Brutal Game (8 page)

“Ten days, you said?”

She smiled. “In a month, or six months. I know you’re not doing this out of pity, or to try to cheer me up or distract me, but… Shit, I feel like I’m messing this up. But ask me again later.” Her heart was too banged up right now to muster the giddy flutterings such a moment deserved.

“Did I completely wreck this?” he asked.

“No. Not at all. You’re amazing. Pretend I’m as blunt and transparent as you, Flynn, and just take me at my word on this one. Ask me again when things have gotten back to normal and it feels like the right time to you.”

He snapped the box shut and tucked it in his jacket with a little smirk. “When my mind’s made up, it’s made up, so it can only feel right.”

She smirked back. “Very smooth. I wish I had an answer now, trust me. But what happened today… I spend a lot of time trying not to feel things. To hide or to get numb or ignore my issues. But this… I think I need to
feel
this, what I’m going through now. All of it. This isn’t the sort of pain I want to pack up and stuff down and ignore and have to deal with later. I just want to feel the ugly fuck out of it until I’m okay again. Get it all over with.”

He nodded.

“When I’m done doing that, your question deserves my full attention. My full, sober, rational attention.”

“I hear you.”

She sighed, tired but calm, finally. “I’m not going to be much fun for the next couple weeks.”

“I’m not with you because it’s easy, honey.”

She looked up, struck twice by that remark—first by its sweetness, but then by a tiny backhand, the implication that she was difficult. But she closed her mouth on a protest, because it was true and she knew it, and furthermore she knew it wasn’t a criticism. Merely a fact.

“Why
are
you with me?” she asked, careful to sound curious and not defensive.

His answer came at once. “The way you make me feel.”

“How do I make you feel?”

“Lots of ways. You make me feel understood, I guess. And appreciated, and useful. And trusted. And out-of-my-mind horny beyond belief.”

She laughed. “Good answer.”

“I feel like you get me. Whatever it is I offer, it’s something you want, or need. And if it isn’t always easy to be with you, when you’re depressed or whatever, I know I’m not easy to be with all the time either. I know sometimes I’m kind of a dick, and I know being with me, sexually, takes you way outside your comfort zone.”

“That’s really not so much of a sacrifice,” she said, blushing faintly.

“But it’s intense, and it takes effort. I appreciate it.”

“It’s not a favor,” she added.

“Neither’s taking care of you when you’re having a hard time.”

Tears welled and slipped free, tracing hot paths down her cheeks. “Thanks. It’s nice to hear you put it that way.”

“And takin’ care of you right now, this ain’t easy, either. But it’s not a favor. It’s not even a duty. It’s just what we do for each other.”

She nodded. Still, she wished her higher-maintenance aspects involved filthy, kinky sex instead of mental health crises.

They fell silent, and Laurel seemed to leave her body for a minute, as though her mind took a step back, hovering just outside her skin. She saw the two of them eight months into a romance, struck by how this looked nothing like any theoretical locket portrait she might have been carrying around, depicting the future love of her life. Physically, this man was more than she’d ever have paired herself with; more aggressively, blatantly masculine than she’d realized she was into. But it went far beyond that.

“This isn’t how I imagined it would look, being in love,” she said slowly, teasing the idea free, like an archaeologist brushing the dust from a bone. “Like, in
actual
love, not just the kind you feel at the start.”

“How do you mean?”

“Just this, right now… When you see people in love in movies or wherever, it’s all good feelings. Grand gestures and proclamations and kissing in the rain. I never thought it could feel this intimate, something as painful as this. Something this visceral, and ugly, and sad. But I don’t know if I’ve ever felt this close to anyone.”

His smile was small, somehow fragile.

“I mean, I never imagined I’d let a guy have sex with me during my period. But this is like… I dunno. I guess what I’m saying is, it amazes me how unafraid of the female body you are.”

“Helpful when you’re a straight guy.”

“No, you have no idea how terrified guys are of women’s bodily functions. And how gross it makes us feel. But you really don’t give a shit. Are you
sure
you were raised Catholic?”

He laughed. “When you’re into what I am… It takes communication. Plus I attract pretty ballsy, outspoken women.”

