The Better Half(78)
We arrive at the game already underway and find a spot up the bleachers from the home-team bench.
At halftime Jared jogs over to us. “That shot by number twelve was impressive,” Roan tosses out like he didn’t spend the entire first half of the game with his head buried in his gift registry tabulating what’s been purchased and what big ticket items remain. Number twelve is Benjamin Dunn. Who knew that puny kid could shoot?
Roan’s not wrong, the first half of the game was impressive. Jared has the boys running circles around the other team, passing effortlessly back and forth. Royal-Hawkins is ahead by twenty-eight points, a high-scoring game for middle school.
“I can see the basketball court is second nature to you, Jared. And now you’re making it second nature to your boys.” I gesture down to Jared’s gaggle who can’t stop wrestling each other to the ground even when they’re supposed to be resting up for the second half. I know this compliment is going to land right.
Jared runs his hand over his tightly trimmed head and beams with pride. “Yeah, they were a little motley back in January, but you do the drills you get the skills. These boys have never worked so hard in their lives, but look how happy they are.” It’s true, the whole squad is bouncing on their toes, their enthusiasm to get back on the court about to blow out their ears. I smile wide at the unadulterated joy of kids who smell a win. It’s pure and natural and stirs up my own competitive nature. I, too, believe that with hard work and smart strategy, a win tastes good.
I look around the gym. Courtney must be here witnessing this.
“I told you, Nina, I’m your dream maker. In the classroom and on the floor. Gotta go bring this game home.” Jared pounds his chest over his heart and winks. Maybe at me, maybe at Roan. “See ya, Roan.” Jared glides back down the bleachers to rejoin his team. A couple of moms gaze in rapture. So does Roan.
Returning to the pots and pans on his phone, Roan admits, “I bet these would be lining my cupboards by now if Tate and I were having a big wedding.”
“Hey, chin up. Bright side, you can flirt with Jared all you want. It’s not cheating when a guy’s straight, right?” I’m not up to speed on gay monogamy, but I’m pretty sure ogling a hetero hunk is meaningless.
“It may not be cheating on the home front, but I’m pretty sure it’s foul play according to the Royal-Hawkins employee handbook. Have you read that tome, Headmistress Clarke? It’ll put you right to sleep.” I bite my tongue. With Roan, I sometimes forget we’re at school. “But you’ll let me flirt with Leo whenever I want, right? You know, just to keep my skills sharp?”
“If he sticks around, he’s all yours.”
“I was craving burritos.” I hold the bag up next to my head, smile, and wonder if I’m as transparent as I feel. “I got your favorite, carne asada.” My gut’s hoping the thirty-minute drive and impromptu meal offering will be well received. Dinner will be served with a side of begging Leo to come to New York with me.
“Did we have an appointment today and I missed it?” Leo asks, flustered, searching for his phone to check his calendar. I stand frozen on the front landing like a delivery boy waiting for his tip.
“No appointment. It’s just no fun eating a burrito alone. You have to have someone to complain to when you’re stuffed after polishing off a pound of meat, cheese, and rice.”
“Did you remember extra cilantro? I have to have extra cilantro.”
“I did,” I offer, hopeful to be let inside.
Leo opens his door wide enough for me to walk through. “Get in here then.” I duck under his arm into a living room I haven’t seen in far too long. Maybe the past couple of weeks I should have been inviting myself to Leo’s home instead of him into mine to keep our relationship on the rails.
Leaning back into the couch, Leo stretches his arms above his head, full after his final bite. In truth, I was the one who polished off my burrito, then asked if I could have the last quarter he left sitting on the coffee table.
“Why’d you come all the way over here tonight, Nina? I know something’s up.”
Really? He does? I thought my stream of extraneous chatter through dinner was endearing, but I guess it was a dead giveaway. I shift to get more comfortable on the couch for the big ask. Leo pats his lap, signaling me to kick up my feet. OH MY GOD, his thumb bearing down into my arch is a third trimester orgasm. I look around the room, trying to gather the right words to ask Leo to come with me to Xandra’s play and maybe if I can spend the night. On the seat of the chair to my right I spy an open binder with a couple of loose-leaf papers resting on top, Leo’s handwriting scrawled across them. I can tell these aren’t legal briefs, they look more like a question-and-answer type situation. I shift onto my side to get a better look and see my name in the righthand corner of one of the pages.
“What’s this, Leo?” I roll off the couch and crawl over to the chair, reaching for the paperwork. Leo swigs his last sip of beer.
“That’s the coursework for a parenting class I’ve been taking. Careful, your burrito fingers are greasing up my notes.”
“You’re taking a birthing class at the hospital, alone?” I had assured Leo over the holidays that after fifty-six hours laboring with Xandra, I was a pro. The tips and tricks haven’t changed that much, and we didn’t need to go to the multi-evening class full of first-time parents asking novice questions. Yes, it really is exhausting, and yes, it really feels like being turned inside out, and no, there’s no app to make it go faster or hurt less. What else do people need to know?