Love Won (Winning at Love book 1) Page 4

  “Great. Well, I better get going. I told the landlord we’d be there by five. Wait until you see this place, man. It’s nice,” Coy said excitedly…

  Of course, that job and the move was great for him, but painful to me.

  No longer would I see the boy I had grown to love sitting across our dinner table Sunday after Sunday. No longer would I get to check out the smooth skin of his toned abs when he’d play basketball with Keaton in our driveway two or three evenings a week. No longer would he corner me when the opportunity arose, to tease and flirt with me (intentionally or not). No longer would I have these little incidents to dissect and analyze. And dissecting and analyzing his and my relationship—and lack thereof—had been an absorbing pastime over the years.

  Confusing.

  Of all the words which could be used to describe my relationship with Coy, it’s “confusing”—maybe even “perplexing”—which describes it best. As we had gotten older, there had been a few incidents where we had both pushed and tested the boundaries. An awkward peck during a game of Spin the Bottle left me questioning if he’d done it because he really wanted to, just out of obligation, or to be cool in front of his friends. Or, like, on my sixteenth birthday, when he came to my celebration dinner armed with a gift of fresh daisies and some Pearl Jam vinyl—the Avocado album—the one album I hadn’t been able to find in any local record shops, the one I’d been going on and on about for months. There had also been a few stolen glances, and some accidental brushing against him when I could manage it. And then there was the one main “incident”—the biggest mindfuck of them all. An encounter that had me convinced that I had a chance with McCoy, that maybe it wasn’t all one-sided after all, a secret moment, which left me feeling that McCoy truly did see me as more than just a friend or as Keaton’s little sister. An incident I referred to in my head as The Out-of-Body Chips Encounter.

  I had gone downstairs one night to grab more potato chips for our Labour Day party. It was late, he was down there on the phone. One thing led to another, and somehow I had ended up with my back against a wall.

  “I was getting potato ch—” I’d whispered.

  “Motherfuck, you’re beautiful…” he’d told me.

  God, it’s all so vivid. Memories of McCoy standing so damn close as he whispered soft commands into my ear, melting me with those dirty words…

  It was a night I allowed myself to revisit in times of desperation, times when I needed release.

  Just the thought of his deep voice sends goosebumps now over my arms and neck. A familiar dampness pools between my legs, like it always does when I let my mind wander back to that night.

  “Dammit, I can’t go there right now!” I scold myself, stopping my stroll down memory lane. I need to focus. There’s no way I can handle thinking about what happened that night, especially right now. Pissed for allowing myself to get sidetracked, I go back to doing what I do best where this man is concerned—analyzing everything.

  Did I read too much into these little incidents over the years? Or was there a chance he’d actually felt something, too? Should I have put myself out there more? Could he have been mine, and not hers? Or was this just my brain’s desperate way of throwing my poor heart a bone?

  “It must have been all in your head, East, or else he wouldn’t have moved away with her,” I tell myself, thinking about her. About Lola…

  “You want me to grab the cooler bag, honey?” Lola asked McCoy in a high-pitched voice, breaking Keaton, Coy, and I from our conversation. We stood near the SUV with my parents who had come to say goodbye, along with McCoy’s father, who seemed in a rush, as always. Jason Graves was a tall man like his son, yet his blue eyes—so much like Coy’s—never radiated the same warmth and appeal. He just always looked aloof to me. Standing in a suit in the middle of the hot August day, he portrayed the impatience of a man late for a meeting, rather than a proud father who was there to see off his son. And his mother, Leanne, well, she was busy with a deposition and couldn’t make it. Thankfully, my parents were there and couldn’t stop telling McCoy how proud and excited they were for him.

  As they stood talking, I was mulling over how exactly to say goodbye. I’d been contemplating telling him how I felt, what he meant to me. I was working up the nerve to pull him aside and spill years and years of beans, but once again—as always—I couldn’t bring myself to do it. He was leaving, and he was leaving with her. The owner of that sugary voice, who was wearing the smallest pair of jean shorts since Daisy Duke herself and a tight-fitting yellow halter. The echo of her voice chimed into my thoughts, reminding me he was taken…

  Fucking Lola.

