Page 59 of Bombshells
“And—let’s face it—Anton probably isn’t that man, either. Am I asking too much?”
“No,” my roommate says, pushing her plate away. “I want the same thing. Except it doesn’t have to be a man. It could be a man or a woman. I’m not picky like some people.”
I laugh.
“Can I ask you a serious question? Does it freak you out that I’m bisexual?”
What? “No way. Why would you think that?”
“Well, it’s the whole Catholic thing? The candles? The daily prayer?”
“Oh, please. That’s not the kind of Catholic I am.”
“What kind are you?”
“The kind who goes out for brunch with you on Sunday instead of going to Mass. The kind who loves everyone. So did my mother, by the way. She considered herself Catholic but she didn’t believe the church’s teachings about homosexuality, or birth control.”
“What about premarital sex?” Fiona asks, eyebrows arched.
I let out a long breath. “I’m not exactly sure.”
Fiona signals for the check. “Good thing she doesn’t have to know.”
Oh, but she does, I think. “I found a hairpin on my windowsill this morning. Do you use those? The U-shaped kind?”
“Never.” She gets out her credit card and waves it toward the waitress. “Brunch is on me. You can buy next time, and maybe I’ll supply the juicy gossip.”
“Gossip that stays between us, no?”
“Absolutely.”
* * *
In the afternoon, as usual, I light a candle for my mother. I say the familiar prayer. And then I sit quietly, watching the flame and wondering if she’s judging me right now.
She told me that she thought Bryce and I would be together. And she was rarely wrong.
“I’m sorry, Maman,” I whisper into the stillness. “But nobody’s record is perfect. And I got tired of waiting.”
It comes as no surprise when she makes no answer.
She’s not the only one who’s silent. I’m also waiting to hear from Anton, of course. His note said he’d call me, but my phone doesn’t ring before practice, or after.
And then he’s busy playing Ottawa. I watch the game on TV, and whenever the camera pans the bench, I look at the players’ determined faces. There’s Bryce, his concentration fierce. And there’s Anton, his bright gaze fixed on the game.
The announcer spends so much time yapping about the team’s current, unprecedented winning streak that I have to mute him just to hear myself think.
When the game is over, the Bruisers have won again. Beacon allowed a single goal, though, so technically their shutout streak is over. But everything is still going well for the Bruisers. I’d love to congratulate anyone who happens to call me tonight.
Nobody does, though.
When I finally turn in for bed, I’d swear that my pillow smells like Anton’s aftershave, but it’s probably just wishful thinking.
I lie here missing him, feeling unsettled.
Twenty
Rescue Attempt
