Second down fake norwalk.., p.22
Second Down Fake (Norwalk Breakers Book 2), page 22
After the tour of the clinic, Sandy handed me off to the cankerous front desk receptionist for a walkthrough of the job duties. Those duties mainly seemed to be whatever the receptionist didn’t feel like doing at the moment. Mainly anything that involved patients.
After ten minutes that felt like a lifetime, Sandy grabbed me for the formal interview in her office with two of the doctors. I answered their HR-generated questions pulled from online articles aimed at job seekers.
What was my biggest strength? My biggest weakness? Name a time where I felt disappointed in my performance. I kept my answers focused on a few jobs. I’d found out years ago that ricocheting between my various professions just led to more questions about my work history.
I left the building with a warm goodbye and the promise of a phone call I wasn’t sure I would receive or really wanted.
I listened to the message again, the shock still not subsiding.
“Hi, Ms. Barton. This is Harmony with the Norwalk Hospital System. Thanks for applying for the receptionist's position. I’m pleased to let you know that you’ve been hired. Please call me back at your earliest convenience!”
A hollow emptiness settled in the pit of my stomach. I swallowed hard before replaying the message again.
True to her word, Sandy made a decision and a few days later, I had a job offer.
Happy. I should be happy. That’s the emotion that should have been flooding me. The office had been nice enough, most of the people had been fine, and the job was easier than corralling drunk tourists through downtown at ten p.m. And even if it sucked, I’d have health insurance and a retirement plan and a reason to stay in Norwalk past Thanksgiving.
So why wasn’t I happy?
I’d immediately called back, and Harmony had laid out a salary. Not quite enough to afford Becca’s rent, but enough to find a smaller apartment in a less desirable part of town. The health plan was a mystery, but the retirement sounded decent. And there were opportunities to go back to school.
If I called Mom or Becca, they’d infuse me with enough enthusiasm for two.
DIEGO
Dinner? I’m starving and lonely.
Diego. I’d soft launch the job to Diego and then to Becca and Mom. Diego’s enthusiasm wouldn’t be the over the top, world-changing shock, and that’d make me feel better about the offer. Because I should feel better. I should want this.
Sounds good.
DIEGO
Be there in ten.
Rather than listening to the voicemail again, I moved onto my second favorite anxiety-producing activity, reading gossip sites.
Diego had warned me, and for good reason. The initial thrill of stumbling over my name in print or my picture online faded away, replaced with a faint unease that at any minute, someone might be watching me. A manageable anxiety once I realized no one really cared about me unless Diego was by my side. And when I had Diego around, I didn’t care who saw us, anyway.
No, I wandered out of the comment section and into the wide-reaching conspiracy theory surrounding Diego’s relationship history. A five-season long revolving door of beautiful, successful women who flitted out of his life just as fast as they showed up.
Like all good conspiracy theories, the proof was laid out in extensive PowerPoint presentations and long form essays with time-stamped posts and quotes from news outlets. None of it concrete but, coupled with my sister’s assessment of Diego’s track record, damning even if a bit unfair.
The assessments were all the same: Diego fell in love quickly and fell out just as fast.
But approaching Diego with FiestyGirl77’s drama post expecting an explanation sounded off the wall, even to me. And I knew Diego. I’d spent days with him, playing video games on his couch, visiting his mom, dragging him along on ghost tours. We’d laid next to each other until the earlier hours of the morning, naked and exhausted and talking absolute nonsense but feeling seen.
All that had to count for something, right?
Diego showed up exactly ten minutes later, holding a brown paper bag and a six-pack. Fresh from practice, his black hair was slicked back, still wet. He wore a pair of faded jeans and a Breakers t-shirt that hugged his shoulders and pulled tight over his chest.
“Hey,” he greeted me, passing the six-pack to his other hand so he could pull me closer. His stubble grazed on cheek as his lips made their way to mine for a brief, almost haphazard kiss.
“Wow,” I said, the casualness of the kiss contrasting with the hot bolt of lust that ripped through me. “You really meant ten minutes, didn’t you?”
“I tried to call when I got to the restaurant but didn’t have reception. I rolled the dice.” He unpacked the bag on the table as casually as if he lived here. “So, how was your day? What’d you do?”
I launched into a story about a kitchen faucet I installed backwards. The conversation turned to football practice and game footage, and soon, the food was gone, and I hadn’t so much as mentioned the job.
“I have other news, actually,” I said after we cleared off the table. I turned on the sink, running my hand under the faucet and waiting for the water to heat up.
Diego stood beside me, a clean towel in hand to dry the dishes. A sweet but useless gesture. The dishes could easily fit in the dish rack. But then I’d have no reason to stand close to him, his fingers brushing mine as we passed utensils. “I got a job.”
“Oh, yeah?” Diego raised an eyebrow, setting the plate in his hand in the cabinet and leaning against the counter to face me. “Something good?”
I shrugged. “Benefits and retirement. So, that’s good, I guess. A career path. Norwalk Hospital System, even, so I’d stick around town.”
