Page 23 of The False Start (Off the Bench)

Chapter Fifteen

LILA

I ’m throwing toiletries into my open bag and getting more stressed by the second.

I should’ve left for the airport ten minutes ago, and I’m still not packed.

It’s not like me, but I woke up late after a nearly sleepless night of tossing and turning, replaying my conversation with Cal on the balcony over and over.

And here I am, not packed and late to the airport for the first time in my life.

I’ve been all over the place lately, and I can’t fix it.

I shove the zipper closed on my overflowing suitcase, leaning my weight into it to try and compress the half-folded clothing inside. I grab a hoodie and drag a brush threw my hair as I call an Uber.

My heart thunders as I see the arrival time, approximately fifty minutes before my plane takes off.

I grit my teeth and head downstairs to wait for the car.

I open and close my message app about five different times, debating on whether or not to text Dennis before the black Toyota Corolla rolls up in front of me.

A minute later, we’re off and I’m doing my absolute best to focus on answering work emails instead of backseat driving as we crawl along I-90. I make note of the time as we pull up to the terminal.

T-minus nineteen minutes until take off.

I powerwalk to the pre-check line. While it’s not long, it’s longer than the ten minutes I have until boarding closes. I start drafting the message and cancel it once again.

When I’m through TSA, I’ll get rebooked then call him.

The line moves pretty fast, and I’m on the other side, bags in hand at T-minus seven minutes until takeoff. I take a deep breath and start running toward A14, my rolling suitcase dragging alongside of me.

I’m panting when I reach the gate. The door is securely shut, and the gate agent looks at me with disdain.

“Any chance I can still get on?” I gasp between breaths.

“The door is shut,” he says matter-of-factly. “I can get you rebooked if you’d like.”

I nod.

“Name?”

“Lila Summers.”

“Final destination is New York?” He types on the keyboard, peering at me over the screen, and I can feel the silent scolding.

“Yes.”

“I can get you on a flight to JFK, in at 3 p.m.”

“Great, I’ll take it.”

I settle into a seat at what will be my new gate and take a deep breath before I start the call.

“Hey, is your flight delayed or something?” Dennis asks the second he picks up.

I cringe. “I missed my flight actually.” I pause. “Traffic was absolutely terrible getting here, and then the TSA line was crazy. I’m sorry.”

He sighs, long and hard. “I was really counting on you to be here Lila.”

“I know. I’m coming, I promise. They rebooked me in a couple hours. I’ll still be there for the party tomorrow.”

“I made dinner reservations with some of my colleagues for us.”

“I know, but I still have a key. I can get changed and then meet you there?”

I hear his long exhale on the other end of the line. “Yeah, that’s fine, I guess.”

“I didn’t mean to miss my flight, I’m sorry.”

“I just can’t believe you. You’ve never been late to the airport in your life, and you knew this event was important to me. I mean, what was so important you couldn’t get here on time?”

I don’t say anything, and he’s silent for a moment.

“I’ll text you the details for dinner.”

“Thanks, Dennis.”

“Text me when you land.” The line goes dead before I can respond.

Well, that could’ve gone worse.

The rest of the flight goes without a hitch, and as the sun sets over the skyline of New York City I climb into a taxi and head to Dennis’s midtown apartment.

I let myself in, taking in the space. I haven’t been to visit in months, but the place looks nothing like it used to.

It was always sterile—minimalistic furniture chosen for aesthetic rather than comfort, all black and white with the occasional wood tone.

No color, no warmth. It would’ve been a perfect set for a Hugo Boss commercial. But now, there’s a rug.

A blue rug in the entryway.

I step through the doorway and glance around. There are throw pillows on the couch, and a soft-looking blanket thrown over the back of it. It still looks like a living room you’d find straight out of Vogue rather than Good Housekeeping , but it is definitely different.

I roll my suitcase into his master bedroom, and I’m greeted by a clean, white comforter, a quilt thrown at the end of the bed. I idly wonder when he updated all his decor, a nagging feeling pulling at my gut.

I find the dark red dress I packed for dinner tonight and pull it on. With the help of dry shampoo, eyeliner, and some bronzer, I’m ready in about fifteen minutes and headed out the door.

Dinner is surprisingly painless. They’ve already ordered and while Dennis did get me a salad, he at least ordered truffle fries, and right now I’m taking the wins where I can get them.

None of his colleagues talk to me aside from a perfunctory “hello” when I sit down.

Flying always drains me so, while usually being ignored would sting, tonight I don’t mind and simply enjoy my fries and the expensive red wine they’ve ordered for the table.

“Would it have killed you to make a good impression tonight?” Dennis asks angrily once we’re in a cab headed back to his apartment.

“What do you mean?”

“You didn’t speak to anyone. Not once.”

“No one bothered to talk to me either. I laughed at jokes and waited for an opening or for someone to even look at me, but as soon as I sat down, I was invisible.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, staring out the window at the passing city streets.

“What did you want me to do?”

“I don’t know, but not that.”

We stew in silence for a few minutes.

“Why can’t you just make me look good?” he bursts out.

“What?”

“All the partners at work, most of the associates even, have girlfriends or wives that help their career. And all you did was sit there and eat.”

My face flushes, shame twinging the edge of my anger. “I didn’t even ask to go to this. I wasn’t expecting dinner tonight out with your work buddies until a few hours ago. If you had plans, I could have just ordered out and relaxed or we could’ve just gone out the two of us.” My chest is heaving.

“Fine,” he snaps. “Next time I’ll go by myself then.”

The words sting, even if I suggested them.

We’re silent for the rest of the ride, barely speaking once we’re back. I turn in early, exhausted from traveling and the argument, and I’m asleep before he comes to bed.

