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Good News – Shaboozey

Declan

A ddie walks two steps in front of me through the sprawling park overlooking Elliot Bay, her hips swinging back and forth in her jumpsuit, the deep emerald green brightening the streaks of copper in her auburn hair. The ocean offers a cool summer breeze, and the first colors of the sunset begin to paint the sky with varying shades of pinks and purples.

I could spend hours in this park, allowing the thoughts to wash away. It’s one of the few places where I can escape the grief and memories that are still raw.

Tonight, the memories were beginning to drown me in the somber quiet of my condo. I needed to escape, to be anywhere but my empty home, but the last place I expected to end up was in my favorite park with one of the nutritionists from work.

She was desperate for a rescue from what I consider the world's worst date. I think if I gave the Guinness Book of World Records a call, they would contemplate adding that to their records because, wow, was that guy a douche.

I’ve never spoken to Addie outside of work, but anger flared, hot and wild, when her date spoke about her like she wasn’t sitting across the table, head hung low in embarrassment as she picked at her salad. But when he degraded her to nothing more than ‘eye candy’ for players, it was time to go. I was done listening to him spew bullshit, and I couldn’t stomach the disappointed look on Addie’s face.

We may not know each other very well, but no one deserves that treatment.

“How about there?” she asks, pointing at my favorite tree, the one I lounge beneath after my morning run to catch my breath. It’s where I hide from the world. It’s also a great area to spot different birds. She stops beneath the large oak tree, head lifting to look through the branches as I lay the blanket over the grass and set the food out.

“This is my favorite tree,” I admit, running my hands along the tough bark of the trunk.

“You have a favorite tree?” she asks, laughing as she sits beside me, legs folded beneath her. I open the takeaway containers one by one, and with shocking speed, Addie snatches the cheeseburger and French fries. “Come to Mama!”

She pops a potato into her mouth, and my jaw falls slack as she devours the cheeseburger in a few bites, shoulders wiggling with joy. Her eyelids flutter shut in bliss as she chews, and a small dollop of ketchup sits on the corner of her mouth.

When her eyes crack open and she notices my staring, her skin flushes a deep red, all the way to the tips of her ears.

“Sorry,” she mutters, extending what’s left of the meal. “I love cheeseburgers.”

“Oh, don’t apologize,” I drawl, “That was impressive.” I wink, which only deepens her flush, and steal a fry.

Her features are so genuine, a guidebook to what she’s feeling, and it’s wildly refreshing. We’ve rarely interacted other than what our roles require, but she’s well-loved by other players, my friends included.

Deon would die for her—his words—and refers to her as his favorite nutritionist and the world’s greatest smoothie maker. She doesn’t get on Henry’s ass about eating too many of his wife’s cookies, and she does not comment on Jack’s overconsumption of sodium from beef jerky.

I don’t chat with her the way Deon does, but I’ve learned to read emotions, to decipher facial expressions, and with Addie, she expresses it all. There are times I wish I could do it, too; display every emotion rioting in my chest.

There’s been a handful of times where it becomes too much, where the emotions drown me and I crack, allowing someone to peek behind the curtains and see the disaster, but most days it’s easier to smile and pretend I’m okay. It’s why I found Sharon, my therapist. She’s the only person who’s seen it all.

“You needed some real food, anyway,” I continue, plastering on a smile, “that plate of lettuce was sad to look at.”

Addie’s lip quirks upward. “He took off the croutons and cheese when he ordered.”

“Shit,” I mutter, rubbing a hand over my jaw. “It’s going down in the book as the world's worst first date.”

“Says who?” she counters, nose scrunching.

“Me.” I stretch out my legs, leaning against the base of the tree. “I’ve been on a lot of first dates. Yours is the worst I’ve ever encountered.”

She huffs, biting down on a fry.

“I know,” she mutters between bites. I lift a brow, hoping she’ll elaborate. Knows I’ve been on a lot of dates, or knows hers was the worst date ever? “You’re a serial dater. It’s common knowledge.”

“Oh?”

“The social media girls love to talk about you.” She pauses, contemplating her next sentence. “They all have a crush on you.” A rogue, cocky smile graces my lips, but quickly falls when she adds, “You’re a playboy. A new girl every other week.”

