The Virgin Game Plan Page 24

  I’m a coiled wire of nerves. “No. I’m not.”

  He rubs my arm. “What’s wrong, beautiful?”

  I don’t mince words. “I haven’t told my mom about you. We don’t see my friends. I’m going to the game today, but I’m there as Grant’s good friend. And I’m not asking you to make a declaration. I’m not asking you to change the plan you’ve made with Josh. I know you’re doing this carefully and as quickly as you can, but there’s something I need to do for me, on my side, before I can move forward with you.”

  “What is it?” he asks, concern in his deep voice.

  “Something I should have done years ago. Because I feel like I’m sneaking around. I’ve been there, done that, and it’s awful.” My voice threatens to break, but I swallow and go on. “It reminds me of everything that hurt when I was thirteen. And I can’t be in that place anymore.” I choke up and—holy shit—that’s the closest I’ve come to telling someone my dad cheated on my mom and I found him doing it, and I did not mean to say that.

  But maybe I did.

  Maybe I needed to say it.

  Holden pulls me close, kisses my forehead. “I’m sorry you feel that way, beautiful.”

  A tear slides down my cheek, and I nod.

  But this isn’t about him. It’s not about what he needs to do. It’s about the woman I want to be and the daughter I have to be.

  “I need to go. There’s something I needed to do years ago,” I say.

  I grab my things, and I go to Sausalito.

  30

  Reese

  I stand at my father’s door, uninvited and unexpected. But here I am anyway.

  This is not awkward. It’s hard.

  But it’s also . . . not.

  Maybe because it’s necessary, and has been for more than a decade.

  I knock decisively, and a few moments later, a face appears in the glass panel that runs alongside the door—red hair, a basketball belly, and a delighted smile.

  Becky swings open the door. “Reese! So good to see you.”

  I clear my throat. “Good to see you too.” And it’s true—she is likable. My eyes stray down to her stomach. “How’s the baby?”

  She groans, but it’s an affectionate sound as she pats her stomach. “He seems to have taken over all the real estate in my belly.”

  “I guess babies do that.” I take a beat before changing gears. “I didn’t call first, but I was hoping to talk to my—”

  Footsteps on the stairs behind me interrupt, and I turn to see my dad coming up. He’s wearing a tracksuit, and his face is flushed.

  “Hey there! I just ran through downtown. What a nice surprise to see you, Reese. Did you want to join us for breakfast?”

  I shake my head. My stomach roils. But I dig deep. I’ve got this.

  “Dad, can we talk instead? In private?”

  His expression turns serious. “Of course.” We head inside, and he shuts the door behind us.

  Becky smiles graciously. “Do you want tea? Coffee?”

  I shake my head. “I’m okay.” I set my purse and the gift bag on the table by the door, and my dad guides me out to the deck overlooking the water.

  We stand at the railing, overlooking Richardson Bay on a crystal clear Saturday with the sun climbing high in the sky. “What’s on your mind, sweetie bear?”

  There’s a rock the size of the sea cliffs in my throat, but I push past it. I felt small years ago. I felt voiceless. Too young to have known what I knew. But I’m not thirteen anymore.

  I’m a woman.

  A daughter.

  A friend.

  A girlfriend.

  A sports fan.

  A food lover.

  A badass babe.

  I went to South America and lived abroad for two years. I helped teach young girls how to use their voices.

  Time to use mine.

  “Do you remember when I was thirteen and went to Sacramento to watch your game after my volleyball match?”

  His brow knits, his memory perhaps tripping back in time. “You didn’t go though. You said the bus . . .”

  Shaking my head, I tell him the truth. “I did go. I took the bus. And I saw you and that woman.”

  He winces. His face becomes a map of expressions. Confusion. Shock. And most of all, shame.

  “You did?” His question is full of potholes.

  The affable Teflon father from my high school graduation has left the building.

  He sounds contrite. Most of all, he sounds human.

  Real.