  That interloper, who unknowingly delivered a piercing pang of pain to my heart that day while I stood by, forced to silently watch her and let her leave with my Coy.

  Lola St. Claire. He’d met her at a party, and she was apparently the girl with whom he wanted to build a future. She was a tall blonde, with pretty blue eyes to match McCoy’s, and a sweet and bubbly personality that had me wanting to lunge at her in a mud fight (because I’m a lady, and I didn’t want either of us to really get hurt, after all. Not badly, anyway…). I simply wanted the two of us to prove which one of us wanted him more.

  “Lola.” I cluck her name on my tongue, in the dark. I haven’t thought about her in years. I guess she could be considered his “unicorn”, if you were to poll the members of the “We Love McCoy” fan club, one I’m sure existed back in high school. You know, the group of girls that embarrassed themselves vying for his attention, the ones who all thought, given the chance, they could be the unicorn—the one girl who could make the player quit the game. Too bad for them, none of them ever pulled it off; then again, neither did I…

  It seemed, however, that Lola had finally tamed the infamous McCoy Graves. I think we were all surprised when Coy started bringing her around to the house more and more. Particularly since he’d never been a one-woman man. Well, until Lola, the unibeast…I mean, unicorn.

  “You need to stop this. Eastlyn. This isn’t good for your psyche,” I scold myself. Flicking my bedside light on, I reach for my copy of People magazine. Maybe I could get lost in other people’s drama instead? But flipping though the pages doesn’t work. My mind drifts back to the day he left me…

  “That would be great, babe. It’s on the counter.” He smiled, giving her bum a squeeze, and, oh, how I wished it were my bum, my squeeze, and that I was his “babe”…

  But rather than tell him any of that, I gave him an awkward smile and a soft mutter of a goodbye without getting too close, because there was no way I could hug him and then ever let him go. There I stood, waving from the foot of the driveway, watching in a pantomime-like state as my unrequited love and his Lola pulled out of the driveway to start a new life together.

  God, I’d been pathetic, I just couldn’t help it. And I guess I still am pathetic, judging by my performance at the grocery store today.

  “Fucking Lola.” I shook my head. I could never have competed with that—then again, you can’t compete when you don’t even put yourself in the running. I guess I’d always wonder how things might have been if Lola and I could’ve had that mud fight. But I was just too chicken to take the risk. I’d always been too chicken. McCoy’s relationship with Lola had vanquished any ideas I’d let myself have. I figured he mustn’t have felt anything for me after all, because wouldn’t he have said something if he did?

  “Ugh. I hate this,” I mutter out loud, chastising myself for thinking about them, and him, and me, and us. Or rather, the us that wasn’t. Tossing my blankets on the floor, I make my way to the kitchen for a glass of water. Setting the glass on the coffee table, I grab the remote, hoping it will take my mind off all things McCoy-related.

  “Get a grip, East. It was one sighting. One.” If this is how I react to a simple encounter in a grocery store, I’m sure you can imagine how pathetic my teen life was when I saw him almost daily. L-O-S-E-R.

  Flipping through the channels, I st
op on a rerun of Will and Grace. Sitting back, I watch Karen Walker and her awesome one-liners: “Oh, hey! Someone got flowers. Or, as I like to call them: poor people’s jewelry.” I giggle, trying to distract myself from thinking of my own love life and how virtually non-existent it’s been lately. Sure, I’ve dated and had meaningless sex like almost every other single woman out there, but over the years finding real love hasn’t exactly been easy. I sometimes wonder if it’s my own fault? Honestly, I’ve tried to move on from the silly crush I’d developed for McCoy. But for some reason, McCoy Graves is the one boy I’ve never been able to shake, leaving me waiting, pining, and wishing for more with him. The heart knows what it wants, and mine has always wanted Coy.

