently than some of us.
It makes me like him more, seeing her, but it also makes me sad, for reasons I can’t quite pinpoint.
There’s no time to wallow in these feelings, though.
I need to come up with some ideas for social campaigns for these players, and the best my jet-lagged brain can come up with for Lachlan right now is “Lach be a lady tonight”—an assertion not backed up by his Wikipedia page.
Clearly it’s time to call it a day. Maybe my brain will reward my newfound obsession by making Lachlan Ramsay the star of tonight’s dreams, rather than replaying the greatest hits of my breakup.
It’s a nice thought to cling to as I fall back onto the pillow and into a deep sleep.