My stomach drops.

“Is that what you think?” I ask, surprised by how much I fear the answer.

I don’t want her to believe that about me, because it’s not the truth. Sure, I go on dates, but it’s not to sleep with women, and it’s not a new one every other week. Maybe it was that way once, when I was a rookie, but I was lost and it took a long time to find myself.

I’m intentional about dating—about putting myself out there and opening myself up to the opportunity to find love.

Addie scans my face, head cocking slightly before she says, “I don’t know you well enough to make that judgement.”

Her response is truthful, and there’s no judgment, which is not what I expected.

I’ve seen the tabloids with my photo beside the woman I date. They all speculate on who I’m sleeping with and what girl I’m going to jump to next. They paint me as the playboy, jumping into the sheets with whomever I can.

It’s been easier to allow them to push that persona rather than uncover the truth, which is I go on all those dates in hopes someone will spark the zing inside my chest and I won’t be alone any longer.

I’m so tired of being alone.

The hollowness in my chest has only worsened since Alan died.

I grunt a response, pushing the pasta around the to-go container, when Addie pokes my shoulder.

“Is it true?”

“What?”

“Do you sleep with a new woman every other week?”

“No.”

“Alright, then.” She ends the conversation by ripping into a rib. “God, these are good.”

I snatch the container from her. She blinks at the container, stunned, but I need the distraction from how impacted I am by how she took my word at face value—no follow-up questions or wariness, just trust.

Not that I’ve earned that from her.

“Sharing is caring, Addie.” She rolls her eyes and steals another rib. We silently dig in until we’re covered in barbeque sauce, and my stomach is so full that one wrong move and the elastic in my pants might snap.

There’s a glob of sauce on Addie’s cheek, and the sight is incredibly charming. The last half hour with her has been more fun than my last ten days combined. She reminds me of my friends—down-to-earth and teasing.

“Wanna do something fun?”

“If it requires moving, I’m going to pass.” She pulls out a wipe from her purse and hands me one. “You have sauce on your nose.”

I scrub the sauce from my face and fingers as she does the same. Keeping wipes in her bag is genius.

“No moving required.” I pull out my phone and aim it at her face. “Smile!”

She’s stunned, so instead of a smile, her face is a half snarl. I quickly send off the photo.

“This is going to be great…” I mutter, staring at my phone. “Now, we wait.”

Addie scoots closer, a waft of sweet, tart fruit perfume filling the air between us, and I lay my phone face up on the blanket. The photo of my friends and me at Christmas fills the lock screen.

Birds chirp, and I steal a moment to search for them, finding a cardinal sitting high on a branch above us.

“What are we waiting for?”

Addie pulls my attention back, but I make a mental note to post in my ‘Birds of Seattle’ Facebook group that I spotted one in the park.

“For Deon to freak out.”

Addie cackles, the sound striking my chest and leaving a warmth behind.

Thirty seconds later, Deon Adams’ name lights up on my screen. If the quarterback is anything, it’s predictable, both on and off the field.

“We should make him sweat a bit,” Addie says before hitting ‘deny’ on FaceTime.

He calls again, and she giggles as she denies him a second time. When it rings a third time, she finally picks up the phone to answer.

“Hi, Deon!” she says, a shit-eating grin on her face. “What’s up?”

I lean back, letting Addie take the lead. One of my favorite pastimes is messing with Deon. In the locker room, on the plane, at his house, when I’m hanging out with his girlfriend. Doesn’t matter where, I’ll never pass up the opportunity to make his life a bit more fun .

“Why are you with Declan?”

She looks at me from the corner of her eyes, lips tilting up in a mischievous smile. Oh, I like that smile. It screams let’s fuck some shit up .

“He didn’t tell you?” she asks, the question full of innocence.

“Tell me what?!” Deon yells, and I choke on laughter.

The rest of Book Club is going to love this. It has four members, myself included. The other three are the significant others of my teammates. I weaseled my way in, and what started as a way to talk about books has become a way to make sure we spend time with each other.

My favorite meetings are when the girls test the validity of a scene using themselves as the test subjects.

