Page 65 of Not That Kind of Icing
I could kiss my sisters for their willingness to be on my side every time, no matter what we’re facing, but I can’t shake the feeling that my brother might be right. I was so angry, spitting mad, like Hela when she fell in the sink. I lashed out every time Vic was within spitting distance.
And yes, he still should have told me. He still should have found time to say, “Hey, Tristan. Just so you know, we didn’tactuallyget married.” But I think he might have tried. More than once. And I think, right now, that I’m mad at him, but I also want him back. I want to cry and yell and have him fold me into his arms. I want him.
I love him.
“I’m not saying he didn’t fuck up.” Max levers himself off the floor to wrap his arms tight around my middle. “Just that I don’t think this is a relationship ender, and I don’t think Vic has any intention of letting you go.”
“And you know this from your vast experience with women?” I tease.
“Hey,” he ruffles my hair, “I do have five sisters. But no. I know this because his stuff is still here. His clothes, his toothbrush, his cat, his girl.” He digs his phone out of his pocket. “And because he may have sent me a ticket for you for tonight.”
“Max, you asshole. Why didn’t you lead with that last part?” Madison smacks her twin on the back of the head. “Save us a bunch of heartache.”
But I know why. I wasn’t ready to hear it at first. I was mad and hurt and still missing Vic like a piece of my soul. I couldn’t see the forest for the trees, couldn’t see the truth past the lie, because Vic didn’t tell me right when he should have—and part of that is on me—but he also didn’t wait to be found out. There was no way this could have stayed a secret forever. Even if we’d gotten to a point where divorce was off the table—and to be honest, I hadn’t thought about it much in a long time—the truth would have come out during tax season or any other time where legal became involved.
And yet… Vic didn’t wait until it was out of his hands. He had to know my response wouldn’t be good, and he still offered me the information when I was upset. Not to distract, but to offer comfort, reassurance. I was standing here, stomach twisted into knots, thinking he wanted out, and he asked me to commit to him for real. He gave me the information, not to hurt, but to help. It was misguided and dumb, but his heart was in the right place.
Just like it was in Vegas when he took care of me, let me live out my little Elvis fantasy, and then brought me safely back to the hotel and didn’t make a move. Even when he admitted he wanted to. He put my needs and my priorities first. Has anyone ever done that before? I love my siblings, but they have always assumed that I’ll give and give and give. Vic put me first.
He showed me over and over and over again. I just didn’t pay attention.
“Max,” my voice catches on my brother’s name. “You said Vic sent you a ticket?”
He grins. “He did.”
I hold out my hand and my brother slips the phone into my palm. I type in his passcode and there it is, an email from Vic.
There are tears burning in my eyes. I can’t stop swallowing despite the dryness in my mouth. I check the clock over my microwave. If I get dressed fast, I can be at the rink just before puck drop. Do I want to? Am I still mad? Maybe a little, but not enough to leave him hanging. It’ll be close, I’ll have to skip my normal routine. No time to wash and dry my hair. I don’t think I’ll have time for my full makeup. I won’t have time for much of anything.
I could skip this game. They have another home game the day after tomorrow. I could prepare. Get my brows waxed, exfoliate, do my skincare. I’ve been doing nothing for the past twenty-four hours but sitting around in my Vic’s Chick’s sweatpants and eating ice cream out of increasingly large bowls. The only useful thing I did was feed Hela, and that was almost entirely out of self-preservation.
“Go get dressed kid,” Max says, like I’m not almost a decade older than him, “I’ll drive you to the Stand for the game.” He looks around the room at our sisters. “I think I’m the only one who didn’t enjoy the cocoa.”
I bolt to my room.
“I need the pep talk.” I crowd Robbie up against the boards, trying to block out the sounds from the crowd.
He glides a few feet away, stopping to prop his stick across the top of his thighs.
“No,” he says, “You don’t.”
I follow him, ignoring the warmup, because I do. I really do. I need the reminder to get my head screwed on right now. I’m coming off a shit road trip. I need to be on top of each minute I spend on the ice.
I didn’t expect Tristan to show up, not tonight. I figured she’d need more time, but Max gave me his email after I offered to do some off-season conditioning with him, and I saw a chance to let her know I wanted her here without bothering her. Mom gave up her ticket for the rest of the season. She’d be watching from the box, agreeing that the grand gesture was putting Tristan in the stands. On the bench. Somewhere I could interact with her, grab a kiss as I walked out of the tunnel, at least see her face.
Of course, Mom had made her opinions of my intelligence known before agreeing to spare the seat.
“How did you get to be this old and this successful and this stupid?” she’d asked, scrubbing a non-existent spot on the bathroom tile. I have a full-time cleaner, but mom has always scrubbed when angry or stressed.
“It would have been inappropriate to marry her when she couldn’t consent, mom. You raised me better than that.”
The long-suffering sigh and the nose pinch told me I should have kept my mouth shut. Her question had been rhetorical.
“Notthatpart. I’m actually proud of you for that one. I know how much you love that girl, so how could you not tell her? Were you that willing to risk everything?” Mom paused. “How could you not tell me?”
I’d never intended to tell my mother at all. I’d let myself into my own house with my own key and assumed she’d leave me alone. She hadn’t. Where was my wife? What had I done? Didn’t I know I needed to go grovel? Women like Tristan Grant—who are willing to put up with men like me—only come along once. Maybe twice if she included Quinn, my almost sister-in-law, but Erik was not cocky and arrogant and difficult the way I was. Erik wasn’t followed around by fame and a hoard of women with “Vic’s Chicks” painted across questionable parts of their bodies.
She’d stalked me from room to room in my overlarge house, waiting for me to cave. When I had, the story tumbling out, she’d pulled out the bleach and bristle brush and gotten to work on the perfectly clean grout lines.