  I soldier on.

  “I was there. I did show up. And when I saw you in her arms, kissing her, holding her, touching her, I was devastated. It hurt so much. I cried the whole way home,” I say, recalling that day vividly.

  I expect to cry again, to relive that horrid rush of uncontrollable sadness, of painful, aching tears that ravaged my entire body. I expect to feel the same way I did on that lonely bus, my forehead pressed against the glass, heading down the California highway, my family breaking apart as the road whipped by.

  But I don’t.

  Mostly, I feel in control. Everything I didn’t feel then.

  He takes a breath and says, “I’m so sorry.”

  I turn those three words over in my head.

  Was that what I thought I’d hear?

  Was that what I wanted? An actual apology?

  I catalog my emotions. They’re steady, certain, calm.

  Perhaps it’s what I needed but didn’t dare let myself hope for.

  My father continues, his voice stripped bare, “I know it doesn’t begin to cover it. I know it doesn’t change the mistakes of the past. But that’s all I know to say. I’m so very sorry, Reese.”

  The honesty in his voice works its way inside me, gives me strength to keep going, set my hurt free.

  “When I started to tell Mom a few weeks later, she already knew. We cried together on the couch, and she told me she’d asked you for a divorce. But even so, I hated discovering you with another woman. Hated it.” The words rip at my throat, and I need to get them out, to purge myself of them.

  He rubs the back of his neck, his breath stuttering as if he’s taking this all on the chin. “Reese, I was not a good husband.”

  I stiffen, muttering, “I’d say.”

  But wait—

  Did he just admit it? The thing I’ve known my whole life? The thing he seemed oblivious to? His utter cluelessness?

  I stare at him like he’s a picture turned inside out, a carbon copy of himself.

  “I was a terrible husband,” he goes on. “I was unfaithful. As you know.”

  I’m floored.

  He’s not making excuses—not saying he couldn’t help it, protesting that he was in love—like he did when I was in high school.

  He’s speaking the unvarnished truth.

  Somehow that frees me even more. “I saw you. I saw you kissing that woman. It was terrible, Dad.”

  He winces. “I can only imagine. I can’t make it right, can’t undo it. All I can say is I messed up. And I don’t ever want to do that again.”

  I breathe hard, so hard it hurts, but then the pain starts to ebb, begins to ease.

  The pain came from carrying those secrets for so long. Secrets that weren’t mine. The secret that ruined my relationship with him, when I saw with my own eyes who he is.

  But maybe . . . who he was?

  Perhaps it is the past.

  “I’m sorry you saw that,” he says. “I’m sorry I put myself first. I’m trying to do things differently.”

  “You are?” I ask softly.

  He nods, a determined look in his eyes. “Look,” he says dragging a hand through his hair. “I know we grew apart. I wasn’t there for you and your sister. But here we are now. And I meant it when I reached out to you and said I hoped we could reconnect. I don’t expect you to believe me. I don’t expect you to show up every Friday for supper or anything like that. I was a pretty shitty dad, and I was a terrible husband.
But I’ve been seeing a shrink, and I’m going to meetings. And I hope things can start to change. I’d like them to.”

  I snap my head up. “Meetings?”

  Does he mean, like, addiction recovery?

  He answers for me though. “Love addiction.”

  My head spins. Is that a thing? I’ve heard of being in love with love, and if he is working on his issues, that’s good.

  “So, what does Becky think about that?”

  He shakes his head. “She’s giving me a chance, and I want it. I want to do right by her and the baby.”

  My chest stings, a quick pinprick of envy that he’s directing all his emotions, all his change of heart at the baby in Becky’s belly.

  That he’s only just now getting it.

  That he’s actually trying to change but for a new family.

  I turn and stare at the water, the expanse of dark blue, the chop of the light waves, the burnished bridge that spans the bay.

  But as I gaze at the water, the sting abates. I don’t have to feel jealousy. This is a good thing.

