14. Kate
We need to talk
Like right now
On the second ring, I say, “We have a problem.”
“What’s wrong?” Ellie’s voice is a frantic whisper on the other end.
The Florida heat bakes the tops of my shoulders as I pace in front of the hotel’s valet port. “Everything! Something happened, and I don’t know what to do!” My whispers are borderline hysterical, catching the attention of the valet attendant, who has conveniently craned his neck to listen in on my conversation.
“Is everyone okay? Did anyone get hurt?” Ellie is no longer whispering, and I can hear the slamming of a door in the background.
“Ugh, no. Listen, listen. It’s me…and…”—I clear my throat, containing my hysterics—“Malcolm.” I hear her mumble my name, but I continue, “He leaned against a door. A door, Eleanor! Which usually isn’t that big of a deal, right? People lean on things. It’s totally normal. But this time…” I pause and swallow the air that is now clogging my throat again. “I gasped.” The words come out like a secret I have been harboring for years.
Ellie’s laughter reverberates through the phone. “You what?”
“I gasped, Ellie, like the image of Malcolm leaning against a doorframe was so enticing that it just took the breath right out of me.” I throw my head back and listen to her cackle at my crisis. I stop pacing and plop down on a bench near the valet entrance, waiting patiently for her to collect herself.
I hear her suck in a breath and exhale slowly in a measly attempt. She forces her words out, “Why is this a bad thing?” I can hear her biting back her laughter for my sake. I guess I can appreciate her efforts.
“Because it’s Malcolm! What is going on with me?” I groan.
“Does this have anything to do with the Christmas party?”
I refuse to justify her question with a response because of course it does. It has everything to do with that Christmas party and that freaking mistletoe. Blocking the sun with my arm, I close my eyes, and memories of spicy breath and beard stubble take center stage in my mind.
“Well…” She pauses. “Are you starting to have feelings for Malcolm?”
“What?” I snap up, the sun blinding me as I reposition my arm for shade again. “I—no—I don’t think that’s what’s going on. I think I’m just out of my element. This whole dating thing has me confused and uncomfortable and scared. Maybe he’s just …” My words trail off as I watch the waves splash against the shore across the way.
“Comfortable,” she says matter-of-factly. It’s more of a statement than a question. “Malcolm is just comfortable and not at all scary. Maybe deep down you’re wanting something like that?”
“Hmm.” I let her words resonate. Comfortable. Maybe that’s what I’m missing. It’s not about the dramatic gestures, or the sparks, or the gold shimmering light shining around the man, clearly pointing out that he’s the one. It’s about having someone I’m familiar with, someone I have a history with.
“I know this would take a lot of convincing, but…have you thought about talking to him?”
“Absolutely not!” I have a strict policy on what I do and don’t share with my friend, and my emotional, romantic feelings are firmly in the don’t category. Malcolm is a wonderful listener and problem solver, but one thing I have come to learn about the man is that he is not a touchy-feely-emotions kind of guy. Getting him to share about his childhood was like pulling teeth. Granted, I quickly learned why he keeps those things under lock and key, and I don’t foresee him being up for a chat about feelings with me anytime soon. The man is anti-feelings. “He would never be up for that kind of conversation anyway. He’d just shut down,” I tell her.
“He could surprise you. Who knows?” Her sing-songy tone makes me think she might know. “Just give it a chance and see where these feelings go.”
“I—I don’t know. What if it goes wrong? What if that’s not what I’m meant to do?” I rub my temple and wince at the sweltering heat that has already baked the side of my face. “I just need the universe to tell me what to do. I’m too wishy-washy on my own to just decide to have that kind of conversation.”
“You need the universe to tell you if you should give a hot guy with a beard a chance?”
“I heard that!” Benny yells from the background. That poor guy can’t grow a beard to save his life. Muffled giggles and movement happen on the other line as they whisper back and forth.