Laurel nodded. She had a meek streak, but she
had
gone after him, at the start. That was Flynn’s m.o. He didn’t do the pursuing, at least not until a woman knew what she was in for. And Laurel supposed that, yes, it did take a certain shameless type of gal to chase a man as intimidating as Flynn. It gave her a funny little jolt of pride and surprise to realize she was one of them.

“If a woman’s too shy to acknowledge the existence of her period, she’s probably not up for negotiating a rape scene,” he said.

“I suppose not. And really, I’d happily trade mystique and discretion for honesty. And to be with a man who’ll go out in a snowstorm and get me tampons.”

“It wasn’t a storm.”

“And potato chips.”

He shrugged. “You keep tendin’ my wounds, I’ll keep you in snacks and lady-plugs.”

“It’s a deal.” She laughed, caught by a thought. “Could those be our vows?”

He looked up, gaze soft but loaded. In time, he smiled. “I think we can do better than that.”

“I don’t suppose I could look at the ring again?”

“Sure.”

Her breath caught as he dug through the folds of his jacket and produced the little box. She’d been so floored when he’d first whipped it out, she’d really only registered the barest details—
diamond, sparkly, proposal.

He passed her the box and she opened it, its tiny hinge silent. The ring was seated in a bed of dove-gray velvet, almost as though the diamond were floating there. “Wow.” It was big. Not garish, but larger than she’d ever have set her heart on. “Not to be tacky, but is this real?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow,” she said again, and he chuckled. “I like the shape.” Not a circle—a softly rounded rectangle.

“It’s a cushion cut,” he announced with an overdone know-it-all air.

“The jeweler tell you that?”

“Yup.”

“It’s beautiful. Like,
beautiful
.” She slid it out. The band was simple and slender, nicely balanced with the size of the stone. She turned it this way and that, watching the lamplight dance in the facets, feeling woozy to imagine she could wear this. All she had to do was say the word.

Not yet.
Not until there was enough room inside her for all the joy that moment deserved to inspire. She slipped the ring back into its little slot, sad to shut it away in the dark.

“How’d you know my size? Anne?”

He nodded. “She snuck in and stole one of your rings.”

“Which one?”

“Silver, with a blue stone in it.”

She smiled. “Clever little sneak.”

“I didn’t tell her about the pregnancy,” he said.

“I wouldn’t have imagined you would.”

“You gonna tell her?”

She nodded. “Yeah, I will. She knows me too well not to notice I’m having a hard time.”

“You call in sick to work, I hope?”

“I have tomorrow off, so I’ll play it by ear. The distraction might be welcome.”

“You said you want to feel it all.”

“I do. But I don’t want to wallow in it, either. I just want to make sure I don’t half-ass this…this mourning, or whatever this is. I don’t want to white-knuckle my way through it, keeping manically busy, or cover over it with alcohol, or try to sleep through it. It deserves to be felt.” She paused, feeling like some hippy-dippy weirdo.

“Whatever you need. I’ll keep this fucker safe until you’re ready to make its acquaintance,” he said, flashing the box then burying it back inside his coat pocket.

“Deal.”

She studied him for a long time. He looked different. Perhaps it was the comparably girly setting, atop her full mattress as opposed to his king, on her turquoise comforter, in a room with regular-sized windows and a normal-height ceiling. He looked new. Handsome in a softer way than usual.

He was an attractive man, she thought, but not everyone’s cup of tea. He didn’t have a charming smile—more a cocky smirk—and his hands were rough, same as his accent and his words and his kinks. Many women would prefer a polished type, dazzling and pedigreed as that diamond, or perhaps one as smooth and dignified as onyx. Flynn was brick, blunt and abrasive and honest, with hard edges and common good looks as plain as his speech. His body was ridiculous, though. It was a nice balance. A model-handsome face capping a physique like his would look like a caricature.

For the briefest moment, she wondered what it might have looked like. Their child.

If he gets his way, I’ve got all the time in the world to find out.

“You want to be alone?” he asked, perhaps mistaking her silence for distance.

She shook her head. “No. I want you here.”

“Good.”

“I want you to spend the night, if you want that too.”

“I wanna be whatever you need.”

“You always are.” And what she needed right now was a strong pair of arms holding her, keeping her together even as the ground seemed to be crumbling away beneath her feet.