  So, I get out of my own way, and I choose hope.

  Hope that he’s changing. That his new child is the chance he’s wanted, perhaps needed. The chance to do better, to love faithfully.

  I let go of anger, jealousy, and petty annoyance. In their place, I feel relief.

  Not that he’s an addict.

  Not that he’s in therapy.

  Relief that I’m not pretending around him any longer.

  “I hope it all works out with her,” I say, and I mean that too. Then I step toward him, open my arms, and give him a hug.

  His arms wrap around me.

  Warm and safe.

  The way he felt when I was growing up. The way I wanted him to be even after he moved out. But that’s the past.

  This is the present.

  I can’t keep holding on to what I saw, what I wished, what didn’t happen. This is what I have in front of me now, and I can either take it or leave it.

  I choose to take it.

  We break the embrace. “I’m glad we talked,” I tell him.

  He smiles, and it’s so genuine that it warms my heart a little bit. “So am I, Reese, so am I.”

  I head back inside. Becky’s in the kitchen, pouring herself a mug of something steamy. When she puts it down on the counter, she sets a hand on her belly and says, “Oh!”

  I head over to her, a moth to a light, and feel my brother kick.

  A sob ratchets up inside me. “Hey, little brother,” I whisper.

  She clasps her hand over mine briefly, squeezing before she lets me go. “Thanks for coming by. Do you want some tea?”

  “I would love some.”

  We sit down in the living room, have a cup, and talk about baby names. “I like Trevor or Jason,” she says.

  “I like Norman or Baxter,” my father puts in, deadpan.

  I turn to him and hiss. “You do not.”

  His smile is delightful and evil. “Got you there.”

  “You sure did.”

  We talk more about names, due dates, and the shower next week. After I finish the tea, I walk to the door, my father following me.

  “Good luck tonight. I might root for the Cougars though,” I add in a sassy little whisper.

  He slams his fist against his chest, huffing. “You wound me.”

  I sling my purse onto my shoulder and reach for the doorknob, but I find I have more to say. There’s no point holding back. “I met a great guy,” I tell them both. Becky’s eyes light up, twinkling.

  My father arches a brow. “He treats you well?”

  “He’s amazing. I’m in love with him. It’s wonderful.”

  “I’m so happy for you,” Becky says, smiling warmly.

  “Maybe I’ll meet him someday,” my father says.

  “I have a feeling you will.”

  I leave the house, and the past behind with it.

  31

  Holden

  I call Josh as I grab my keys to head out for my morning run.

  No more waiting.

  Time to put all these plans into motion.

  But as I bound down the steps, the call goes to voicemail. I drop the device into my pocket as I shift into a light jog, heading up Fillmore. When I hit the top of the street, I catch up with Chance, Crosby, and Grant, joining them as I often do on Saturday mornings.

  As we run toward the Marina, Grant looks at a watch he doesn’t wear. “So, anyone up for bowling tonight? Or maybe a round of pool?”

  “Or we could see the new Marvel flick,” Crosby offers, deadpan.

  “All good ideas. Since there’s nothing else happening today,” Chance weighs in.

  “Nothing whatsoever,” I say, keeping up the ruse.

  Chance clears his throat. “So, Holden. I’m concerned about your gluteus maximus. Everything okay?”

  Truth be told, my ass still hurts.

  But not enough to care.

  Especially when Reese is dealing with serious shit right now. “Guys,” I say, clearing my throat. “I have to tell my manager tonight that I’m in love with his daughter. Any words of wisdom?”

  Grant shoots me a satisfied grin, then holds out a fist for knocking. “That is excellent news.”

  “Holy shit, man. Go for it,” Crosby says, high-fiving me.

  Chance flashes a grin. “Guess your ass is just fine. Which means . . . sometimes you just have to say the hard thing.”

  “You know what to do,” Grant adds.

