Chapter 20: Xavier

Chapter 20: Xavier

This is all going too well. It’s too smooth to be reality. At least in my reality.

Ophelia is adorable. She’s funny and self-deprecating. She does not take herself too seriously, and she’s definitely not a status seeker. I’m not sure I can even recall the last woman who chatted me up who wasn’t interested in my celebrity.

She’s the opposite of everyone I’ve ever dated, which is a breath of fresh air. She’s got a bit of chaotic energy about her that reminds me of Mum, especially when she rambles. I actually think the two of them would get on famously, and I can picture them sitting at the kitchen table over a cuppa, talking for hours.

What I can’t figure out, as she sits next to me on the T back to her apartment, is why she’s doing this. What’s in it for her?

She knows virtually nothing about football, so I don’t think she’s a cleat chaser. She’s not a social climber. Based on what she posts on ClikClak and from our past interactions, I think she’s genuinely looking for love.

And she knows that’s not what this is about, so again, why is she doing this?

No sense in beating around the bush. I’ve got to know.

"Ophelia, please don’t take this the wrong way—"

"Which automatically means I’m going to take this the wrong way, you know," she interjects. She bumps me with her shoulder.

I can’t help but grin. Being in her presence makes me smile more than I have in years. "Of course. But I hope you don’t. You see, I’m wondering why you’re doing this. Or even considering it."

She looks down at her hands folded tightly in her lap. They seem so small. I wonder how they’d compare in size to mine. "I don’t want to say."

Oh no. This is not promising.

"Right. But if this is going to work, I think we need to be honest with each other. About everything." I don’t need anyone’s subversive agendas interfering with my life plans again. Not that I think Phaedra planned to ruin my life, but she absolutely had her own agenda. As did Alycia. "That’s pretty much all I’ll ask of you."

I see her suck in a deep breath and then slowly release it. "This is my—our—stop." She stands quickly. "Come on."

I stand, throwing my knapsack on and lifting my suitcase as I walk down the train steps. It’s totally dark, but the bright streetlights stave off some of that ominous feeling night usually brings.

"I’m about two blocks this way." She takes off her mask and points up the road. "Or, if you want, there are some hotels this way, but they’re down a little way. Near Coolidge Corner, I think." She changes her arm in the opposite direction.

"I’ll escort you to your place, and then I’ll see about a hotel room. Do you mind if I work on it for a few minutes?" I remove my mask and shove it into my pocket. Then I pull out my phone and open the browser.

"Well, don’t be silly. You don’t need to stand here in the middle of Beacon Street. We can hang out for a while. It’s only … wow, it’s almost eight already. That went fast."

I too am surprised at how quickly the last three hours have passed in her presence. Usually making small talk seems much more interminable.

No one would ever accuse me of being too congenial.

As we walk up the sideway, Ophelia prattles on about this and that. "I would love to live right on Beacon, but I’m not that far off. And to save the extra thousand a month, I can walk a block or two from the main road. Plus, I don’t get the noise from the T. Not to mention my building is super cool, with a turret and everything."

"If you don’t mind my asking, what are you paying for rent? I mean, I don’t want to pry, but more in a scouting for information way." I’m guessing Boston is more expensive than Baltimore, but they could be fairly comparable. "And you live in a turret?"

Ophelia laughs. "No, I live in the basement in the back of the building. The front has a turret. And a stone balcony and courtyard that I don’t get to use. But for the bargain price of $1,500, I can at least say I live there. Windows optional."

I frown. What does she mean? Immediately, I’m picturing a medieval dungeon.

"You’ll see," she continues. "It’s not bad. It’s a one-bedroom, with virtually no windows, but I do have my own laundry, so that’s a bonus. A similar apartment here on Beacon would be at least $2,500 and probably wouldn’t have a laundry."

"I’m paying about what you’re paying, but it’s at least a two-bedroom and there are tons of complex amenities." We turn onto her street, and I can’t wait to see it in daylight. The brownstones look old, yet well maintained, and there’s something very British about the feel of this street with its stone walls and wrought iron fences. "This is quite charming."

"Isn’t it? This is how I sort of picture areas of London being. At least the feel of the architecture."

"I was thinking something similar."

Ophelia lets out a little squeal, clapping her hands. "Oh, that makes me so happy. I’m totally obsessed with the idea of British life. It’s just all so romantic."

That’s it. She’s not a sports fanatic, but an Anglophile.

Swell.

"So that’s why you’ve agreed to this cockamamie plan then?"

Ophelia doesn’t just stop but she actually stumbles. "What? No. I’m not looking for a romantic situation. It’s all business, remember? I … it’s just … well, you see …"

"Did you only agree because I’m British?" I’m not sure why I’m getting upset. She doesn’t have to justify this to me. And who cares if she thinks my accent or how I grew up is fascinating. "Would you still be agreeing to marry me if I were American?"

"Obviously not." She stands tall, finally with her footing secure, and puts her hands on her hips.

I knew it! She’s got ulterior motives. I hope she doesn’t think this is going to be a financial windfall or some short circuit to publicity. She doesn’t want the type of hype I attract.

