Page 16 of The Rival (Looking to Score 2)
Aspen contemplates this for a moment, her pink lips downturned in a slight frown. “No,” she finally murmurs. “I should talk about it. I need to get better at talking about it.”
But she doesn’t continue. Instead, her mouth seals into a firm line, and she stares at her plate with empty eyes. It would be completely silent if not for the faint chirping of crickets outside.
“What was his name?” I ask, because maybe Aspen needs someone to ask questions instead of navigating this topic on her own.
She blinks up at me, a pained look on her face. “Dale.”
I want to make a joke about all the Dales I’ve known being smelly old dudes at the gym, but this isn’t the moment for wiseass comments. “How long were you together?”
“We met at Harvard. He was studying political science, and I was majoring in business. We were together for two years at school, and two years after graduation.”
Harvard? Wow. I knew she was smart, but . . . damn.
“What ended things?”
“Oh, it’s a long story.” She sighs. “I was always really forgiving of him. He had a tough childhood, middle child of four other siblings, parents always on the brink of divorce. He was really depressed in school, didn’t have a lot of meaningful friendships. So I kind of became everything to him . . . his friend, his girlfriend, his therapist, his personal bank account. It was exhausting, but I loved him, so that made it worth it.”
Aspen has a far-off look in her eye. My chest tightens as I watch her reaction to remembering Dale the dick and the hell he obviously put her through. She’s a nice girl—Saint was right about that. It pisses me off to know that some guys out there would take advantage of such kindness.
“Then we graduated and began to meet new people out in the ‘real world.’ I encouraged him to make new friends. And he did, and he seemed really happy and well-adjusted for about a year. But then he told me he had feelings for one of those new friends. At first, he pitched an open relationship, which kind of—um, broke me, but I loved him, so I tried to make it work. I did a ton of research on polyamory and nonconventional relationships, even interviewed some friends of friends. I learned that those kinds of relationships are contingent on trust. The golden rule is to set rules, respect them, lead with love. It seemed doable, but he kept lying. So . . . I ended it.”
A heavy silence follows, and I wait for her to add anything else if she wants to. I personally hope that’s the extent of it. From even just the SparkNotes version, it sounds like she’s endured enough heartache to last a lifetime.
How do guys like fucking Dale get away with hurting girls like Aspen? I clench a fist under the table. I don’t even know what the guy looks like, but I want to smash his face through the back of his skull.
When she doesn’t continue, I finally speak up. “I’m sorry. He sounds like a piece of shit.”
“I should have seen it coming. He refused to talk about the future, and he’d broken up with me twice before. There was a rumor in college that he was cheating on me. The signs were all there. I was just blinded by love, stupidly defending him at every turn.”
Wait. Is she seriously blaming herself?
“No, no. None of that is your fault, Aspen. I’ll listen to you vent all you want, but none of this self-pity stuff, no should-haves or regrets. They’re a waste of time, time that you deserve to spend healing. Got it?”
She swallows hard, looking up at me with glassy eyes.
If she cries right now, I’m gonna kick my own ass for bringing this shit up. I’m a fucking idiot. Night one, and I’m making the pretty girl cry. Fuck, Braun.
Finally, she nods. “Got it. That kind of talk is for brokenhearted losers anyway. And we are not losers.”
I grin, leaning over my plate. “Nope. Is this the point where I’m supposed to insert some dumb line about us being birds with broken wings or something?”
Aspen throws her head back with a giggling groan. “Please, no awful poetry attempts. Stay in your lane, Braun.”
“Fine.” I chuckle, raising my hands in surrender. “I’ll stick to what I know. Hockey.”
“And cooking,” she says, mirroring me by leaning over her plate with a smile.
Damn, she’s cute.
“Let’s not end dinner on such a sad subject.” Aspen scrunches her lips into a pout, tapping one finger on her chin. “Okay, here’s my question for you. If you could do anything, anything you wanted to, what would it be?”
“Well—”
“Something other than hockey,” she says before waving for me to continue.
I pause, a little taken aback. I don’t think I’ve ever been asked this question before. Most of my conversations revolve around the season, getting ready for the season, winning the season, winding down from the season, etc. Lather, rinse, repeat.
