“Most people have,” she says dryly. “Only what’s being reported isn’t true.”
“So you haven’t broken up?” I ask in surprise. So much for that smug “I told you so” I lorded over Jack.
“It’s . . . complicated. The important thing is, none of it is his fault, but he’s taking the blame to protect me. He’s always trying to protect me,” she says under her breath, and she sounds . . . wistful. “But the things they’re saying about him, they’re just so far from the truth. I can’t sit back and let him be vilified this way. I won’t,” she says firmly, all traces of her earlier hesitation gone. “I love him too much for that.”
I straighten in my seat. Well, this story just got juicier. I put the phone on speaker and start rummaging through my workbag in search of my interview notebook.
“I couldn’t help but notice that you said ‘love,’ present tense,” I point out mildly, then shut up. One of the most valuable things I’ve learned as an interviewer is when to back off and let your subjects spill their guts.
“Yeah, the love part’s never been our problem.” She sighs. “You know that quote If you love someone, set them free? We’re basically the poster children for it. We were so young when we met, so head over heels. I always knew he was going to have this big life, that he was going to be great, and I didn’t want to hold him back . . . but I just couldn’t sign up for that life. Being stuck at home while your husband’s out on the road, raising kids alone, worrying about what he’s up to or the women who’d throw themselves at him. I saw what it did to some of the players’ wives, how many relationships collapsed under the strain, and I didn’t want that for us. I didn’t want that for myself. He tried to change my mind, but I thought I was doing the right thing by ending things, that we’d both move on and find other people.” She exhales. “Only problem is, we never did.”
I’m on the edge of my seat. I’m afraid to even breathe for fear she’ll stop talking.
“He would check in with me periodically, and every time we talked it was like no time had passed. I used to think I couldn’t forget him because he was my first love, and that’s just how it is with first loves, right? You romanticize them so much that no one else can ever measure up.” She pauses. “Of course, seeing him shirtless on the cover of every magazine for a decade didn’t exactly help.” She huffs a laugh.
“Anyway, fast-forward to last year. My mom had been battling cancer for years, and when she passed away, guess who showed up to hold my hand through all of it.”
I make a strangled noise in my throat.
“He’s always been there when I needed him, no questions asked. I suddenly saw things so clearly: how wrong I’d been not to fight for what we’d had; how much time I’d wasted trying to find with someone else what was always there with him. I promised myself that I’d spend the rest of my life showing up for him the way he’s always shown up for me.” She goes quiet. “And yet somehow, I’ve managed to screw things up a second time.”
Gah! That was a golden quote. Where is my tape recorder when I need it?! I scrabble around for a pen, and when I flip my notebook open to a fresh page, something falls out onto my lap—and when I see what it is, a tidal wave of memories washes over me, threatening to pull me under.
The US Open ticket stub.
It’s a game we’d been playing for a few weeks. Spurred on by the notes I’d been leaving around his apartment, Jack had taken to hiding the ticket stub from our first date in random locations for me to find, like tucked into the pocket of my coat or zipped inside my gym bag. To retaliate, I’d slide it under his pillow, and the next day I’d find it slipped inside my sunglasses case. I’d stick it in his fridge, and he’d sandwich it inside my closed laptop. It was ridiculously silly and sickeningly sweet, like a sappy, love-drunk version of hot potato.
I pick up the ticket now, a kaleidoscope of emotions swirling in my chest: tenderness and longing, heartache and regret. In this, I feel a kinship with Olivia, a burning need to right past wrongs—and while I may not be able to repair my own relationship, I can at least try to help fix hers.
“So what happened?” I ask gently, staring at the ticket stub so hard my eyes blur. Don’t even think about it—there’s no crying in baseball! “And more importantly, what can I do to help you fix it?”
She tells me how she’s been struggling with life in the limelight, how her need for privacy conflicts with her vow to show up for Eric the way his （very public） life requires. How Eric’s desire to protect her from scrutiny has left him feeling guilty for the times when he inevitably can’t. How her aversion to his celebrity has dredged up old wounds, straining their relationship and driving a wedge into their future.
“He wants a full-time partner, and he deserves that from me after all we’ve been through,” she finishes. “And I refuse to make the same mistake twice. So this is me, breaking out of my comfort zone and making an effort to be part of his world.”
I smile to myself, doodling a heart in the margin. “You want to ‘grand gesture’ him.”
There’s a brief pause, then an embarrassed half laugh. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but yeah. I suppose that’s exactly what I want to do.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place.” I hesitate, deliberating. “In the interest of full disclosure, I think you should know about some recent events in my life before you decide to work with me.”
“If you’re talking about what happened at the Women of the Year event, I already know about that,” she preempts me. “In fact—and I hope you don’t take this the wrong way—it’s one of the reasons I decided to call you.”
That throws me for a loop. “It is?”
“To be frank—and again, no offense—I don’t trust reporters,” she says crisply. “But I read the original story you wrote about us and it was actually quite charming. And then when I saw your name in the news, I figured if I was ever going to do this, I’d be better off taking my chances with someone who’s been through the ringer themself.”
“Ah.” Every cloud has a silver lining, I suppose. “Now I understand. Well, I can promise that I’ll only include what you’re interested in sharing, and I’ll make sure you’re happy with the final piece.” I pause, knowing I need to say the rest. I hope this isn’t a deal-breaker. “I do want to be up-front with you that I’m no longer with Siren.”
“Oh.” She’s quiet for a beat. “Well, is there somewhere else you can place the story?”
I have to smother a laugh; every outlet in the world would die for this exclusive. “That part of it won’t be a problem. And I actually have an idea for where to run it, if you’re open to something a little . . . unexpected.”
“I don’t care where it runs,” she says, resolute. “I just care that Eric sees it.”
I eye the ticket stub, making a game-changing decision of my own. “I can definitely make that happen.”