“I would just feel better if there was a sign—with clear instructions. It doesn’t even have to be a sign. A letter would be fine. Delivered by a seagull. Preferably right now!” I exaggerate loudly, speaking directly to the universe.
“Kate?” a deep voice beckons me from the entrance of the hotel. “Kate Stanley?”
My eyes strain in the sun as I search for the voice. And then I see him, the owner of the eerily familiar and all-too-real voice, walking my direction with a blaze of shimmery sunlight hitting his face like a spotlight.
“I hate you,” I mumble to the universe.
“What?” Ellie asks.
“You’re not going to believe this,” I whisper to Ellie as the man approaches, standing mere feet away. “Eric, hiiiiiii!” The greeting comes out in a painful stretch, and so does my arm, in a reluctant wave, as my ex-boyfriend approaches.
Ellie’s gasp on the other end rings in my ears, and I instinctively keep her on the line as Eric towers above my bench in the Florida sun. His dark skin glistens with sweat, and his arms are on display underneath a tight muscle shirt. My eyes snap up to his eyes, refusing to remember how those arms felt around me or anything remotely memorable about the man that broke my heart into a million pieces.
“Well, if this isn’t my lucky day. It’s good to see you.” His white teeth practically sparkle as he beams down at me.
I try not to gawk in awe, because the man is absolutely beautiful, and stand up to maintain a sliver of dignity. All my words are dried up from shock. “What’re—” I try to clear my throat, but it’s pointless. “What are you doing here?” I ask, sounding like a sixty-year-old smoker.
“I’m assisting Coach Dawson this year.” He points over his shoulder at a group of coaches standing inside the lobby. “He’s retiring in a few years, so I’m here to learn the ropes of running the camp.” He blushes at this, a sense of pride swelling in his eyes at his accomplishments.
At what he left Glendale for.
What he left me for.
“That’s great. I’m happy for you.” The way his smile fades tells me he knows I’m lying. Why would I be happy for him? He took the job at MU without telling anyone—even me.
Someone from the coaches group calls out to Eric and waves him back. Holding up a finger to give him a minute, Eric turns back to me. “I gotta get back, but hey, would you like to get coffee and catch up later?”
Another failed attempt at clearing my throat. “Sure.” Why? Why did you say sure?
“Great! I’ll get with you later!” His award-winning smile is back, and it fills me with nothing but memories. Memories I wish didn’t still affect me the way they do.
I watch him walk away as shock courses its way through my veins like an electric current. Sounds around me are a muffled buzz, and I almost don’t hear Ellie screaming at me through the phone.
“Katherine Stanley! Hello!”
Gosh, I forgot about her. Whipping the phone back to my ear, I whine, “The universe hates me!” Then I storm back into the hotel and race up to my room.
After filling Ellie—and Benny, because he decided to be fully invested in our conversation after the mention of Eric—in on what happened and listening to their advice that I did not ask for, I rush around to get ready for the afternoon scrimmages.
The cool shower soothes my burnt shoulders and my shocked nervous system.
Eric is here.
At camp.
I haven’t spoken to him in two years, the last conversation we had replaying in my head like a broken record.
“What are you trying to tell me?” I mumble to the universe in the steamy air as I exit the shower.
I have an hour to get to scrimmage, just enough time to lather in sunscreen and scream into a pillow.
Wrapping myself in a towel, I step out of the bathroom and find a sweaty back pushed up into a cobra pose at the foot of the bed. “Uh, hello,” I say, startled but also instantly entranced at the sight of Malcolm stretching, noting the faint freckles on the tops of his shoulders and the little dimples on his lower back, ripples of muscle and smooth skin stretching every which way.
Rolling off the bed, he reaches above his head and finishes stretching. “You done in there?” He eyes the bathroom behind me.
Nodding, I step to the side of the small doorway to the bathroom. I cling my towel tight against my chest, holding my breath as his chest brushes up against my arm when he makes his way through the door. I hear him turn on the water and rustle in his bag behind me, then his strong hand encircles my arm. His fingers send goosebumps down my arm and up into my neck, and words fail me as I look at his hand then up to his face just a few inches away from mine.
