“Reese, give her a chance, please,” he pleaded as he pulled me aside after telling her he’d be back in a minute. “I think she’s the love of my life.”
“Dad, you say that about every woman. Every woman you cheated on Mom with,” I pointed out.
He blanched like I was crazy, like I was a revisionist historian. “That’s not true,” he said. “I didn’t cheat on your mother. I fell in love with someone else.”
“That’s literally cheating,” I hissed.
“It’s not the same.” That’s my dad—he could massage anything to fit his point of view. “So, please, try to be nice to Vanya tonight.”
“I’ll do my best.”
I did not, in fact, do my best. I ignored her at dinner.
My father and I barely spoke when I went to college, with me sending occasional emails as he moved to Atlanta with Butterscotch, or Capricorn, or whoever his next woman was. Not Vanya though. He split from the supposed love of his life a few weeks after I met her.
Then, sometime in the last few years, he met Becky, and now they’re coming home.
“So, what brings him back to San Francisco?” I ask Mom.
“I think Becky has a job in the city. She works for some biotech company.”
My jaw tightens, and my shoulders tense. This is how I always react to my dad.
But I try to put him out of my mind.
My dad is who he is. I am who I am.
He’s barely in my life at all.
I plaster on a smile. “It’ll be fine. I’ll be fine,” I assure her. “Now, when I get back, I want diner food first. A salad and fries.”
She laughs. “That’s not diner food.”
“In my book, it is.”
On the flight home the next day, my mind returns to my dad, to Becky, and to the invitation I suspect is winging my way.
Odd that after all the affairs and girlfriends, he never fathered more children. Now, I’m nearly a quarter century, and I’m going to have a half-sibling.
My gut churns with the weirdness of it all.
With music blasting from my phone, I turn to the window, resting my cheek against it, staring at the sea far below.
I’ll have a half brother or half sister.
It’s a strange notion, and I’d rather not think about my dad.
My brain helpfully, or not so helpfully, replaces those thoughts with images of Holden.
From time to time over most of the last two years, I’ve meandered to the man who captivated me. I’ve checked in on his career every few months. He’s taken baseball by storm, jacking in runs, fielding like he has a golden glove, and staying out of the public eye.
I’ve found little on him, but that’s okay. I never dig for long, since I don’t want to be a stalker.
A virgin stalker, at that.
I didn’t meet anyone abroad. No surprise—I didn’t go to South America to find a boyfriend.
But a rising baseball star? Even for a guy who’s not into hookups, I bet he’s had women by the truckload since our night together.
Hell, he’s probably even paired up. I bet he’s found a girlfriend.
Maybe even a wife.
I close my eyes, willing the thoughts of him to quietly slink off.
But they don’t.
They set up camp.
When I land and my cell service returns, I do something I haven’t done in months.
I google Holden Kingsley.
Present Day
End of March
10
Reese
I launch myself at Tia, hugging the hell out of her, octopus-style, in her doorway.
And I squeal. Shamelessly.
She squeals too, and we become a cacophony of oh my God, I missed you so much, it’s so good to see you again.
When we eventually tear ourselves apart, I park my hands on my hips. “You’re in so much trouble.”
She jerks her head back. “How did I get in hot water while you were out of the country?”
“You’re in trouble for not telling me vital facts.”
She holds up a stop-sign hand. “You’re renting the studio next to my boyfriend and me, and the first thing out of your mouth is that I’m in trouble?”
“Yes. Also, say hi to Wayne, wherever he is.”
“I’ll pass on your regards to my man.” She rolls her eyes. “Now, please let me know what I allegedly did.”
As she shuts the door, I set down my bag and walk into the tiny living room of her home in Hayes Valley, which is owned by her aunt, a wildly successful art dealer in the city.
“You didn’t tell me that Holden was in town.”
She scrunches up her face. “Holden?”
“Hello?” I give her a look. A how on earth can you not remember Holden look.
Still, she draws a blank.
“You really don’t know who I’m talking about?”
“No idea.”
“The guy I interviewed,” I prompt. “The last interview I did at the end of our senior year, just before graduation.”
Still nothing.
I make a rolling gesture with my hand. “The red blouse with the black pearl buttons.”
Her face lights up with recognition. “Oh! The professional one that also happened to make you look like you were on a date.”
“You’re evil,” I say, laughing.
The doorbell rings, and I follow her because it can only be Layla. Yanking the door open, Tia adds, “The interview was with the guy who gave you the tongue lashing of a lifetime the week before you left for South America.”
Layla stands in the doorway, tall and goddess-like. Her brown eyes twinkle with questions. “I walked in at the right time, clearly.”
She’s in town because it’s volleyball off-season, but she’ll be returning to Turkey soon. It’s her other home, since she fell in love with a Turkish woman on another team there.
“Yes,” Tia tells her. “We were talking about a guy who made her knees shake. Her belly flip.”
“The only guy who did that to her?” Layla asks.
My cheeks flame red. “Yes. Holden. The baseball player. And neither one of you told me he was traded to the San Francisco Dragons at the end of last year.”
Layla stares sharply at me. “One, good to see you too. Two, how the hell would I have known?”
I wave it off. I’m only messing with them anyway. I wrap Layla in a hug that lasts a whole minute. “It’s so good to see you both,” I say with a happy sigh.
“Same,” Layla says.
“Double same,” Tia echoes.
When I pull away, Tia arches a brow. “Now, back to your unfair accusation. Why would you think I would know that he’d been traded? I’ve been in my master’s program, not tracking Major League Baseball trades. And Layla was in Turkey, falling in love and playing her heart out. Plus, you went on one date with him.”
Layla clears her throat. “Exactly. I haven’t been reading up on the off-season baseball trades.”
I heave an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. So you guys aren’t doing the stalking work that best friends should do. I guess I can forgive you.” I fling myself onto the couch in the living room as Tia grabs a bottle of wine and a corkscrew. Layla snags three glasses from the kitchen and sits next to me.