“I’m Declan’s new personal chef!” Oh, shit. Addie went straight for the jugular. “I just wanted to let you know I can’t make your smoothies anymore.”

I would think he hung up if I couldn’t hear the labored breathing through the phone.

“Give the phone to Declan,” he demands.

Addie hands me the phone, her face a flaming red as she fights laughter. She’s wheezing, clutching her sides like this is the funniest thing she’s ever experienced. Her reaction is making it difficult to school my features as I hold the phone up to my face.

“Hi, Deon,” I purr, offering him my most charming smile, the one I’ve used to get out of speeding tickets.

“You poached my girl?!” Deon screams, face inches away from the camera. “I called dibs on her at the last meeting. The oath is sacred.”

It requires every ounce of strength and mental fortitude I possess to keep my lip from quivering. Addie holds no such power as she falls back, swiping tears from her face. Her feet kick through the air, and my smile breaks.

Deon catches it.

“You’re fucking with me aren’t you?”

Addie snorts, and I lose it completely, laughing until I can’t breathe.

“What would Nathalie think if she knew you refer to Addie as your ‘girl’?”

Blue rimmed glasses and the top of Nathalie’s forehead appear on the screen.

“I’m not worried because…” Nathalie’s hand pops on the screen ,and a massive green stone sits on her left ring finger, so large it could be seen from space.

Addie jolts from the squeal I release, and tears spring to my eyes.

“Show him, Deon,” Nathalie presses, and Deon’s left ring finger appears on the screen, wearing the titanium band I helped Nat choose for him.

“Did you propose under the Eiffel Tower? Did either of you cry? Was it magical?” The questions are rolling off my tongue as joy riots in my chest.

They both deserve the world, and each other.

“Gotcha!” Addie screams, having missed the last thirty seconds, preoccupied with laughing at her joke. When she clocks the rings and the massive smiles, she screeches. “No fucking way! Congratulations!”

“Tell me everything ,” I demand, and Deon and Nathalie share an odd look.

“It’s pretty late here,” Nathalie says with a coy smile, “We’ll tell you everything when we’re back.” She pauses before adding, “I love you.”

The words strike a chord, but I say them back. I always say it back. Because there comes a day when you can’t, and that feeling is an unwelcome friend in my life.

Addie’s gaze is heavy on my skin when I hang up.

“You have great friends,” she says quietly—contemplatively.

“The best.”

My teammates, their wives and families, they’re my world, but they all have worlds of their own. Partners. Families. Children and relatives.

All I have is them.

Addie cleans up our meal, consolidating the take-out while I throw out the trash. Silence hangs between us, but it’s not heavy or awkward. I pause when she slips into the passenger seat, a small smile gracing her lips.

She’s breathtaking.

Auburn hair, streaked with copper and gold, and expressive hazel eyes. Freckles pepper the gentle slope of her nose, and fuck me, her lips are soft and plump.

I give myself ten seconds with the rogue thought before I stash it away.

We do not ogle coworkers.

Addie plugs her address into the GPS and hums quietly to the music—the playlist Nathalie made for me, full of songs for when I’m feeling down.

“Oh, I have this album on record,” she says when the song switches to Billy Joel. “It’s the best on rainy mornings.” She sings along to “She’s Always A Woman” as I drive, content as she looks out the window.

I don’t know what to say, so I stay quiet.

A heavy weight presses against my chest, a mixture of melancholy and longing—to find what my friends have, to have someone to lean on, a family to call my own.

When I pull up to her apartment complex, she finally breaks the silence.

“I had fun tonight,” she admits, lingering by the passenger door. “Thanks for the save and the meal.”

“Of course.”

I want to say it back—tell her I had fun, that she banished the grief that constantly chokes me—but the words dry on the tip of my tongue.

Her eyes scan my face, and her head tilts, before she turns away. She’s halfway into the building when she spins and yells, “See you at camp!”

The music plays softly in the background as I sit in my car, lingering outside the entrance of her building, watching her disappear into the building. A loud honk breaks me from my stupor, and I put the car in drive.

I have a feeling I’ll be counting down the days until I get to see her again.