Would our children have grown up without a good example of what love looks like?
Sloane and I were lucky to see our parents devoted to, and disgustingly handsy with, one another. Always touching, always together. They modeled love for us so often and so well that Sloane went after hers, chasing Cal even with the risk that it would ruin our relationship with one another.
And I went the other direction. Scared of the constant work my parents put into loving one another. Afraid of the sacrifices I might be asked to make.
“It’s beennothingbut lies from you,” Sloane whispers, and it snaps me back to the present. Anger rises up in me, quick and hot, and I know I should leave before I say something I regret. I know I shouldn’t push this thing.
But it’s like I can’t stop myself.
“Well, maybe it runs in the family.”
Sloane crosses her arms. “That’s not fair. I’ve apologized to you for that.”
“Okay.” I shrug my shoulders, knowing I’m being callous. Our parents didn’t raise us like this—didn’t raisemelike this. But the hurt inside me is building too high for me to keep fighting it. I say in a completely flat, disingenuous voice, “I’m sorry then.”
The room goes cold. Sloane stares at me like she doesn’t know me.
Maybe she doesn’t.
“Hey, did you guys—” Cal appears at the door, as though summoned by the discomfort, and he looks between the two of us swallowing, opening his mouth to say more, but I don’t hearhim. I don’t care. I push past him into the hallway, and out the front door.
***
I’ve never been the sit-at-the-bar-and-wallow kind of man, but here I am. Sitting at the bar. Wallowing.
We have our next game against the Bruins tomorrow. Luckily, it’s here in Milwaukee, so I won’t have to get on another plane until at least the end of the week.
“Hey.”
When I hear the voice of the person sliding onto the stool next to me, I almost don’t believe it. But when I turn my head and look, there she is.
“Mandy.” My voice is dry, brittle, unfeeling. I wonder if she can tell, or if she would ever care. “Where’s your pop star?”
She orders a whiskey on the rocks and nods, flashing me a smile. Everything about Mandy is softer now—her hair more honey than platinum, and falling in gentle waves around her shoulders. When we were together, she almost always had it straight, and would fuss in the mirror for hours.
Now, her makeup is minimal, some blush and mascara. It’s like looking at a different person.
To my surprise, rather than quipping back, she says, “Okay. Maybe I deserved that.” I raise an eyebrow at her, and she goes on, “I mean, I didn’t have to go off and date themostvisible person in the world after we split.”
“Is that what you would call it? A split?”
“I do care about you, Luca,” Mandy says, her voice soft. “I just—well, I realized I wanted to live an authentic life.”
Sucking in a deep breath, I look to the ceiling for a moment, nodding, knowing I can’t argue with that. How could I?
“I care about you, too,” I murmur. “And I’m sorry I put you in the position to feel like you couldn’t be yourself. With Christie. Or anyone.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, are you my parents and all of society?”
We laugh together for a second, finding some of the spark that made me want to enter into the contract with her in the first place. When she’s opening up, Mandy is fun. Under other circumstances, maybe she and I could be friends.
“I never cheated on you,” Mandy says, quietly. “But Christie and I—we met at one of those parties she came to. With Cal. And it just—we became friends. Then, more than that. Maybe I cheated on you alittle. Emotionally. But I’m saying that outside the divorce proceedings.”
I wave a hand. “It doesn’t matter. I mean, it’s not like we were in love.”
“But you’re in love with Wren.”
Mandy says her name so casually, almost like we’ve all been friends for a long time. When I glance over at my ex-wife, she’s smiling.