The following morning is tense, but since we’re both working, the actual interaction we have is limited until around three. I’m working from his home office while he’s at his actual office in the financial district downtown. The sudden slam of the door makes me jump, and then he’s yelling.

“What the fuck, Lila?” He yells as he comes into view of the office doorway, and I flinch at the noise.

“What?” I ask, confused.

“You know what you did. You told me not to worry about him.”

“What are you talking about?” I’m annoyed now, and he thrusts his phone in my face.

My stomach flutters at the photo on the Barstool Instagram page of me at the Avalanche game, wearing Cal’s jersey.

“What?” I ask again.

“You’re in his jersey! And the article says you went home together,” he spits out. “I can’t believe you.”

I’m piecing it all together now, my annoyance growing.

“Okay, so first of all, Katie and Theo’s sister are literally in the photo behind me. Maggie’s wearing a jersey too. Cal offered his, and I didn’t have one to wear, what was I going to say? No?”

“Yes exactly. No!”

“Second of all,” I continue as if I didn’t hear him, my voice growing louder to compensate, “the five of us left the game together to go get dinner nearby, we didn’t ‘go home’ together.” I stand from the desk and cross my arms, readying myself for battle.

“You’re such a fucking whore. We both know you’re fucking him.” My blood turns to ice in my veins, and a calm washes over me.

“I’m not. I told you that when you were in Chicago a couple weeks ago. We’re friends ,” I say, much more calmly than I feel. “And don’t call me a whore.”

“Then don’t act like one.”

I laugh, and he looks almost scared at the sound.

“I’m not.” I look him over and realize as if a lightbulb has exploded in my head, I don’t have to do this.

This isn’t the person I fell in love with.

I’m not even the person who fell in love with him anymore.

I’ve become this mess of a human being, being a bad friend, showing up late to work, drinking more than usual.

I don’t like it, and I don’t have to stand for it.

“I can’t do this anymore Dennis. I’m not cheating on you, and I never have.”

He sneers at me stepping closer into my space. “Then why is there an inside source saying you left the after party together?”

“Oh my god, we split an Uber.” I throw my hands up in exasperation. “We live two blocks away from each other, and we were both ready to leave so it made sense.” He slams his hands on the desk on either side of me, and I can’t help but jump.

“Show me the ride.”

“What?”

“The ride. Your history will show two stops if you really just split an Uber .” He mocks the last part in a high pitched voice that I’m sure is supposed to be me.

“Cal ordered it. You can check the app, but that ride won’t even be on my account.”

He shakes his head. “Get out, I can’t even look at you right now.”

I grab my laptop from his desk and put it back into my work bag. Making quick work of packing up the stuff I used last night. I repack my suitcase and roll it through the living room, opening my United app.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” he asks from the where he stands in the office doorway.

“Home, obviously.”

“We have the gala tonight. You have to go.”

“Actually, I don’t think I have to do anything. And right now? I really don’t want to go.”

“Are you fucking serious? You cheat on me, and now after one fight you’re just leaving?” He steps toward me, and I roll my suitcase to create a barrier between us.

“I didn’t cheat on you! But yeah, I guess I am.”

“If you leave, we’re done.” I almost laugh.

“Yeah, I think we’re done either way, at this point.” I sigh, opening the door to the hallway.

“Excuse me?”

“Dennis, we should break up, for real. Neither of us even want to be in this relationship anymore.”

“You know you can’t actually do any better than me right? You’re not twenty-two anymore. Your football player won’t want you, and neither will anyone else. Not for anything more than a quick fuck.” The words hit like poison arrows, exactly as he means them too.

“I think I’ll take my chances.” And I close the door before he can respond.

A single tear tracks down my cheek as I sit in the back of the taxi on my way to JFK. My relief is palpable but tinged with fear of the unknown, the insecurities Dennis hit on coloring every thought.

I’m able to change my flight once I promise United my kidney, and I board my flight home before I was even supposed to be at the stupid gala. I’m squeezed into the tight middle seat and text Katie before we take off.

I’m coming home.

Then, I turn my phone off and ask the flight attendant for a double vodka on the rocks. Her eyebrows raise, but she must see my expression and take pity on me, even as the lady in the aisle seat next to me watches with thinly veiled disgust.

I toast her and knock half of it back. “My boyfriend and I just broke up.”

She purses her lips and turns her attention to her airport romance novel.

I log into the Wi-Fi plan and find the article Dennis shoved in my face.

There was clearly a source who was at Theo’s as it references us looking “cozy” and then leaving together.

I’m irrationally annoyed, not even that it may have just ruined my relationship, but it was a private party in someone’s home.

The athletes there deserve some semblance of privacy.

I’m typing a comment out to tell the article author so, when the vodka starts to kick in, quicker than usual with a combination of high altitude and low carb intake.

While justice is important, a nap right now feels more urgent, and I slide my phone in my sweatshirt pocket and lean my head back against the headrest, closing my eyes.

I jolt awake when the plane touches down ignoring the disapproving glance from aisle lady. I turn my phone back on with a sinking feeling.

But as my notifications come in, there’s nothing from Katie.

She hasn’t even seen the text.

As soon as I’m in baggage claim, I call her. The idea of going home to my empty apartment tonight is killing me.

The phone rings and rings, then goes to voicemail.

What the fuck? It’s not like her to not be on her phone.

I check her location, and she’s in Los Angeles.

Strange. She’s at her mom’s house, more specifically. At least she’s not dead in a ditch somewhere.

I get in a taxi, telling him to head to the loop and try calling once more.

“I’m going to need a specific address pretty soon,” the driver calls from the front.

“Sorry, give me one second,” I fumble, as tears burn my eyes. I rattle off the first address I can think of.