Page 11 of A Vegas Crush Collection #3

move on, start fresh

Grant

I’m eyeballing a random kitchen appliance, trying to decide whether to move it or donate it, when the front door opens and Margot steps inside.

I must look surprised, because she says, “Used my key,” before flashing the item in question.

“Do you want this…whatever it is?” I ask, holding up what I think is a rice cooker. “I made a pile of things I’m not moving. If you want them, please take them.”

She looks around the house, now empty of artwork, photos, books, and adornments.

Margot always took a lot of pride in how our home was decorated.

She took many of her favorite things when we split up, but it still looked nice, still looked like the home we had built together.

Now, everything is packed up and it just looks like an empty shell.

Pretty indicative of our marriage…well, what happened to it.

“This doesn’t look like our house anymore,” she says, reading my thoughts.

“No, you’re right.”

“We made so many memories here. It’s kind of sad.”

“Well, sad things happen when you screw my best friend in my own bed.” A bit harsh? Yeah, but whatever. “A bed I sold, by the way. I’ll be buying a new one that is free of memories once I get to Vegas.”

Margot’s lips curl downward, but she doesn’t take the bait.

Which is good; I’m not in the mood to have it out with her.

She wanders over toward the discard pile but stops at the kitchen counter, her fingers grazing a piece of paper there.

Shit. That’s Devon’s number. Not that Margot would know from her name, but the message is a different story. Call me. Devon. 656-551-3174

“Pot calling the kettle black much?” she says with a sneer. “Seems like maybe you’ve already got a bed to warm in sunny Las Vegas?”

“Nope,” I answer, eyeing a vegetable spiralizer that I will surely never use. “You slept with someone in my bed while we were married. I slept with someone after we got divorced. Two totally different things. And also none of your business.”

“Well, for the record, I think you’re totally running away from things by taking this job. So much easier to just pack it all up and leave.”

I look up with a heavy sigh. Margot is a beautiful woman; she always has been and always will be.

But now, when I see her standing there with her bleach-blonde hair and bright blue eyes, she just looks like any woman I could pass on the street.

Whatever was between us for all those years is long gone.

She’s like a stranger to me. My mind instantly compares her to Devon.

God, what a woman. Not just her body, or her skin, or her hair.

God, her hair…Devon was the whole package.

Funny. Self-deprecating. Smart. Sexy. I should have called her by now. I’m an idiot.

Margot seems to be waiting for me to answer her ridiculous claim, so I shake thoughts of Devon from my head and say, “So what? What’s there to stay for, Margot?

I’m not interested in staying in a town where my ex-wife is shacked up with my ex-friend.

I don’t think there’s a person out there who would fault me for that.

Plus, this is an amazing career opportunity.

Why the hell would I pass up a GM job with a Cup-winning all-star team?

It’d be fuckin’ stupid to pass it up, regardless of my personal situation. ”

“That’s exactly the point, Grant,” Margot fires back. “It’s always about you. About what you want. About your career. I had to follow you around while you played, and you would have made me move again for this year, whether I wanted to or not.”

I can’t help but smart from the verbal lashing, even though it’s not the first time I’ve heard it.

Even though we talked about the reality of my life when we first got together.

She knew what she was getting into, and, at first, she mostly liked the excitement of being in the stands and being married to a professional athlete.

After eleven years, I’m sure she felt differently, but for a long time, it was just reality, and we faced it head-on together.

And then we had those years where I wasn’t even playing.

Although, she’s now fucking another former hockey player.

Why bother with this conversation? We’re done. But…“Why are you doing this? We’re not together anymore. We’ve already been to this particular rodeo, why get on that horse again?”

“I’m pregnant,” she blurts, her hand instinctively moving to her stomach.

What. The. Fuck. What does she mean she’s pregnant? “Well, that proves it then,” I say, mostly to myself.

“Proves what?”

“My swimmers are defective. All those years of trying…it tore us apart, and now you’re…” I let out a weird sound, kind of a huff and a bitter laugh combined.

“Barton’s really excited,” Margot says, her tone softer now. “He’s always wanted kids.”

“I’ve always wanted kids.” I grit my teeth, shake off the frustration and anger, and say, “You know what, congrats to you both. I mean it. I’m happy for you.”

Margot looks away, her eyes swimming with tears suddenly, and I get the distinct impression that while Barton might be happy, his baby mama may not feel quite the same.

“I just…I wasn’t expecting it. That’s all.” But she forces a smile and adds, “Everything happens for a reason, though, right?”

Chewing on my bottom lip, I don’t have an answer for her, so I go back to cleaning out the kitchen cupboards. “If there’s anything you want, just take it. And put the key on the counter when you leave.”

Still being harsh, but it’s all I can manage without being outright hostile. Without raging, which is what I’m doing on the inside. Years of trying for a family. There is so much bitterness burning inside me.

Margot stares at me for a solid minute or two before she finally realizes I’m done. I’m not saying another word. I can’t. She puts the key on the counter and leaves, the door clicking quietly behind her.

It’s not until several heartbeats after that click I let myself breathe again. I sit on the floor of the kitchen and force myself to get air, trying to clear my mind.

She’s pregnant. She’s pregnant. She’s pregnant.

It just repeats over and over and over again.

She’s fucking pregnant.

I wanted a family with her. I wanted that with her.

I’m staring down the front side of forty, and I always imagined I’d be a dad by now.

We tried for eight years. Eight fucking years, and it just…

Did. Not. Happen. It took four years of begging to even get her to start trying with me.

And once she finally agreed? It was month after month of disappointment.

Every time her period came, it felt like a gut punch.

Every year that went by, I felt like a failure.

I mean, it’s not like we got pregnant, and she lost it. It simply never happened at all.

When I suggested IVF or adoption, she was an immediate hard no.

She said she couldn’t take it anymore. We’d been fighting a lot.

She said things had gotten forced, mechanical, and she wasn’t wrong.

She tried to get me to relax about it, but I couldn’t, and it ruined us.

I’ve owned the blame for that, as I should.

Two months after the IVF conversation, I came home early one afternoon and found her in bed with Barton. My friend and colleague of two decades. They had it going on for a while, I guess, but I never saw it.

I suppose that’s telling of how the situation was with us.

But no one deserves infidelity. No one. And even though I’m over it—and certainly don’t feel the sting of pain I once felt—it was devastating being betrayed by two people I loved and cared deeply about.

Who obviously didn’t feel the same way about me and our marriage.

I’m not the kind of guy who can’t admit to his own shortcomings.

It’s easy to make Margot the bad guy in all of this, and for the infidelity, she is.

But I can acknowledge how much I let her down as a husband—as her best friend—so there’s that.

The relationship was undeniably over long before it ended.

She had clearly left our marriage emotionally way before she left it physically.

She made choices to ensure that. There are no residual feelings for Margot.

So, it’s time. Time to move on.

Time to start fresh.

I get to my feet and take a deep breath, surveying the rest of the work I need to do to get ready for the movers.

Devon’s note sits lonely on the counter.

A beacon maybe? Is this why I’ve held on to it these last couple weeks closing out my life up here in Alberta?

I do think about calling her. I’ve thought about it every single day since I returned from my interview.

But what would I say? I don’t know anything about her.

Where she lives. What she does for a living. Her last name. What would be the point?

Vegas is a fresh start, and I need my head in the game in this new gig. I chalk Devon up as a really great memory, toss her number in the trash, and decide to focus only on the future from here on out.