I wince at those memories, the same ones I want far behind me. “Nah, I meant it when I said I wasn’t involved. I’m still not.”
Though, I hope that’ll change soon.
“Playing the field. I hear ya. Must be fun,” Tucker says.
Marissa hisses at him. “Hello, I’m here.”
“I meant for other guys, sweet baby cakes.” He tugs her onto his lap and kisses her noisily.
As the three of them debate their couples’ trip, I picture the holidays I want to take, the private life I want to have.
But I can’t reach out to Grant right now. He’s in playoff contention.
If the Cougars advance, I’ll have to wait even longer.
A week later, I’m alone in my place on Park Avenue when the Cougars lose a nail-biter of a championship series. As my former teammates walk off the field, heads down, my heart is heavy for all of them, especially Grant.
I’ve never made it to the World Series. I was hoping Grant might. Looks like it isn’t the year for either of us.
As I leave my place to go for a walk in the cold late-October air, my thoughts return to the how.
I know this much—I need to see him in person. I need to look him in the eye when I say the hard things.
Maybe I’ll plan a trip to San Francisco to see my mom and Tyler, catch some time with him then. I have a commercial shoot next week with a watchmaker here in New York, but I could go to San Francisco after that.
When I return home, I google flights and look at my schedule. But the next evening, I’m digging my chopsticks into a carton of pepper steak and watching the Sports Network when an opportunity appears, gift-wrapped, on the screen.
Grant Blackwood is one of five finalists in the running for the prestigious Rookie of the Year Award to be presented next week here in New York.
I freeze with my chopsticks mid-air, grinning at the unfolding possibilities. Grant, here, next week.
Setting down the take-out carton, I call Emma and ask her to meet me the next day for help.
Nothing I’ve had before with any guy—not Nathan, not Kyle, not anyone—comes close to what I want with Grant.
And I can’t mess this up a second time.
An art devotee, Emma tells me to meet her at the Met before we grab a cup of coffee in the museum café. After a hug in the entryway, she takes me to a wing of Dutch art, then gestures to five paintings hanging on the wall. “Which Vermeer is Grant?”
I shoot her a you can’t be serious look. “They’re all of women,” I point out. “I’m not comparing him to a work of art featuring a woman.”
She grabs my arm and tugs me down the hall. “We called him a Rembrandt once. Maybe he’s like one of those.”
As she guides me through the museum, I try to follow her thinking. “Why are you asking me which famous painting he is?”
“You’ll see,” she says a little wickedly, like she has something up her sleeve.
“Also,” I state for the record, “you called him a work of art. I called him a Bugatti. Can we go look at sports cars?”
“And you continue to make my point,” she says playfully.
I hold out my arms, confused. “And yet I have no idea what your point is.”
We reach a Rembrandt self-portrait, and I stare at it. It’s dark and dull. “He’s old and craggy, and he looks nothing like an athlete.”
“Then you do get my point,” she says.
“I honestly don’t.”
Her expression turns serious. “You’re asking me for help with romance. That’s like me asking you which painting Grant looks like. There are better people than me to help with your relationship goals, and I arranged for them to meet you in the café.”
“Emma.” I hate surprises, and she knows it. And I’ve got zero interest in venturing down this path. “I don’t want to involve the world in my dating-or-not-dating woes.”
“Declan,” she says in a tone that brooks no argument. “You need to talk to my brother, not me.”
Ohhhhhh. Fitz is the surprise. I don’t know what I expected, except I’ve been conditioned to expect the worst. “But you’re the only one who understands all my stuff . . .” She’s the one person I’ve shared the real shit with.
“Yes, and I know, too, that you don’t open up that easily to people,” she says in the understatement of the century. “But I’m as alone as you are. I don’t know the first thing about how to fall in love or win back the man of my dreams. And I also don’t know how all of that differs for two men.” She sets a hand on my arm. “You need advice from two men who are very happy together.”
When we reach the café, Fitz has his arm stretched across the back of his chair while he laughs at something Dean said. I sit with the guys, and we shoot the breeze on sports and work while we order coffee. But before long, Fitz cuts through the small talk. “All right, what’s the story? You want to get back together with your guy, and you need to figure out how to do it?”