Page 43 of My Wife
He snorts. “No, I was free to focus on hockey and not have all this other stuff to deal with.”
“What? Family life? Seems like a pretty good deal to me.” That familiar ache in my chest returns. He has no idea what he’s taking for granted.
13
JESS
I’m practicallyout of breath by the time I get to my car. If I were to sum up the last few hours in one word, it would behorrible. Terrible. No good. Very bad.
That’s a lot of words but I’m not known for brevity, especially when I’m flustered.
Liam Ellis is a brat. He has no idea how blessed he is. I fire off a text to Cara, telling her as much but then I delete it and will myself to be more positive and try again.
Me: Who knew a guy they call The Beast could be so extraordinary? A delight. A gem of a human being.
Cara: Are we talking about the same person or are you having some sort of post-jilted-bride break with reality?
Me: Both?
Cara: Meet at the Fish Bowl.
O’Neely’s Fish Bowl is a local eatery by day and a hockey pub by night. It’s ground zero for all things hockey outside of the Ice Palace. Stan, the hockey super fan, owns it. I knew his niece, Heidi, in high school and wonder what she’s been up to.
Even though it’s been a while since I’ve stopped in, unless something has changed, every available surface is covered in hockey memorabilia. Stan’s photo is in the dictionary next to the phrasepuck head.
I text a reply and agree to go, but only because Cara is buying me a double order of loaded potato skin pub pucks even though she doesn’t know it yet.
While still in Los Angeles, I went on a hunt to find something comparable at the local restaurants, but nothing tops the crispy little twice-baked potato boats served at the Fish Bowl. They’re cooked, then split in half, and then hollowed out. The potato gets mashed with butter and cream. Then it goes back into the potato skin and is topped with cheese until it’s both melty and crispy. Before serving, they drown it in bacon, sour cream, chives, and if you’re feeling wild, jalapeños.
I’m feeling wild.
At the door, Leah greets me with a, “You’re back,” squeal and a big hug.
Half the restaurant turns to see which of their favorite hockey stars arrived, but it’s just little ole me. The girl who showed up in Cobbiton her senior year and refused to talk until Grandma Dolly drew me from my shell with sign language and cookies like you would a cat with a can of tuna.
Leah, a local who also went to Clarkson High, and a hockey super fan who works here stops at at our table. “How long has it been? Don’t say a year. That’s too long.”
“It’s been a year and one failed engagement later,” I lament.
My usual megawatt, high-voltage energy flickers until I remember how much this town gave to me. Then why did I leave? Because I wanted to boast that I made it in the big wide world when I hadn’t been able to before. It was a leaving-the-nest kind of challenge and possibly stoked by pride.
Leah shows me to Cara’s table in the back. She sits with a few women I recognize and others I don’t. She’s sipping on a soda through a straw and introduces me to Brandt, Reddford, Savage, and Hammer.
I know some of the women, but say, “First names, please.”
Cara gives her head a shake. “Oh, right. Sorry. I forgot to close my work tabs. This is Gracie, Whit, Delaney, and Margo. She’s a wedding planner.”
I cast Cara a dark smile. “It’s so nice to meet you all. I’m just going to borrow Cara for a minute.” I lead her to the corner near the dartboard.
She eyes it warily.
“How could you do this? Why would you think I’d work for him?”
She pats the air with her hands for me to calm down. “You seem upset. I take it things didn’t go well.”
“He’s a living, breathing beast.” I give her a quick recap.
“You left out one important thing. Objectively speaking, he’s handsome.”
