Page 65 of Across the Boards

There’s no response, but I don’t need one. The fact that she’s still texting me at all is more than I dared hope for.

I return to the kitchen, finishing my neglected omelet. Through the small window above my sink, I can see the glow of Phoenix’s downtown lights against the night sky. As I sit at my kitchen island, forking bites of egg and slightly withered pepper, my mind drifts to the season ahead. Miami on Friday. Our playoff position hanging in the balance. Jason Martinez, smug and successful, coming to town just as I’m trying to convince his ex-wife to give me a chance.

But as I head to bed, bone-tired but calmer than before, I feel something that had been missing since I left Elliot’s townhouse: hope.

She’s willing to talk tomorrow. She made the distinction between my knowledge and my secrecy. She hasn’t shut the door completely.

My phone lights up with a final notification—not from Elliot, but from the team app. A reminder about Miami’s arrival next week, with a prominent photo of Jason Martinez celebrating his recent hat trick. I turn the phone face-down on my nightstand.

One challenge at a time.

My mind returns to those twelve steps between our doors. Tonight they feel like an unbridgeable chasm. But maybe tomorrow they’ll just be twelve steps again.

And maybe, eventually, she’ll meet me halfway.

13

ELLIOT

The problem isn’t that he knew I lived here. It’s not even that he might have chosen this location partly because of that knowledge. The problem is that it feels like I’ve lost control of the narrative—like there’s a story being written that I’m not fully aware of.

And after Jason, I promised myself I’d never again be a character in someone else’s story without reading the full script first.

My phone buzzes on the coffee table. I know without looking that it’s him.

I stare at his message, unsure how to respond. Part of me wants to text back immediately, to tell him it’s okay, that I’m just overreacting. Another part wants to block his number and pretend none of this ever happened.

I pick up the phone, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. What exactly am I upset about? That he was interested enough to move to a complex where I lived? That he might have had intentions I wasn’t aware of?

Or is it that I’m scared? Scared of how quickly he’s broken through the careful defenses I’ve built, scared of how much I want him despite all my rational objections.

With a sigh, I set the phone down without responding and head to the bathroom.

“This is what happens when you let hockey boys into your life,” I tell my reflection sternly. “They mess up your hair and your common sense.”

My reflection offers no helpful response, just shows me a woman with smudged makeup and kiss-swollen lips I barely recognize.

I grab a makeup wipe and begin methodically removing the evidence of the evening—the mascara, the subtle eyeshadow Sarah insisted would ‘make my eyes pop,’ the lipstick now smudged beyond recognition. The cool cloth feels good against my flushed skin, especially with the air conditioning struggling against the unseasonable Phoenix spring heat wave.

It’s a ritual I find comforting, this transformation back into myself. Except tonight, I’m not entirely sure who that is anymore. The woman who carefully applied makeup hours ago for a hockey charity gala seems like a stranger—someone bolder, more willing to take risks than the person I’ve been for the past three years.

Three years of careful reconstruction, of building a life that made sense after the chaos of my divorce, and all it took was a few weeks of Brody Carter to make me question everything.

I’m not being fair, though. It wasn’t just Brody. It was me too—inviting him in tonight, kissing him back with an enthusiasm that still makes me blush to recall, telling him I’d been wanting to kiss him since our dance. I was an active participant, not some passive character being manipulated.

Unless that’s what he wanted me to think.

God, I’m paranoid. This is what Jason did to me—made me doubt my own perceptions, my own agency. I remember finding those text messages on his phone, how he convinced me they were nothing, how he made me feel crazy for questioning him. I refuse to let that damage infect whatever this is with Brody.

But what is this, exactly? A fling? A rebound? A midlife crisis with a hot younger man?

I strip off my dress, hanging it carefully in the closet, and pull on my most comfortable pajamas—an ancient t-shirt from a writers conference and flannel pants. Decidedly unsexy, but comforting in their familiarity.

Tomorrow I’ll be rational Elliot again, the one who doesn’t invite hockey players in for ‘not-coffee’ or make out on couches like a teenager.

As I brush my teeth, another text comes through.

For what it’s worth, that was the best not-coffee I’ve ever had.

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