On the other hand, why else would she be doing this if she didn’t have ulterior motives? Unless she was crackers, it wouldn’t make sense to marry a stranger for absolutely no reason.

Yet still, I’m miffed. I don’t know why.

"I see."

"Yeah." Her eyebrows lift. "Because if you were American, you wouldn’t be desperate enough to ask someone like me to marry you." Her head drops, her plaits falling forward over her shoulders.

Her words stab me through the heart. What must she think of herself? And to think that I’m making her feel worse. "Don’t say that." I put a finger under her chin and gently lift it up. "And remember, you asked me."

"Actually, I don’t remember it at all because I was hammered. Because I’d gone on a date and was flashed within minutes of walking into the restaurant. Because I’m undatable. Unlovable." She turns away, jerking away from my touch.

Message received.

She storms down a narrow alley that may have at one time served as a drive to the carriage house. Her apartment could have been a summer kitchen that was attached to the main building. It is indeed half below ground though. There are a few square windows that dot the perimeter. They’re probably not large enough to let in ample light, but plenty big enough for a burglar to crawl through. I’d ask her if she’s ever thought of that, but she’s already mad at me.

I don’t need to evoke every single negative emotion in the span of three minutes flat.

Plus, I’m done playing the role of superhero. The last time I tried, well, we all know how that ended. In fact, it’s why I’m here right now.

As Ophelia turns the key and pushes the door open, the first thing I see is a large yellow tabby cat sitting there, watching his owner come in. I’d seen the beast walking around, over, and on Ophelia during our FaceTime, so it’s not a surprise.

"So this is the infamous Sundance. Should I bow to him? Offer him a can of tuna? Practice mutual ignoring? I’m not that versed in cats."

Cats and birds of prey are not compatible species. Well, not if you don’t want one to end up being dinner for the other. While most of our neighbors in the country did keep a cat or six around to keep the mouse population down, we had a feathered management system.

She drops her keys in a bowl next to the door and stoops to pick up the cat. With her face nestled into his fur, she says, "He’ll let you know what he wants from you." And with that, Sundance squirms in her arms, clearly indicating he’s done being held.

"Wouldn’t it be swell if people were that easy to read?"

I see her ugly striped couch. I didn’t think it was possible but it looks even more hideous in person. I hope she’s not supremely attracted to it because it’s not coming into my house.

Not that I have a house. Or a home. I’m utterly displaced.

Ophelia catches me staring at the couch. "It’s fantastic, isn’t it? It was left here, and I simply couldn’t part with it. I’m pretty sure it’s vintage ’60s. Think of all the memories it has. It was left to me to create even more."

It looks like something my mum would have. Another thing the two of them could bond over. "You rolled off of it while you were pissed last night. Is that the type of memory you were thinking of?" I smile as I say it. I do wonder what this upholstery has seen.

"Let’s hope it’s something more exciting than that." Ophelia hangs her jacket on a coat stand by the door. It looks just as vintage as the rest of the furniture around here, with the exception of the high-tech computer station, complete with dual monitors, webcam, and ring light. Though it’s the most modern item in here, it’s what looks most out of place.

I follow suit and hang up my coat as well.

"Right then, so should we get down to business? That way I won’t keep you too much later tonight."

Ophelia sits on the ugly couch while I opt for a blue wing chair, which also looks thrifted or donated. It’s not in bad shape, considering it’s probably old enough to collect a pension.

"Okay, I mean, I’ve been trying to plan, though it’s not a strength of mine. You said this has to be done quickly so you can switch teams."

I nod. "The quicker the better." My mind starts to wander, thinking about how soon I can join the Buzzards. I’ve got a sinking feeling in my gut though, that maybe Coach Janssen and the Buzzards are going to change their minds about me. Maybe Jones will get to them, too. Or that Camacho will be a wanker and not let me out of my contract.

He’d be an idiot to keep me, especially considering he doesn’t want to play me, but no one’d ever accuse him of being Oxford material.

And then I realize Ophelia’s been talking this whole time, and I’ve missed every blasted word.

"Small, obviously. I’ll need at least a month. Will your family be coming over?"

"Come again? Coming for what?" I mean, I’d love it if my parents came to see me play here in the US, but it’s too hard to get someone to take care of the birds. It’s a lot for one person to handle, and heaven knows Philip would be terribly grumpy about it.

Ophelia’s lips pull into a tight line. "The wedding. What else would be so important for them to fly all the way across the ocean?"

"The wedding? What wedding?" As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could pull them back in.

Of course, she’s focused on the wedding.

A wedding I’d not even considered. Weddings take time and planning and money. While I can probably afford a decent shebang, I’d rather not piss my hard-earned dollars away on something like that.

Ophelia folds her arms across her chest as she fixes her gaze up on the ceiling. She’s so focused that I turn to look to see if there’s anything in that corner, like a spider or leprechaun scaling down the wall.

For the record, there’s nothing.

But looking at her more closely, I see something much more alarming. Tears in her eyes.

Oh shit.