Page 18 of Center Ice
Chapter Nine
AUDREY
“Why did I agree to this?” I ask Jules as I stand in our entryway, staring at the front doors. They’re a narrow pair of old wooden doors that Jules recently found at a salvage yard and refinished for me. She knew I wanted to have the original side-by-side doors that were common when our South End row house was built in the mid-1800s.
“Because deep down, you know that you didn’t try hard enough to get ahold of Drew before, or since, Graham was born.”
Over my shoulder, I give my sisterthe look. It’s the same one I’ve been giving her my whole life, and it basically equates to:Develop a fucking filter, Jules.She’s a tell-it-like-it-is girl who doesn’t believe in sugar-coating things.
She blinks back at me, all wide blue eyes and flawless skin. With her hair piled up in the messy bun she often wears, she looks too young to be mad at. Sometimes I have to remind myself that she isn’t the little girl Jameson and I coddled after our mom died, and even more so after Dad left a note under an empty scotch bottle on our kitchen table that said,I can’t do this anymore,then disappeared from our lives. She’s a full-grown adult who needs to develop some tact.
“What?” she asks, when I continue staring at her. “You know it’s true. You could have contacted him through his publicist or even through his team, sent him DMs through social media, given Jameson some made-up reason to have Drew contact you, or looked up his family’s address in Boston and contacted him that way.”
“I know,” I sigh. I was hurt, and I let my pride get in the way. “I get it, Jules.”
“Good,” she says decisively, then takes a few steps so she’s standing next to me. She slings her arm around my shoulders and gives me a squeeze. “You’ve been a great mom, and so strong doing this on your own. But Drewwantsto be involved.”
“It’s not that easy,” I say. “We still have a lot to figure out.”
“So go figure it out. And I’m here if you need to talk when you get back.”
It only takes me about five minutes to walk from our place in the South End over to the Back Bay. I picked a small Italian restaurant tucked away on a side street off Newbury Street, and I asked for a very private table when I made the reservation.
And now, as I stand there looking at the painted black door beneath the ornate sign with the name of the restaurant, I want to turn and run away—go back home and change out of this dress and into the sweats and t-shirt I was wearing earlier, then cuddle up under a blanket on the couch and watch a mindless TV show with my little sister.
I’d made peace with being a single mom. Graham and I were doing just fine. I was comfortable with our life exactly how it was. It was maybe a little lonely, but it was safe. And welcoming Drew into our lives feels like it carries too many risks. So much could go wrong.
But what if everything goes right?
“You going to stand there, staring at that door until it opens itself?”
His voice comes from right behind me, but even though I was too lost in thought to notice his approach, I don’t startle. His voice is like honey—smooth and sweet and rich. It flows around me slowly, until I feel it making my limbs heavy.
“For real, though,” he says when I don’t manage to respond. “What’s going on?” He puts a hand on each of my shoulders.
“Just lost in thought, I guess,” I say, my voice falsely bright to cover the reaction my body is having to what I’m sure is supposed to be a supportive, friendly squeeze.
This is why it’s a bad idea to let him into your life.I push that thought right out of my head, because it doesn’t matter whether his presence is good for me or not, as long as it’s good for Graham. And I have no idea why, but I suspect that Drew will be a great dad—or at least, he’ll be a fun dad. And my serious little boy could use that.
“You ready to go in, or you want to stand out here thinking some more?”
I sink my elbow into his ribs playfully, and he must not have expected it because he lets out a little grunt at the contact.
“Toughen up, Jenkins,” I say, then reach forward to open the door. I step through it into the narrow, dim entryway, and right as I go to pull the interior glass door to the restaurant open, he reaches over my shoulder and plants his hand against the door. The exterior door shuts behind him, and it’s just the two of us, pressed together in the tight space.
“You really think I need to toughen up?” His words are low and spoken directly in my ear as his body practically cradles mine. “Or was that a throwback to when you said that to me before?”
“Drew,” I say, stepping away as I turn to face him, wishing I’d never opened my mouth. I definitely intended it as a little reminder of how often I’d said that to him when he’d whine or complain during our tutoring sessions. But I’d forgotten that Ialso said it right before we had sex when he’d looked at me and said,“You’re going to be my undoing.”And now, our eyes locked on each other in this tight space, I can clearly see that the last time I told him to “toughen up” was the one that stuck with him. “Let’s forget I said that and go inside before we’re late for our reservation.”
“Yeah,” he says, moving his hand down to the door handle, “wouldn’t want to be late.”
I ignore the undercurrent of sarcasm in his voice and sweep through the door he’s holding open for me. The host directs us to a table in an alcove off a hallway. The brick walls are windowless, and the space is dimly lit by wall sconces and the candle in the center of the table. I asked for privacy and got romantic instead. Now I wish I’d just had him meet me at a bar so this felt more like friends getting a drink, rather than a date.
When he takes his seat across from me, he eyes me like he’s trying not to laugh.
“What?” I say as soon as the host leaves. I’m frustrated at myself, because I can tell he’s sensing my inner turmoil.
“You look horrified by the table choice. It’s fine,” he says, opening the drink menu. “It’s not like I think this is a date.”