“
S
omething to drink
while you wait?”

“Water’s fine.” Flynn looked past the waitress to the restaurant’s front windows. He thought to tack on a tardy “Thanks” just as she turned to walk away. His etiquette was rusty, and his mood wasn’t helping.

The place wasn’t fancy, just a little Sicilian hole-in-the-wall at the edge of the North End. The food was phenomenal—he’d been here before with Laurel—but the napkins were paper and most of the entrées were less than twenty bucks. Still, if he wasn’t ordering off a board tacked above a row of registers, it felt strange.

He checked his phone. Five after. Not like Laurel to be late, but also not like Laurel to spring a last-minute date on him. They hardly ever went on dates, probably only once or twice a month. They’d been on precisely zero the past few weeks, and if he was honest, he wasn’t really in the mood. But Laurel had sounded so excited over the phone, there was no way he could’ve said no.

The period following the miscarriage had been rough. He’d done his best to be whatever she needed, but as often as not, she hadn’t seemed sure of what that was. She’d been clingy one moment, cool the next, acting as though she’d rather be away from him but denying that she did. Even when he’d seemed to be doing exactly what she needed, he’d felt lost.

She’d caught him just as he’d been leaving work today, wanting him to meet her at six. He’d been hoping to go to the gym instead, but he’d dutifully gone home and showered off the plaster dust and dressed in his least beat-up jeans and the black sweater she’d given him for Christmas, ran a cloth over his only dress shoes. Glancing around, he figured he passed, even if he felt like a rhino perched on this spindly wooden chair. Even if he was the only patron with stitches bisecting their left eyebrow. Or any other body part, come to that.

Oh fucking well.

He’d give just about anything to be back in Southie, beating the shit out of a heavy bag, feeling nothing. But if the price was letting Laurel down, he wasn’t willing to pay it.

It was mid-March, and a springy March at that. Only a few scabs of brown snow still clung to the shadier sidewalks, and the air smelled good, like winter was officially in the rearview. The sky was blue beyond the restaurant’s tall windows; the days were getting longer.

Laurel was getting stronger. Seeming more like her old self.

Flynn wished he could say the same.

I know this feeling. I’ve lived through it before.

It was grief. No mistaking it. But grief this real and this nagging, for a near-microscopic little—

A tap on his shoulder turned Flynn’s head, and there she was. Smiling, looking gorgeous. Looking
happy
, her red hair pulled back in a ponytail and a few inches of bare leg visible between the tops of her fancy boots and the hem of a wool skirt. Her coat was folded over her arm.

“Hey, beautiful.” He stood and kissed her cheek, pulled out the opposite chair for her.

“Hey. Thanks.” She draped her coat over the chair back and sat, letting him go through that weird charade of pretending like he was helping as she scooted her seat in.

“Didn’t see you come in,” he said, sitting.

“There’s two doors. Sorry I’m late.”

“Barely.”

“You look quite sexy,” she said, bobbing her eyebrows. “Nice sweater.”

He mustered a smile, feeling like a fraud. “Thanks. My old lady got it for me.”

“Not
so
old.” She pulled a menu over.

“You look hot as fuck,” he told her. Her legs drove him up a wall. Always had. He wished she wore skirts more often. It was nice to catch himself thinking it, too. The past couple weeks hadn’t exactly been erotic.

The miscarriage was one thing of course. Pain, both physical and emotional, had consumed her, and being the strong one had consumed him in return. Even now, with the physical business of it done and Laurel seeming all but normal, he wasn’t ready for sex yet, himself. She might like to go on about his lack of squeamishness when it came to the female body, but he was intimidated by the whole prospect. Not grossed out, just…worried. Worried he might hurt her. Worried she’d cry. Worried he’d fuck it all up, and on the other end worried they’d never get back there, never be the same again.

But something about the skirt and the boots gave him the thinnest sliver of hope.

“Why the getup?” he asked.

“I have my reasons.” She was wearing makeup, too. Mascara, and the stuff you put on the lids that Flynn could never remember the name of. “I’ve worn nothing but jeans and pajamas and my work clothes for two weeks,” she said. “I guess I got sick of looking at myself.”

“Well, you look awesome.”

