“Hmm,” I grunt. “City men don’t cook, huh?” I’m partially teasing, but I am curious about her past.
“If they do, I never met one. My ex—” she stops herself and finally quits fuckin’ around with the tea towel. With her hands on the table, she meets my inquisitive gaze. “My ex was pretty important at the Brutes. And because of that, every other thing in his life was shelved; a responsibility for someone else so that the mastermind could work.”
“Mastermind’s a pretty hearty word for someone who can’t make spaghetti.”
There’s that organic laugh again. I fight the smirk and add, “pretty important; who’d you date, the fuckin’ pitcher?”
She raises her hands up, showing me her palms. “Hey, I’m not about to argue that the pitcher is way more important. He is. But the team manager is who I dated, and if you didn’t know his job title and had to guess it from just talking to him? You’d think he was God.”
“I wouldn’t,” I argue. “I’d take one look at ‘em and know he was all bark and no bite.” I wink but make no expression otherwise. “With a small dick.”
She slaps my knee under the table but roars with laughter like maybe that’sexactlywhat he was. Then I start thinkin’ about how many Brutes games I watched with my pop over the summer. I’m not a man who has a “team” where I don shirts and hats with their logo and talk about ‘em everywhere I go. Because I’m a man, and that’s for boys.
Can’t tell my dad that, though. He’s been a Brutes fan for ages. I scratch the side of my jaw as I run down a list of faces and names in my brain. When I’m watching, I’m watching to be with my dad. Not because I’m gonna cheer on men wearing tight pants running a diamond.
That’s when shit shifts into focus. I think I remember the manager of the Brutes being a showboating prick. Arrogant with a temper but a man the women all went crazy for.
“Reynold Porter?” That’s his fuckin’ name, and I know exactly who he is. And I really hope she’s misremembering her ex’s title, or maybe he was the assistant, and she called him the real deal to make him feel good? I really fuckin’ hope that’s the case. Because everything I’ve seen about Reynold Porter–both during the games and on my Mom’s nightly celebrity catch-up trash TV show–tells me all I need to know: he’s a fuckin’ tool.
An infomercial tool, to top it off. The kind that looks really good and flashy and promises the goddamn world but doesn’t actually work, malfunctions a lot, and in general, fills you with buyer’s remorse.
She looks at her hands for a second, then back at me, her lips twisted to the side in the same painful expression she wore when talking about her shitty mom. “Yeah. Reynold Porter is my ex.”
I just blink at her because if I talk right now, I’m going to say shit she won’t like. Shit that’ll definitely sting. LikeJesus fuck, Goldie. How could you not see the goddamn red flags?Hell, I’m a straight man, and I can tell that fucker is an egotistical narcissist with the emotional state of a fuckin’ dejected junior high bully.
I choose to just sit there. And grind my jaw. My leg bounces a little one time, too.
“You don’t strike me as a baseball fan,” she says. “But you know Reynold, so are you a Brutes fan?”
Speaking around the anger in my throat, I reply as nicely as I can. “My dad is a Brutes fan, and I watch games with him, but I couldn’t give a fuck less about baseball.”
Her brows raise. “Really? I don’t think I’ve ever met a man who doesn’t love baseball.”
I blink. “You have now.” Reynold fuckin’ Porter. Is she kidding? “Porter was your boss, then?”
She wobbles her head. “No, but we did work together. Being the head of Public Relations, we had coaching sessions after he’d…lose his temper. That’s kind of how our relationship started.”
Relationship. Knowing none of the details, I already doubt that’s what they had. She may have thought so, but a prick like Porter is a user. Through and through.
“That what broke you two up? His temper?”
She seems surprised that I’m asking. “No,” she says, her face falling flat, all color draining almost instantly. Even the wine glow has disappeared. There’s a heavy boulder rolling in my stomach at the quick change in her demeanor. “I mean, it would’ve, eventually. I hope it would have, but truthfully, I don’t know. The sad thing is, I really don’t know if I would have left him even though I definitely should have.”
“He left you?” I can’t fuckin’ believe that shit. Only proves my goddamn point; Reynold Porter is a goddamn moron. Goldie is a million times too good for the likes of his arrogant, tantruming ass. “Sorry,” I add when her face twists in discomfort. “Not my business.”
I rise, feeling like decaf coffee would be good right now. Goldie’s got me feeling some type of way, and I don’t think wine is smart anymore. But when I get up, her gentle voice and tender disposition stop me.
“Something happened and…”
Those three words trail into darkness as she stares into the roaring flames in the fireplace… I feel fuckin’ sick. I sit back down and watch the fire bounce and dance. And I wait. I wait ‘cause I don’t know if she wants to talk but I have ears, and they’re open.
I grunt.
“Anyway,” she says, and that boulder in my gut rolls around a bit. She doesn’t wanna tell me. That’s fine. Why do I even care? “The past is the past.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I drop my feet onto the coffee table and drape my arm over the back of the couch again, only this time, my fingers don’t connect with her. She’s leaning forward, and I wish she wasn’t.
“I think I’m gonna head to bed. I’ll sleep in the other room tonight.”