Page 33 of Love You Too

When I started renovating the Napa house, I didn’t have a solid plan for how to reconnect with Trix, so I’m grateful to the textile gods for doing me a solid. I’d planned on getting to the paint store first thing in the morning, but then I’d been up most of the night and slept in, landing me in the parking lot of Oxbow Market just as Trix was leaving.

I can’t help thinking that running into her was fate’s way of giving me a second chance to make things right. To prove to Trix that I’m a better man now than I was a decade ago. To show her just how sorry I am for ever letting her go. If hockey has taught me anything, it’s that I have to set up the shot if I want any chance at scoring. From the moment I saw her in that parking lot, I was gone for her all over again. All of my thoughts since then have focused on how to get a second chance with her.

I try to push those concerns from my head as I stand at my sink washing coffee cups from the past three days. Not that I think Trix will judge me for leaving a few cups in the sink, but I have some nervous energy to burn. I’m not sure what she wants to have happen between us. Is this just a friendly visit, or has she been thinking about our one afternoon together nonstop like I have?

I can’t get her out of my fucking mind.

Preseason games start soon, and I’m feeling pulled in a million directions. The team is still playing like a disconnected bunch, and if I can’t help turn it around, my days as captain are numbered.

Popping the last cup in the dishwasher, I see Trix unfold her long, tanned legs from the car like a bird getting ready to fly. The vision of her knocks the air from my lungs. She’s the oxygen I want to inhale instead, and I stand frozen for a moment as my heart swells in my chest. I have it bad for this woman, and I don’t intend to fight it.

In white shorts, a loose-fitting, pink flowered top, and a straw hat in her hand, she looks like she’d be right at home on a lounge chair by the pool. It gives me an idea.

“Hey,” I say, opening my front door and pointing her to a path that runs alongside the small bungalow where I live. I drop two glasses and a cold bottle of sparkling lemonade in a tote bag on my shoulder. Truman runs out in front of me to nuzzle Trix’s legs, making it impossible for her to take another step closer. Dogs have it good. They can let their emotions fly and lick the soft skin of a woman’s legs if they feel like it, and no one thinks twice. If I ran up to Trix and did the same, she’d probably slug me.

“Down, boy,” I tell him to no avail. I shrug at her. “Sorry.”

“Aw, it’s okay. I missed this guy,” she says. Again, I have a pang of jealousy of my dog. She misses him, but she doesn’t seem to miss me, not even making eye contact when Truman settles down by her feet. She indicates the path I pointed to earlier. “Are we going somewhere?”

“Yeah. Come this way.”

It’s a warm fall day, and I’m in workout shorts and an old worn tee even though I already worked out earlier and showered. It’s the best part of living on a vineyard—no one’s around to see what I’m wearing or what I’m doing. I’m not a celebrity by any stretch, but people do recognize me when I walk in my neighborhood or shop on Solano Avenue in Berkeley. And now that expectations are so high for the team, I’m more aware of how much people like to share their opinions of our chances at the Stanley Cup before the season’s even started and their ideas for what we ought to be doing better.

Here at the vineyard, I can walk for a half hour and not run into anyone. I can loop around the property or follow one of the footpaths through the vineyards and only hear the voices of birds. And then I can have the privilege of seeing the best-looking woman I know walk alongside me. No reason to leave this place unless it’s to go to work.

“I didn’t bring shoes for a super long walk.” Trix points to a pair of Birkenstocks, which look like they’ve taken her on more than a few walks. The suede is loose, and the soles are curved from use.

“We’re not going far. Just to the main house. There’s a pool. I thought we could sit.” I cast her a side-eye to gauge her reaction, but she keeps her eyes cast toward the ground. It’s unlike her. She seems distracted. Even though I’ve only seen her a couple of times recently, I’ve come to expect the fierce blue of her eyes, which flash with the passion of her words. It makes me a little sad not to see it now, but maybe once we’re settled in a shady spot, she’ll relax.

I sneak another glance her way and notice how perfectly put together she looks. Lashes long, a healthy pink in her cheeks, light gloss on her lips. She’s swept her hair into a high ponytail, and gold hoops dangle from her ears. She carries the hat in one hand and intermittently pets Truman with the other as we walk.

When we reach the pool house, Truman finds a shady area of grass and settles down for a nap.

I escort Trix around the back, expecting her to perk up at the idea of renovations there. I know this is her happy place. But she barely gives the house a glance and instead focuses on the yard, where two lounge chairs sit with an umbrella between them. The pool area is unkempt, with overgrown grass around the deck and chipped tile in the pool. I’ve hired a pool man, so at least the water is clear blue and clean, but the rest of my yard is a bit of a wreck. I immediately rethink the idea of bringing her back here. “I thought it might be nice to sit in the shade, but maybe we should just go back to my house.”

She dismisses my concern with a wave of her hand. “It’s fine,” she says, barely looking around. It throws me off to see her this disinterested in her environment, but she follows me to where Ikeep fresh towels in a storage bench and waits while I drape them over the chairs.

When she sits, she makes eye contact with me for the first time, and I note the fatigue in her eyes. Maybe she’s just been working too hard.

I take the cups from the tote and pour each of us a glass of lemonade, then gesture for her to kick her legs up. I do the same. “Make yourself comfortable.”

“Thanks,” she says, taking the glass from me. She sniffs it as though it might contain poison or something, then puts the glass aside on a table. Self-consciously, I notice the layer of dust on the glass, so I grab another towel, lift the glass, and wipe away the dirt.

Taking the chair next to her, I stretch out. The weather is perfect, the bright sun blocked by the striped green umbrella and a light breeze carrying the scent of lavender and rosemary from the surrounding hedges. But nothing about our interaction so far is comfortable or relaxing.

“Trix.” I wait until she turns to look at me.

“Yeah?”

“Are you okay?”

She looks up, then to the side, then back at me. Pressing her lips together, she nods. Then she squeezes her eyes shut and blurts, “I’m pregnant.”

What?

Oh.Oh.

Okay.

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