She blushed, visibly, even in the low light. “You too.”

The waitress arrived with two glasses of ice water and greeted Laurel. “A drink for you?”

Laurel scrambled for the wine list. “Oh, let’s see… Whatever you’d recommend that’s red and dry and less than eight bucks a glass…?”

“Ignore the bit about the price,” Flynn cut in.

“I can personally vouch for either the Syrah or the Round Pond cabernet,” the waitress offered.

“Syrah, please.”

“Do you two need a few more minutes with the menus?”

“Yes, thanks. No rush.” Laurel flashed a big smile. For obvious reasons, she was exceedingly nice to wait staff and always bullied Flynn into tipping way more than he normally would.

Once the waitress was gone, he said, “Haven’t seen you drink in ages.”

“Yeah, I haven’t. Not since before the test. I wanted to make sure I wasn’t self-medicating, but since I feel pretty good today, I figure why not?”

Lucky you.
He caught himself, shamed by the petty thought. “Good for you.”

“How was work?” She was just a little off, he noticed. Nervous? Guilty?

“Same old shit,” he said. “Minus the usual workout. Tell me about your day.”

Oh, there it was—that smile. Definitely nervous. “It was…good.”

“You look like you got somethin’ to share. Spill it.”

She bit her lip, pink cheek going round, making his belly all warm. “Well, I applied for two more jobs.”

“Nice. Where?”

“Both on the T, or close to it. One’s downtown, the other’s in Malden. That makes seven I’ve applied for this week.”

“Fuckin’ fantastic. You interested in either of them?”

She shrugged. “Enough. Anything in my field is what I’m after. No more being picky,” she said, sitting up straight. “I used that as an excuse for way too long.”

“Well, good job.”

“Thanks.” She was doing it again, looking all cagey.

“What?”

She leaned in, the end of her ponytail brushing the table. “I got invited to interview.”

He blinked. “You did?”

She nodded, any cool act she’d been mustering gone in an instant. “I did.”

“Where?”

“A place I applied to last week. It’s a biotech company in Kendall Square—there’s an opening for an entry-level mechanical engineer, and the salary’s pretty great. I mean, not that I’ll get it necessarily, though I did do my degree project on the same sorts of systems they specialize in…”

He let her go on, not taking in much of the specifics but getting swept up in how excited she sounded, how hopeful and hyper and awake. Nice to get pulled out of his own gloom for a couple minutes.

Her wine arrived just as she seemed to be winding down. She raised the glass with a cheesy-ass, expectant smile.

Flynn lifted his water and they toasted. “That’s fucking phenomenal, honey. Well done.”

“Thanks.”

“Dinner was already on me, but now we’re both required to get dessert.”

“Dinner ought to be on me,” she said, voice turning soft and private. “I know I haven’t been the easiest person to be around lately—”

“Hush. When’s the interview?”

“Friday. Hence the skirt. I needed to make sure I had an outfit worth turning up in.”

“They’re not wastin’ any time. You must be a catch.”

“Or they must be desperate.”

He shot her a stern look. “Knock that shit off. They’d be lucky to have you. Just make sure your boss is a fugly old fucker, that’s all I ask.”

She laughed. “I’ll be sure to ask about that during the interview.”

“Wish you’d told me over the phone. I’d have found you some flowers.”

“Save them for when I actually get a job.”

“I know just the kind. The stinky white-and-pink ones.”

She rolled her eyes, smiling. “Oriental lilies.” Her favorites.

“That’s what I said.”

“You know what you’re ordering?”

“No clue.”

“Me neither.” She handed him a menu. “Let’s focus, shall we?”

He scanned the options, not taking much in.

She’s moving on.
And so she should. Moving on from the grief and confusion and pain, and it seemed liked she’d dodged a bout of deeper depression to boot. But as she moved on, Flynn felt as if he was still stuck at square one, shell-shocked and helpless.

Suck it up, asshole.
This whole situation… It had been her decision from the very start, her body that would’ve assumed the work of a pregnancy if she’d decided to keep it, and in the end, her body that bore the torture of the miscarriage. He got no say, and that was how it should be.

Though he couldn’t help but feel like the last man at the wake, alone with the casket while his ride home pulled away from the curb and left him behind.