Page 37 of The Rebound
“Do you two not like Saint?” I ask, forcing my voice to be as casual as possible.
“Saint is ...” Aspen sighs and looks at Summer. “How should I put this?”
Summer shrugs. “I don’t know him as well as you do.”
“Well, let me preface this by saying that he’s awesome. Total ‘life of the party’ kind of guy. And he can be a real sweetheart when he tries to be.”
“But?” I brace myself, barely breathing.
A very big part of me doesn’t want my brother to be right about Saint. I want to know that I’m a good judge of character, that I can trust myself. If I can’t trust my own instincts, what kind of mother will I possibly be?
Aspen shrugs. “He’s kind of a wild card. I’ve known the man for years, and I’m still not really sure if I actually know him at all. He’s really unpredictable, which is probably what makes him a great hockey player. But as for boyfriend material ...” She makes aso-sogesture with her hand, tilting it from side to side.
Immediately, I go on the defensive. “No, that’s not what I was—”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to imply—”
“Yeah, we’re not—”
“Totally. I shouldn’t have—”
“That’s okay. I’m sorry for interrupting you.”
“No, no,I’msorry for suggesting—” Aspen gives me an apologetic look.
Summer cuts in, graciously ending whatever the hell thatpainful back-and-forth was. “All that is to say we’re here for you if you ever need a helping hand and don’t feel like asking Boston’s most unreliable.”
I return their genuine smiles with a forced one of my own. “Thank you. That means a lot to me.”
And it does. Even if I’m slightly crushed by the idea that Saint isn’t the man I thought he was.
Later, when they hug me good-bye, I feel a sense of female kinship that I haven’t felt since I moved to Boston. But when I watch them walk down the street to where their cars are parked, I can’t help but think that it’s all thanks to Saint. He’s the one who offered to introduce us and put all this in motion. If not for his intervention, I’d be alone in my condo, probably eating cup-o-noodles for dinner and spiraling in my thoughts.
Boston’s most unreliable.
I asked for their opinion of Saint, and I got it, although it’s not the one I wanted to hear. What I wanted was for someone who knows him to reassure me that my feelings for him aren’t completely irrational. That he’s a good man.
Whoa. Do I have real feelings for Saint?The question presses on my heart with an answer so obvious that it feels silly to ask myself in the first place.
When the bus pulls up to the curb, I turn away, opting to walk back to the complex. I need time to think. To reset. Maybe to burn off a few of the calories from my fettucine alfredo.
By the third block, my feet are already sore, but the ache grounds me in the present.
Having a crush on your hot neighbor isn’t the same as having feelings for him. I’m just finding something to obsess over, something to distract me from my impending reality. I’m going to be a single mother soon, and I probably won’t have time to date again until my son is off at college.
Jesus. That’s as surreal as it is depressing.
It takes nearly an hour, but when I finally make it home, I’m utterly exhausted. Having collapsed onto the couch and kicked off my shoes, then propped my sore feet on top of some pillows, I’m dozing off when my phone buzzes in my purse, a message from Saint waiting for me.
How’s the rumor mill these days? ;-)
My chest compresses with guilt. I wonder if he has any idea how the people closest to him talk about him when he’s not around.
I mean, Saint’s clearly joking now, but he brought this up for a reason. He’s plenty aware of the reputation he has from the tabloids. He must suspect that his friends have formed opinions on his behavior too. That hurts my heart to think about.
I know I promised him I’d return his messages, but I can’t deal with this right now. I shove my phone back into my purse, losing myself in my thoughts before I drift off into a fitful sleep.
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