I slanted my eyes to gauge Diego’s reaction, but his face remained impassive. “What would you be doing?”
“Front desk at an orthopedic clinic. Becca must have blasted my resume around town before she left.”
I braced myself for his reaction, some mixture of encouragement and excitement that I’d have a reason to stay in Norwalk.
His eyebrows furrowed. “Oh?”
“What’s ‘oh’ about that?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. I’m just surprised.”
I narrowed my eyes, taken off-guard. “And I could afford my own apartment, so that’s nice. Not this one, obviously. But there are some places in the North end of the city that I could afford.”
“That’s awesome. And what about the job? You like it? Like the people?”
My chest spasmed. “It’s a good opportunity. And the first job that’s actually wanted me full time in years.”
“Right.” He turned off the faucet, dried his hands and faced me. “But what would you be doing?”
“Receptionist stuff? Check in people, call people, talk to doctors.”
“That’ll be a big change.”
“I’d have to quit the bar. And the repairs. Probably cut back on the ghost tours,” I said, setting a rinsed plate in the dish rack. Diego’s gaze burned the side of my face. Heat rose in my chest. “And I probably couldn’t come to any more away games.”
“But you want the job, right? You think it’ll make you happy?”
I spluttered. “I mean, no, not really, but I’d have a reason to stay in Norwalk.”
He winced. “That’s the only reason you’d want to stay in Norwalk?”
“No. I didn’t mean it like that. But this is what people do, right? They get jobs they hate so they can have nice things like permanent addresses and dental insurance.” I inhaled shakily, pressing wet, pruny fingertips against the counter. Diego was my soft launch. “But the job, it’s what everyone wants. This is what adults do. You’re supposed to be happy for me.”
“I’m happy if you’re happy.” His gaze traveled back to me, a wry smile on his lips. “And you don’t seem happy. Becca and your parents are a thousand miles away, and you have me. You do whatever you want. And if that’s work every odd job in existence, great. If that’s work at a doctor’s office, fantastic. If that’s taking over the world, amazing. But only if it’s what you want.”
The weight on my chest lifted, even as I found myself completely baffled by his reaction. I didn’t have to take the job. I wanted to believe him, too. Wanted to fall into those brown eyes and curl up in his arms. Then reality seeped in. “It’s nearly December.”
The edge of his lips hitched up in a sad smile. “Yeah. I’ve looked at a calendar.”
“So, just don’t take it?” I edged around the question, unsure I’d even heard him correctly.
“Not if you don’t love it.” He rubbed his palms down my bare arms, goosebumps pebbling in the wake of his fingertips. I tipped my head against his chest, inhaling his scent as my eyes fluttered closed.
THIRTY-TWO
DIEGO
I chucked my grass-stained jersey into the laundry basket with a grunt.
“You did all you could out there,” Frankie said. “Their offense was just too stout.”
The game was a nail-biter, and a last-minute field goal gave the opposing team the edge and gave us our first defeat in five games. Still in line for a championship run, but a frustrating loss.
“Salazar, Vigil, Cooper, post-game conference,” Coach Henson barked at us as she sailed through the locker room.
“You don’t want Rob?” Isiah Cooper laughed, nearly missing a swing by our star center.
“They know better than to let Rob go in after a loss,” Frankie laughed, wrapping an arm around me. “And don’t worry, big shot, I’ll field all the questions about why you threw rather than let me run.”
The Cleveland defense had jammed up all of our running backs, but Trent, asshole that he was, slipped between their linebackers with ease. But putting Trent and me onstage at the same time was asking for trouble with the press. Frankie was a mediating force and had charmed most of the reporters into lobbing softballs at him whenever he got tapped to take part in the post-game conference.
“Fifteen minutes.” Coach Henson tapped her watch before disappearing into a shuttered office in the back of the visiting team locker room.
I pulled out my phone, scrolling through the play-by-play texts Cassandra had sent with a grin.
Guess I needed my lucky charm in the stands.
Rather than follow me to Ohio, Cassandra stayed put in Norwalk, helping Becca move the last of her furniture up north. The move left Cassandra in an empty apartment and with no job. All the elements to move back to New Hampshire if she didn’t want to date me.
The thought made my stomach tight. The feeling almost as uncomfortable as when she’d considered taking a job she’d hate. But I trusted Noa and trusted his advice. If I wanted Cassandra in my life, she had to want to be there. She needed space to make that decision.
Our deal had been simple in the early weeks of the season: she faked being my girlfriend for the press. But somewhere along the way, I stopped faking and started believing it.
I loved Cassandra.
Whether she loved me back was a different question. She loved having sex with me, sure. She loved hanging out with me. But somehow, those two activities seemed to exist on different planes in her mind. She cleaved our relationship into separate parts, unwilling to merge them together until the contract was over.
CASSANDRA
Let me know when you’re on your flight back.
My chest tightened, hoping she wanted to know because she missed me. Maybe missed me like I missed her.
Need time to clean up all the hookers and blow?
CASSANDRA
I’m cooking dinner…and I have to kick out all the hookers and clean up all the blow. So, let me know. Good luck with the press conference. Who’s going in with you?