  The thing is, I do know—just say it. But there’s someone else I need to talk to first. And it’s not Josh. And it’s not my friends. When we finish the run, I wave them off so I can ring a number in Seattle.

  “Hey, I need to talk to you, Dad.”

  “Everything okay?”

  I sink onto a park bench, my breathing evening out. “Everything is great, but I want to tell you, I met someone. She’s wonderful, and I’m absolutely in love with her.”

  “That’s terrific. But why does it sound like you’re confessing something?”

  “Because what if things don’t go the way I planned? With my job?” I ask, then I give him the details on who Reese is. “Trouble is, I have no idea what to expect. Or what this might mean for my career.”

  “You’re happy? You love her?”

  “So much. But I also want to be in a position to help you and Mom.”

  He laughs. “You always have to have a plan, don’t you? But maybe we have plans too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’re going to be okay. We have retirement accounts. We don’t expect you to take care of us. Maybe you want to level us up, and sure, that’s nice. But we’re regular people – we don’t need to live in a mansion our son buys us or go to Fiji. We’re happy with our lives as they are. And you don’t have to worry about us. All we want is your love. Take care of your woman. That’s the plan you ought to be working on.”

  As soon as he says that, I know where I need to be right now. Not talking to him. Not trying to find Josh. Not thinking about Edward Thompson.

  Jumping up from the bench, I end the call and ring Reese, walking in the direction of her neighborhood. “How did it go, beautiful?”

  “I’m on my way home.” She sounds tired, but hopeful.

  “Was it hard?”

  “Yes. But it was good.”

  “Do you need a hug?”

  “I’d love one,” she says.

  “Then stop hiding your address from me, woman,” I say with a smile. “So I can give you a big hug.”

  She laughs and texts me her address, and twenty minutes later, I bound up the steps of her house and knock on the door.

  She swings it open, and I step inside.

  In the foyer, I wrap her in my arms, gathering her close, inhaling her hair, feeling like whatever happens next, it’s going to be just fine because here we are.

  But there’s someone else here too. Someone clearing her throat. I break the embrace
and see a woman with jet-black hair staring at us expectantly, with humorous impatience.

  “Holden, this is Tia,” Reese says, gesturing to her friend.

  I step toward Tia to shake her hand. “I’ve heard so much about you. It’s great to meet you.”

  “You’ll meet Layla at the game tonight too,” Reese says, then turns back to Tia. “And Tia, this is Holden, my boyfriend.”

  Tia smiles widely. “Finally, I get to meet the man whose arms I’ve been hearing about for the last two years.”

  “I hope all of me lives up to what she’s been saying.”

  “I hope so too,” she says dryly. I take that as a warning as she heads into the other room.

  Reese leads me to her studio on the other side of the house. We sit on the bed, and I reach for her hand. “Do you want to tell me about it? What happened this morning? You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

  She sighs, but it’s the sound of her opening up, not closing me out. “Actually, I do want to tell you. It’s weird not to. When I was thirteen, I found my dad with another woman. He didn’t know I saw him, since I never told him. My mom knew what was going on though, and she left him a few weeks later.”

  When she pauses for a strengthening breath, I just wait. So far, this isn’t unexpected information, that her father cheated. It must have been hard to voice, let alone live through, but she sounds relieved to have said it. “So, I talked to him today and told him that I’d seen him. He apologized for a lot of things, which surprised me. And I think maybe he is changing. I guess that’s all that really matters.”

  I squeeze her hand harder. “I’m glad to hear that.”

  She glances at the clock on the wall. “When do you have to go to the ballpark?”

  “A little later. I’m free if you want to watch the rest of Bull Durham,” I tease.

  She pulls a face. “Do we have to?”

  “No, beautiful. We can go to this new Vietnamese food truck I’ve heard about.”

  “Now you’re talking my language.”

  We leave, get some noodles, and talk. After, I take her hand, and we walk along the streets of San Francisco like that.

  I’m not famous. There aren’t paparazzi waiting and watching my every move.