We spend every night together—except for Wednesdays and Fridays when she has the hospital’s graveyard shift. I visit her at midnight, just to say goodnight. Plus, doing it in the janitor’s closet of an animal hospital is kind of hot. That woman is a vixen, and fuck if I don’t spend more time thinking about where we will fuck next than working.
I keep telling myself it’s just a short-term thing, and once we grow tired of each other, we will be calling it quits. I’m also finding new ways to keep her interested because I’m not ready to let her go.
Another favorite thing to do with her is going to the stables where she boards her horse, Poppy. I’m tempted to buy a house with a barn so we can have our horses together. I haven’t visited Alistair, my stallion, in months because that implies visiting my grandmother, who reminds me that I’m getting old and haven’t settled down.
She hopes that one of her grandchildren will marry and have babies before she dies.
During weekends we not only have sex, but we also go out to concerts, bars, or, like tonight, to watch a live hockey game.
“So, you’re a huge hockey fan?” she asks as we approach the seats.
“Not necessarily,” I answer casually.
She rolls her eyes, “So, you have season front row seat tickets just for kicks?”
She turns to the penalty box that’s right next to us and then to me. “It’s the perfect place to yell at the idiot that ends up there. I always say if you’re going to do something stupid, at least don’t get caught.”
I chuckle and give her one of the beers we bought upstairs. She carries my hot dog and her donuts. None of the food from upstairs was enticing enough for her. Knowing her, she’s going to make a salad when we get home and have a piece of cheesecake.
Once the game starts, I realize that Leyla isn’t here just because it sounded interesting. She is a fan.
“You like hockey,” I point out. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She shrugs and continues yelling at the players. She yells at them by their nicknames, cheers when they do something right, and cusses at them when the Vancouver Orcas score a goal. So far, the Avalanche are losing by two points until one of the defensemen misses the puck, and we score. Leyla cheers. Not me.
“You fucking idiot,” I yell, banging the glass. “You are so fucking useless, Aldridge. Even I could’ve gotten that.”
Leyla turns to look at me, narrows her gaze, and then looks back at the player I’m yelling at. Then, she asks, “Are you related to Mills Aldridge?”
I shrug and don’t answer. Because I never talk about my brothers. It’s too fucking complicated. In plain view, I’m an only child. But then there’s the mess my father made. I have six brothers. I’m number three of the seven. That guy who I’m yelling at is number four. He’s actually Canadian. Daddy was a womanizing asshole who cheated on his wife and had five more children out of wedlock.
My mom was his second mistress. I don’t get along with my brothers. I haven’t seen them since one of my younger brothers, Carter, died.
Now, that kid was cool.
I’m not sure if the rest get along, but I stay away from them. I love hockey, and I watch most of Mills’s games. When he comes to Denver, I am always here, giving him shit.
The baby of the family is the frontman of the band Too Far from Grace. When he performs in town, I go and check him out. I don’t know why I do it. It’s not like I plan on talking to any of my brothers again.
Halfway through the game, Mills is in the penalty box right next to Leyla. She turns to look at him, and he winks at her, blowing her a kiss.
I move her to the other side and glare at him. “Do you even know how to play hockey? It’s not baseball.”
“Fuck off, asshole.”
“Jock.”
He takes off his glove and flips me the finger. “Nice to see you, jerk.”
When the game is over, she asks again, “What is your relationship with him? You two seemed…familiar.”
“It’s complicated,” I answer. “We don’t speak about it.”
“We are past secrets, aren’t we?” she asks, and I take the opportunity to add my question to the mix.
“What’s your last name?”
“Okay, so I’ll back off then,” she mumbles.
Some things are not meant to be shared. I’m not sure what her deal is, but I let it go. Mine is too messed up and not worth discussing. Our relationship shouldn’t be more than what we have. I kiss her before we get into the car to remind her why we are together.
Chapter Six
Leyla
Defining my relationship with Pierce Aldridge is almost impossible. There’s no word between casual and serious. Complicated doesn’t apply because it’s easy to get along with him. Well, easy might be a stretch. We harbor secrets, avoid any serious subjects, and don’t even mention the word relationship. It has too many implications.
Sighing, I finally accept it. We’re complicated.
What are we?
It’s the middle of March. We’ve been together for nearly seven months. I stay at his house almost every night. My wardrobe occupies more than half of his closet. We travel often, sometimes to cities like New York, San Francisco, and Vancouver while others we go to exotic destinations where we can get away from the snow. We still aren’t a couple. I think. So what if we spent our first Christmas and New Year’s in Bali?
Are we lying to ourselves and each other by pretending to be part of an open, yet monogamous, relationship?
Maybe we’re both too scared to stamp a label on what we have. But if it was casual, would I be talking to my therapist about my feelings, the situation, and my wants?
“Do you think it is time for you to discuss with him where this is going?” my therapist asks.
I would sound needy, insecure, and…well, he doesn’t seem like a guy who wants to deal with a helpless woman. I’m not weak. I’ll just come across that way if I ask for more, won’t I?
What is he going to say when I ask him to define us?
We have an agreement. Once we are uncomfortable or when the other is asking for something we can’t give, it’s over.
I tap my foot a few times against the leg of the chair, sucking my bottom lip. “What we have is fragile. Neither one of us has ever had a relationship.”
“Have you discussed with him why?”
Arching an eyebrow, I look at her and shake my head. “No, I don’t think we’re at the point of telling him that I’m pretty broken.”
She looks at her tablet and then back at me. “Have you considered other ways to describe yourself other than unfixable, broken, or damaged?”
“I use shattered sometimes,” I joke and smile at her. “When I look at it from an outsider's perspective, it sounds awful, pitiful, and really, how can that person even function? An abusive father who killed his family. I survived because my dog pushed me against the floor, and I only got shot twice. That’s a pretty big trauma.”
“You’ve been working hard to overcome what that six-year-old girl went through,” she states.
“True,” I agree. “But I’m pretty sure he’s not going to be the guy that will say, ‘I don’t care about your past, let's become a family—warts, mass-murderous tendencies, and all.’”