“I need to shut the door, Kate.” He smirks at me blocking the doorway. I feel almost unmovable, like his muscles have their own gravitational pull, and all I can do is stay planted in place so I don’t get lost in their orbit. I nod in agreement, taking a small shuffling step forward. His hand retreats from my arm, leaving it mush as I melt onto the bed.
What is happening to me?
It takes every ounce of mental energy to get dressed, but I do it. Then, sprawling out like a starfish, I groan into the comforter and question life. All of its twists and turns run amuck through my head. I replay the events of last night and this morning for fifteen minutes, all while Malcolm has been…showering? The man takes the longest showers in existence.
“Why so gloomy, Stanley?” he asks, emerging from the bathroom, a billow of steam flowing out around him like a cloud.
“I just had the weirdest morning.” I roll over and throw a pillow over my face, more for protecting my wandering eyes from what could be just a towel-covered body at the moment.
The bed moves as Malcolm sits next to me, tugging on my untied tennis shoes that dangle off the side of the bed. I feel the gentle pull of him tying my laces and tapping for the other foot. “Talk to me.” The earnest care of his voice takes root deep in my chest. I have to tell him. Even if I didn’t feel the simple obligation to warn him about who he is definitely going to run into this week, it’s more just the feeling of wanting to tell him everything—which I feel constantly. It’s frustrating, especially around his birthday when I inevitably give him his gifts a week early.
Peeking out from underneath the pillow, I confirm he’s fully dressed. No distracting muscle or bare skin visible. I proceed to rip the Band-Aid off. “I ran into Eric.”
Silence. Dreadful, unsettling silence fills the room.
I sit up on my elbows. “Did you—”
“Where?” he says through gritted teeth.
“Downstairs. He’s…” I pause, sitting up and pulling my feet under me. “He’s here for camp.” I sound like I’m in denial, refusing to accept what I saw. Malcolm runs his hands through his wet hair, gripping the back of his neck as he nods. “And he wants…” I chew on my thumbnail. I can’t bring myself to say it.
“What?” His voice is harsh as he asks over his shoulder. “What could he possibly want?”
I pull my hair out of my face and hold it tightly behind my head before I say, “He wants to catch up.”
Malcolm lets out a singular ha before pressing a closed fist deep into the mattress and standing up. “He’s got some nerve, doesn’t he?” he snaps out, not at me per se, but at the situation. “The man wrecks you and then wants to just catch up like nothing happened?” he growls, red staining his neck and cheeks as fury burns deep within his icy-blue eyes.
I stare at him, mouth agape. Malcolm rarely gets riled up, and if he does, he usually maintains his composure until he’s alone to process through it. The only time I’ve really ever seen him lose his cool was a few years ago after a phone call with his mom. I found him hours later, chopping wood like a serial killer at the back of his property.
Rubbing the back of his neck, he storms off into the bathroom, looking around for something, not finding whatever it is, and coming back out to the room. Closing his eyes and inhaling slowly, my eyes snag on his chest expanding the Glendale logo in the center of his shirt. Such a sculpted physique hidden behind a thin piece of fabric.
A trembling exhale leaves him as he opens his eyes. In an instant, I see rage wash away as his gaze lands on me. “Are you gonna go?”
Gnawing on my bottom lip, I hesitate to respond. Am I going to go? What would it mean? Why would I even want to?
“You know what”—he grabs his wallet and room key from the bedside table—“you don’t have to tell me. It’s fine.”
“Mal—”
“Just…” He steps toward me, gripping my shoulders with a firm gentleness only he could provide. “Be careful, okay?” His eyes search mine, solemn and serious, with small specks of silver sparkling within the crystal blue. A heavy feeling settles in my gut when I realize what that look is. Fear.
I don’t have a chance to ask what he’s afraid of before he rushes out the door without another word.