Page 21 of False Play
“K,” he muttered, impatience lacing his tone. I hated when he called me that, and he knew it. But he loved to take any opportunity to get under my skin. “Why are you so obsessed with your job? Wouldn’t you rather stay home?” he pressed.
“No, Joe,” I replied, my tone icy. “I wouldn’t rather stay home, that’s not me. How many times do I have to say it? Have I not been clear for four fucking years?”
“So you want to, what, work your whole life?” He shook his head like the thought was insane. “I’m offering you something any other woman would say yes to without batting an eye,” he added condescendingly.
I wish I could have sat there and pretended to be shocked, but I was used to our dynamic by then.
For most of our relationship, it was like we were competitors more than anything else. I used to think it was a fun way to push each other to be better. But then Joe became like a madman with wanting to have more than me, or always have the upper hand. It became toxic.
My eye twitched at his comment. Yeah, right. Because that’swhat all women are supposed to want—a white-picket-fence house with kids and a book club, filling their time with hobbies and waiting for their husbands at home like a 1950s rom-com.
I understood some women wanted that life. Enjoyed it, even. That’s why women like Susan B. Anthony and Alice Paul fought for the right to choose. Women deserved options.
And I respected homemakers. Hell, my mom was one and loved every second of it. But that was not the life I wanted for myself. Period.
“It’s not what I want, Joe,” I said, defeated.
He sighed, scrubbing his face. “K, come on. You know this is what’s best for our future, our marriage. Don’t you want to make this work? Isn’t that what relationships are about? Sacrifices?”
It was in that moment I knew we were over. It was clear I didn’t matter. My happiness and what I wanted to do with my life were an afterthought in his grand plan.
Without giving it a second thought and not wanting my resolve to crumble, I rose from my seat and slid off my engagement ring, placing it in front of him. The finality of it all felt like I was able to breathe properly. Like I hadn’t taken a full inhale in the four years we were together.
Ending an engagement may have seemed drastic for some people. But what they didn’t know was how long I had suffered in silence.
My heart and despair had found companionship in each other. They intertwined and rooted themselves inside me. No one could understand this emptiness I had, even though I was sharing my life with someone.
I was utterly and completely alone in a monogamous relationship.
Do you know how horrible that is? It was like standing in a house made out of glass as I watched how life passed me by.Everyone around me was thriving and falling in love, and I was just…standing still. All alone.
I was sick of feeling like I had to beg to beloved. Like I had to shape myself to be what people expected from me. As though there was something so fundamentally wrong with me, and I was the only one to blame.
I was just…done. Once and for all.
The ding of the elevator doors opening snapped me out of the bitter memory.
That was a long night. Joe had a lot to say after he followed me home, and I found it hard to believe he was the same person I had spent so much time with. The most shocking part of it all? I wasn’t heartbroken. I didn’t know what I was, but I knew I didn’t need to mourn our relationship.
I stepped out of the elevator and looked around until I spotted Anderson’s apartment number. The team had an early practice, so I wasn’t sure if he was back already or not. Still, it didn’t feel right to use my new key, so I took a deep breath and knocked on the door instead.
“One sec,” Anderson shouted from the other side of the door.
I heard his steps approaching, and the closer he got, the more queasy my stomach became. I swallowed hard, desperately trying to get rid of the dry, gritty sensation in my mouth.
This was a terrible idea. What the hell was I thinking?
Before I could dwell on it any longer and run back downstairs to get away from this place, he opened the door.
“Jonesy.” He grinned, and while the nickname irritated the hell out of me, the lopsided smile he flashed—complete with thosestupiddimples—made my stomach do an embarrassing flip. I shut down the nonsense feeling as fast as it showed up.
He opened the door wider, lifting his arm and leaning it against it. “Come in.”
Without a word, I death-gripped the handle of my suitcase and hesitated for a moment before strolling in. My eyes roamed the area, taking everything in. The foyer was wide, with shiny white marble floors and a black matte table with shoe storage, not a trace of dust in sight. The walls were a cool light gray, adorned with minimalistic, mute paintings.
He shut the door, and when he stood closer to me, my nostrils were assaulted with his spicy, masculine scent. He smelled of bergamot with a hint of something earthy and smoky…like vetiver. It was a bold scent, which, oddly enough, suited him.
“Do you have any boxes in your car we need to bring up?”
