Page 33 of Playing Santa

Sean

“There’s two sides to that coin, Mr. Millionaire Prince Charming,” she says. My chest tightens at the small quiver to her voice. “I’m no one’s idea of Cinderella and I don’t want to be. I’ve been living a tough life, seen the harsh realities, understand the gritty and dirty side of the world. I’m no pretty socialite, no college educated fresh-faced young lady to bring home to your mom.” She takes a breath and my gut turns at her words, but she’s not finished. “I don’t need or want handouts. Not from anyone. Especially not from you.”

“Why don’t you just stab me in the heart?” I say, sounding as gutted as I feel. No amount of learned discipline in the world can stop me from expressing the sharp pain she’s inflicting. “I don’t want to give you a fucking handout.” I reign myself in, carefully because with the hurt comes the defensive anger automatic and destructive in its cover-up effect.

“Could have fooled me.”

“Tickets to a football game that cost me nothing is hardly a hand out. And I don’t care if you lived on the streets. I see the woman you are now and respect you all the more for it. Maybe you need to take a look in the mirror and see who you really are now.”

“I know who I am and I’m worlds apart from where you are.” She sweeps her hand in the air of my gleaming kitchen as evidence.

“I can’t believe you’re such a fucking snob. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? You aren’t interested in me because I’m not poor like you.”

She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You’re psycho. Your money is very interesting. So interesting I wonder why you’re interested in someone like me who has nothing.”

“So that’s it? You think I have some devious motive?” I can barely utter the words the way they cut through me. She’s right that we don’t know each other well, haven’t known each other long, but that doesn’t matter to my gut. The deep connection I feel is real, the desire, the admiration, the need, all the things she’s slicing through with her words are real. The pain of her rejection is fucking real.

But I recognize the fear, the automatic defenses she’s put up, so I step back from her. Turning away, I go to the freezer and take out a bottle of Patron I have stored for emergencies.

In my wildest dreams, I never anticipated this kind of emergency. I figure I’d need the tequila for something like losing in the first round of the playoffs or a season ending injury, something more along those lines. Not for a problem with a woman. Jesus F. Christ. I hope the tequila is strong enough.

Taking two glasses from the cabinet, I pour the tequila straight with steady hands. We could both use a step back from the strangling tension, from the brink of ending the most promising love affair I’ve ever had when it’s barely started.

Without asking, I hand her the drink. After a beat she takes it without arguing. Thank God. I lift my glass in a toasting gesture, but hell if I know what to toast to, so I down the shot. She follows suit and I’m surprised she finishes it all with barely a shudder.

“Not your first shot of tequila I’m guessing?”

She shakes her head. “Courtesy of my husband. I’m lucky we didn’t drink much—not enough money for that—or I’d hate to think what kind of shape Jimmy would be in. I had no idea I was pregnant until I was four months along.”

What do I say to that? I heave a sigh.

“That had to be tough—finding out you’re pregnant when you thought you were protected. That this guy you trusted had tricked you into having his baby so you’d marry him.”

“Look, I’m not going to whine and complain about how tough I had it. That’s not what this is all about. Especially because we both know Jimmy is the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Then what is this all about?”

“How not right you are for me.”

“Is it me, or is it your perception of who’s right for you that’s wrong?”

She laughs and I can tell the tequila has done its work to soften her up. I take the bottle and put it back into the freezer because my intention isn’t to get her drunk, only to ease the impossible tension, to loosen her up, loosen us both up.

She gives me a look of approval and says, “Legitimate question, but it doesn’t matter because I get to decide who’s right for me.” She raises her chin in challenge.

“Let me guess—no one is right for you. Because you have Jimmy.”

“Bingo. You’re smart for a football jock.” She smiles to show she’s teasing. The extra brightness in her stunning eyes mesmerizes me. I know her defense is strong, but I know it’s all wrong and I need to break through, to go for the Achilles heel.

I move in closer and bend my head. The scent of her is strong and heady. I whisper, the words “Did you ever think you might be doing Jimmy a disservice? Depriving him of the opportunity to have a dad or a legitimate father figure?”

She shudders and I don’t know if it’s my nearness, the whispering or my message that causes it. I’m not sure if she’s going to step back and hate me or cry and acknowledge I could be right. It could go either way.

She doesn’t step away. She looks up at me, her eyes sad and pleading and I’m looking for the hope, for the fight in her to shoot for the stars, to believe in herself and in life. My breathing shallows as I wait for her to say something, to reach for her courage one more time and not abandon the possibility of something good.

“You don’t think I’ve thought of that? That’s what has me so scared. Jimmy’s so lonely for a man to look up to. Look at how he’s already latched onto you. Which, by the way, scares the hell out of me. Because that means his heart is at stake too and his is far more important than mine.”

She backs up a step and I don’t like where this is going, but I let her have her space, keep my mouth shut and listen to her. My momma didn’t raise a fool.