Frankie and Isiah.
Boring. Send in Rob!
I’ll let the staff know you’re interested in picking the players for post-games.
It might be my dream job! Hurry home.
I put away the phone with a smile on my face. In two more weeks, the contract would be over, and I could ask Cassandra to be with me, no strings attached. The dread of an impending press conference seeped away.
Isiah patted me on the back. “Well, you look pretty pleased. Let’s get in front of those reporters and wipe that smile off your face.”
I walked into my house, assaulted by a cloudy haze and the smell of burnt pepper. Music flooded the hallway, and I followed the sound into the kitchen.
Cassandra stood in front of the oven, conducting along to the beat with a spatula as the pan in front of her belched smoke.
“Everything okay in here?” I yelled.
She jolted, giving me a chagrined smile before turning down the song. “Hey, you’re home! Dinner’s not ready.”
“I thought you were joking…” I set my bag down and rounded the kitchen island.
For someone who couldn’t cook, she had an ambitious number of pans on the stove. A cast iron in the back bubbled with oil while one in the front held a lumpy flour mixture with uneven chunks of vegetables. I pressed the palm of my hand against her back and leaned over to inspect the dish. “It looks good.”
She laughed, pressing back against me and lifting an eyebrow in my direction. “Liar.”
“I can’t wait for you to tell me what you’re cooking.” I set my chin on her shoulder and wrapped my arms around her waist. Even with the fire alarm seconds from screeching, I could get used to having her in my house. Having her waiting for me at home.
“Country fried steak, green beans, and potatoes.” She mixed the burping flour mixture before slipping out of my arms. “Your mom said it was your favorite.”
Her cheeks turned red as she opened the fridge and emerged with two pieces of steak. “I’m not really sure what country gravy is, and I think I screwed it up.”
“It looks great.” I picked up a whisk, pushing aside the chunks of potato to incorporate the flour into the sauce. “You called my mom?”
Cassandra set the steak on the counter, opening the drawer underneath to grab a pair of tongs. “We chat. Does that bother you?”
“No. Not at all. Just surprised.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised. I should have known that Mom would fall for Cassandra as fast as I did.
“Well, she’ll probably stop answering my calls if she finds out how badly I butchered her recipe.” She picked up a steak with the tongs and lowered it into the pan of oil. The flour coating sizzled on contact, and she placed a splatter guard over the top.
“We’ll keep it our little secret.” I bounced against Cassandra’s shoulder with a grin.
Her smile faltered. “We keep a lot of secrets, don’t we?”
The observation cut through my teasing. “But not from each other.”
“We don’t?”
I shook my head. “Never from you.”
“Same.” The tension drained from her shoulders and the edge of her lips turned up.
“And in the interest of not keeping secrets from you, I have to tell you that the gravy goes on the meat and isn’t used to braise the potatoes and green beans.” I moved the green beans to the corner of the pan and fished out the potato chunks, setting them in a bowl on the counter. “I’m not sure what got lost in translation between you and my mom.”
“I might have been a little overconfident about understanding how to make this meal.”
“Well, that’s her fault. She’s seen you cook.”
“We were on the same page until she started talking about the gravy. I thought she meant turkey gravy. The conversation got real confusing after that. Apparently, there are fifty different types of gravy and I’ve been living in a world with only one. I’m pretty sure she’s planning on hosting a gravy tasting seminar next time we’re in Mississippi.”
I bit back a grin. Next time we’re in Mississippi.
“Good thing we’re knocking one gravy off the list tonight, then.” I grabbed a whisk from Cassandra’s side of the oven and stirred the gravy. Even with the vegetables gone, the lumps remained.
“I’m not sure if what I made is going to count,” Cassandra said slowly, clenching her jaw as she assessed the gravy.
“I can fix it,” I insisted, grabbing a sieve from under the counter and a second pan. “Hold this.”
She took the sieve, holding it up over the empty pan on the back eye of the stove. I drizzled the lumpy gravy into the sieve, taking the sieve back and pressing the gravy through with a wooden spatula. “All better.”
“As long as it tastes good.”
I swiped a finger over the bottom of the sieve and tasted it. “More pepper and it’s perfect. My mom will turn you into a cook yet.”
“I think you’re getting ahead of yourself, but I’m glad I’m not about to ruin your favorite meal.”
With the last steak cooked, we plated up dinner. Cassandra salvaged the green beans with a fried onion topping and I added enough butter and cheese to the potatoes to mask the aftertaste of gravy. For someone who burned an entire skillet of pancakes just a few weeks ago, the meal looked pretty good.
I took a pull of my beer and settled down next to Cassandra at the table, suddenly aware that I hadn’t actually sat at the table for a meal with anyone else since I’d moved into the house three years ago. I ate most of my meals at the kitchen counter, phone in my hand, or in the basement with the TV on.
“So, how’d I do?”
“It’s a good first start. I’m prepared to let you try as often as necessary until you nail it.” I grinned and Cassandra ducked her head, hiding a smile. “Is Becca’s apartment empty?”
