The Virgin Replay by Lauren Blakely
Chance
I have a new twenty-thousand-dollar watch.
Yay.
And my agent just re-upped me with Victoire and told me my wife’s matching watch is in the mail, and that it’d have been with me sooner, but she had no idea I was getting married.
Point taken, loud and clear.
As I head to meet Shane for lunch in Gramercy Park, the same sense of what-the-hell-do-I-do hangs over me like a cloud of bad cologne.
I stride down Park Avenue, trying to savor November in New York City. I’ve always loved Manhattan, from its energy to its take-no-prisoners vibe. From the plethora of food, to the panoply of people, this city gives me life.
This afternoon, though?
I feel . . . regret. For days, it’s been swirling in my gut like thick tar, weighing me down.
When I reach the sushi bar, I try to shuck off the feeling.
Don’t be a Doug Downer.
Inside, my British friend has already claimed a spot at the bar, and he raises a hand to get my attention. When I reach him, Shane stands, claps me on the back. “How’s it going, mate?”
“Great,” I say, mustering enthusiasm I don’t have. Happiness I haven’t located since I messed up royally in the land of big eff-ups.
But I should find some energy. Friends are important. Showing up for them matters. Shane said he has news, so I need to get in the supportive friend zone.
“This place has the best unagi,” he says. “And the scallops will make you want to marry them.”
I shudder.
He chuckles. “Did you have a row with scallops once upon a time?”
“No. Sorry. Gut reaction.”
“Ah. The marriage thing.” He smacks my shoulder. “But you should be happy now. The ex is in the rearview mirror, and you’ve got a lovely new bride. Cheers, mate. We need to celebrate.”
The regret sinks deeper in my stomach.
But what the hell do I regret, exactly? Marrying Sierra? Or is it how I bungled the morning after?
Or maybe, it’s everything.
Every damn thing I did wrong.
Like going about falling in love backward.
But there’s no time to ponder my epic fail any more than I already have—that is, for nearly every waking second since I left Las Vegas—because a waitress arrives and asks if we’d like a drink.
Shane orders a sake, so when in Rome . . .
When the server leaves, Shane arches a brow. “So, marriage. Is it all that the second time around? You seem much happier, judging from that photo.”
I wince, scrub a hand across my jaw. “It’s . . . complicated.”
Shane takes a beat, his brow furrowing, then he seems to put two and two together. “Oh, you’re getting a divorce? It was one of those pissed-in-Vegas-marriage-lark moments, and now you’ve seen the light of day?”
That sounds awful too. “Sort of. I don’t know.”
“This does sound complicated. What’s the story?” He wiggles his fingers. “Serve it up to Shakespeare.”
Sighing, I slump back in the chair, rub my palm across the back of my neck. I’m tired of keeping all this inside. TJ’s been out of town and just returned today, so I won’t see him till later this afternoon. It’ll be good to get this mess of feelings off my chest. “Let’s see. She and I went to my cousin’s wedding as fake dates, leveled-up to real dating, took a spontaneous trip to Vegas, then got married after five days of real/fake dating, but she never wanted a serious relationship and I didn’t think I did either. And now we’re married and need to get divorced. Also, everything sucks.”
It’s a relief to say that out loud after wearing my everything-is-fantastic smile around sponsors for the last two days.
Shane takes a deep breath. “That’s a little crazy. I’ll grant you that.”
“Yup.”
The waitress returns with our sakes and I thank her. We order sushi, and when she leaves, I take a drink.
It tastes horrid.
It reminds me of my hangover. I’m never drinking again—add that to my list of regrets. So much for all my rules on how to behave. Don’t get skunk-faced drunk and post pictures on social.
Well, I didn’t post the pic. But that’s little consolation.
“But,” Shane adds, “I have one little question.”
I try to shove off the personal pity party I’m throwing in my head. “Yeah? What’s that?”
He clears his throat. “You said she never wanted a serious relationship and you didn’t think you did either.” He takes a beat. “But do you now?”
There’s no question. “I do.”
“Then start with that as you try to solve this problem. Maybe see if she does now too,” he says.
“See if she wants a relationship?”
“Yes. That.”
It’s so simple.
And it’s not a bad idea. In fact, it’s an excellent one. But how is the question.
I’ll noodle on it today. Grateful to focus on someone else, I rap my knuckles on the bar. “Tell me your news.”
He grins. “There’s a good chance you’ll be seeing more of me in San Francisco. My agent is in talks with the Dragons about a potential trade. I miss California, so cross your fingers it’ll go through.”
“Holy shit! That’d be awesome, man. So the city would have the best closer in the game in me, and . . . someone sort of decent . . . in you,” I say with a wicked smile.
“You’re such a delight, Chance. I’m so glad I gave you romance advice. You can fuck off with it now,” he says, laughing.
“I hope it comes through. It’ll be good to see you around, Shakespeare,” I add.
And I mean it.
Friends in the same field are golden. That’s why I need to make good with Grant. Make sure I haven’t fucked things up too badly.
When lunch is over, I say goodbye and head to meet TJ. All the way there, I cogitate on an idea that has taken hold of my brain—a plan that could fix this whole situation.
At least, that’s my hope.
* * *
“That’s your plan?” my brother asks, arching a skeptical brow after I give him the details.
“Well, yeah.”
TJ shakes his head as he gathers an iced tea for me and a coffee for himself at Doctor Insomnia’s on Columbus Avenue. “Wrong.”
“Why is that wrong?”
“You’re in love with Sierra. Right?” he asks as we head to a table.
“Yes, like you kinda guessed at the wedding.”
“So, your plan is to just return to the city, see Grant and tell him, then go to The Spotted Zebra to see her.” He recaps like he wants to make sure he understood exactly what I just said.
But my plan seemed reasonable enough to me. Practical. “Yes.”
He hums doubtfully and takes a swallow of his coffee. “And . . . what then? Because that’s a terrible idea.”
Bristling, I lift my mug, take a drink. “I don’t know why you think it’s such a bad idea. It’s practical, like a plan should be.”
Rolling his eyes, he laughs. “Chance, little brother. You’re looking at this the wrong way. You fucked up badly. It’s not time for a practical plan. It’s big gesture time. With the woman. Go big or go home.”
I wince, that regret turning into a tornado inside me again. “So that means?”
TJ stares at me, like he’s waiting for me to figure out the answer. “Time to own it.”
I let his words echo and expand in my head.
Own it.
Own my feelings.
Own my choices.
And own my trouble.
In a flash, I see a different ending to our story.
I’ve been looking at the problem in the wrong light. Just like when I’m on the mound—there’s more than one pitch to get you out of a jam.
Some sticky situations call for a blazing fastball. Others require a cutter. Now and then, you need a changeup.
The best closers in the game don’t rely on only one pitch to solve a bases-loaded quandary.
I’ve been throwing the wrong stuff at my bro code. No wonder it blew up spectacularly in Vegas.
Now, I need a better game plan, starting with my catcher.
I smile for the first time since I woke up married to the woman I love.
