Page 21 of Playing Santa

That makes me take a sharp breath, but I steady myself. “That you talking or her?”

“That’s me and my wild romantic imagination. But I’m not wrong.”

“Then why doesn’t she call me?”

“She’s skittish. Uses the cost of phone calls as her excuse, but she’s afraid to step into another relationship where she’s dependent on someone. Especially a man like you.”

Sighing deep, because it’s my worst fear spoken out loud, I say, “That you talking or her?”

“What she said is that she don’t want to be no stinking Cinderella. First time I heard her lapse into bad grammar in ages.”

Tension tightens my chest. Not what I want to hear. Maybe I ought to let her go. At what point does wooing a woman turn into stalking?

Garino continues, “She likes the arrangement where Jimmy gets to see Dasher and not you—though he still asks for you, talks about you, brags about your trophies. Likes sitting at your shiny kitchen counter doing his homework while momma bakes you a cake. The domestic scene he paints warms my heart and I’ve suggested on more than one occasion that she ought to wait there for you to come home to give you a big welcome. She laughs at me.”

The picture sends waves of longing through me as I imagine coming home to her warm embrace and losing myself in those brilliant sapphire eyes.

“Wait a minute? You saying she bakes the cakes at my house every day? What time does she come over?”

There’s a beat of silence before Garino speaks in a defensive voice, “I let her go over as soon as Jimmy comes home around two. It’s slow then. Not like I need her. Besides you pay her better than I do.”

I laugh and hope flares. “Maybe I ought to hire her full time … to be my housekeeper and cook as well as dog sit.”

“Maybe you ought to take it easy. She would never go for it. She’s too smart.”

“Fine.” I know she’s right, but the idea is so enticing. The idea of coming home to Ronnie and Jimmy waiting in my kitchen with dinner to go with the cake on a regular basis—

“I have to go. Good luck with Sunday’s game.”

“Wait a minute—she’s supposed to stay over with Dasher because we’re leaving first thing in the morning to head for L.A. Did she say anything to you about it?”

“Sure. She probably left you a note.”

“Right. I’m not home yet.” Disappointment hits me. I was hoping to get her to stay over tonight since I’m leaving early so I won’t see her and Jimmy in the morning. But Ronnie is being too cautious for that. Garino ends the call as I pull into my driveway. When I get in, I let Dasher out of her cage and at least she’s happy to see me. Slipping my phone out while she follows me into the kitchen, I dial Ronnie’s number again. Nothing. Fuck.

Putting the phone down on the shiny kitchen counter of my island, the silence is oppressive. Early morning tomorrow or not, I don’t feel like going out. My other option is calling someone to come over.

But the last thing I feel like doing is inviting any of the women in my contact list over to keep me company. In the past when I couldn’t stand the silence, that’s what I would do. Now I know better than to take the band-aid approach. Dasher jumps at my knees and I scoop her up.

Not even the pup’s eager companionship is enough. I’m fucking lonely. How pitiful. I need to fix that for real. With a real relationship. And God help me, but I have it in my head—no in my heart—that I want that relationship to be with Ronnie and Jimmy.

The consolation cake mocks me from the counter, sitting in a gorgeous glass domed cake dish like a precious treasure. There’s an envelope sitting in front of it with my name written in Ronnie’s flawless handwriting, elegant and flowing.

“Let’s see what Ronnie has for us tonight, Dasher. Want a piece of cake for dinner?”

I reach for the envelope before the cake in spite of the growl of my stomach, and slip the paper from inside.

Yo Sean—

Don’t touch the cake! (It’s a chocolate mint triple layer cake. My own recipe.) Your dinner is in the fridge. Eat that first. It’s my special chile recipe. All you need to do is re-heat it in the microwave for five minutes. And don’t let the dog eat the cake! She’ll make a mess and your housekeeper will curse me.

I won’t see you before you leave for your game, so I’ll wish you good luck now. You’ll probably hear me cheering for you all the way in L.A. Srsly. Jimmy and me will be yelling our hearts out for you.

Have fun in the sun and don’t get yourself injured in the game. (Do field goal kickers even get hurt? Probly not.)

Later,

Ronnie and Jimmy