Page 98 of Bombshells
Thirty-Two
That Someone Isn’t Me
ANTON
When the text comes from Sylvie, I can barely believe it. She’s in Canada? With Campeau?
It was a spur of the moment thing. And I haven’t been home since summer.
Okay, this is no big deal, I tell myself. It’s not a romantic getaway. She didn’t run away with him on a cruise to the Virgin Islands.
Besides, Sylvie is a grownup who can go wherever she wants. I don’t get a say.
So why do I want one all of a sudden?
At the very least, I can’t resist pointing out that we have some important business to attend to this week. I sure hope you make it back in time for the big lifeguarding test on the 4th.
I will! I have a game that night, too.
That’s right. And I’m hosting a bunch of teenage lifeguards that night. Go Bombshells.
That is so cool of you. I wish I could help you plan it.
I wish she could, too. Although Georgia, Rebecca, and Heidi have already offered. So I don’t even need the help.
I’m just jealous, damn it. Someone is away on a trip with Sylvie, and that someone isn’t me.
Have a good time in Ontario, I say, instead of saying all the things in my heart.
I will! Heading out for a nice lunch! Talk later!
* * *
The next day is New Year’s Eve. We have a game, which I suppose will be watched by all the single men who don’t have a date for New Year’s Eve.
At five o’clock I walk to the stadium, past shops festooned with balloons and glitter, and I feel exactly like one of those lonely, dateless guys.
There’s no reason for me to feel particularly solitary. I have the same number of friends as I did last New Year’s. My game is on point, my stats are up, and I want for nothing.
Except for one thing. I want Sylvie in my life, and in my bed. I want more of her, even though I shouldn’t.
* * *
We beat New Jersey five to three, and then I attend a spontaneous New Year’s Eve celebration at the home O’Doul shares with his fiancée, Ari.
There’s pizza, and I bring a six-pack of light beer, which Tank drinks with me out of pity, I think. “We crushed ’em tonight, Bayer. Got a New Year’s song for us?”
“Didn’t bring my guitar.” I’m not in the mood for singing, anyway. I can’t stop wondering what Sylvie is up to tonight.
Just before midnight, we watch Silas’s wife sing a short set from Times Square on O’Doul’s big-screen TV. And then we watch the ball drop.
Stepping away from the crowd, I find a quiet corner and pull out my phone to call Sylvie. But then, with my thumb on the screen, I hesitate. She probably doesn’t want to hear from me right now. Since I haven’t found the balls to do my part and have a talk with Campeau, it would just be awkward if I called at midnight.
I put my phone away. Then I make my excuses and walk out into the cold night by myself.
* * *
On the third of January, I’m gearing up for another home game, this time against Florida. But right before I leave my apartment, my phone rings.