  My poor heart, she just can never let him go. She’s always craved some kind of sign that he might be ready to admit he wanted me as much as I wanted him. A sign that only ever came in the form of a few yields in the road; ones which might make me stop, look, and wonder, but never a full-blown flashing green traffic light to indicate that, yes, he felt what I did.

  I’ve sat and thought about McCoy and his effect on me on and off for years. I’ve wondered, and lurked him on Facebook, but not like this, not like tonight. I feel as if seeing him tonight has pulled up all the emotions I’ve done my best to repress. My mind is reeling with feelings, all rioting for answers to the questions the younger version of me wants to know all the whys to, now that I’ve seen him again.

  Why are you back in Guelph?

  Why did you leave me in the first place?

  But, most of all, I want to know: Why I couldn’t have been your Lola? No, scratch that. Better yet, why couldn’t I have been your Eastlyn?

  And that one really hurts.

  After a few reruns of Will and Grace, I make my way back to my bedroom and tell myself it’s time that I actively start dating. Time to stop comparing every man to McCoy, the man who never wanted me the same way I’d wanted him. The man who’ll probably never want me. I mean, if he’d wanted me, he would have picked me, right?

  Maybe it’s time to take a gamble on someone else? Maybe it’s time to let love win, and not McCoy Graves.

  7

  Don’t Make Me Get the Big Guns Out

  It’s been two weeks since I’ve seen McCoy. Thankfully, he was only here in Guelph for a short visit, according to my brother Keaton.

  I finally screwed up the courage to ask Keat over Sunday breakfast at my parents’ house this morning, following Açaígate. After I created a suitable conversational smokescreen about my excitement over the end of this teaching year, and how nervous I am to start teaching eighth grade starting in September, I skillfully brought up McCoy, and Keaton’s big mouth had done the rest.

  Apparently, Coy had been in town for his older brother’s stag at the Knollwood Golf and Country Club—one Keaton had gone to, as well. He told us all about it while we ate the usual Katie Hatfield feast of eggs, bacon, sausages, toast, homemade pastries, fresh coffee, and orange juice.

  “So, he’s leaving again, right?” I ask, Keaton’s words sinking in. I need to make sure I’ve heard him correctly.

  “Yep,” he nods, “sorry to be the bearer of bad news, sis.” He gives me a sneaky grin.

  “Okay, good,” I mutter, not wanting to give anything away.

  Little does Keaton know how much that information gives me instant relief. I had forgotten that Coy’s brother, Rory Graves, was getting married sometime this year, so McCoy will no doubt be in the city for a few short visits leading up to the wedding. However, I am quite happy to learn that my life won’t be permanently disrupted by his return. The thought of him being here in the city for only two days had been almost more than I could handle, and I was grateful he had headed back to Brockville so I could relax again. There’s no way I want to risk any more catastrophic Mission Impossible operations like the one at Weller’s should I accidentally run into him again.

  “Did you tell him he’s welcome to stay with us when he’s in town?” my dad asks around a forkful of scrambled eggs, and I almost choke. I might not live at home anymore, but I visit a lot and the last thing I need is another chance of running into McCoy. He’s a grown man, he can stay in a hotel, I want to argue, yet don’t for fear of revealing my true feelings through excessive snippiness.

  “Of course I did,” my mom says. “Coy knows he’s always welcome here. He thanked me but said he had somewhere else to stay.”

  “You know he’s single still, eh?” Keaton says. “That he and Lola broke up ages ago?” He says it nonchalantly, as though the news won’t send a jolt of excitement right through me. I try not to blanch at the information. What is it with my family today? They keep setting off one Coy bomb after another. First, my parents offer to let him to stay here, now Keat says he’s single to boot—all while eyeing each other, trying to hide mischievous smiles.

  “What? They did?” I ask, doing nothing to mask the shock. A glimmer of hope ignites my insides, my mind churning with the possibility that maybe I’ll finally get my chance. Although, I quickly reprimand myself, I have to remember that I, Eastlyn Hatfield, am already on the path to getting over him once and for all. And have no intentions of trying to get myself under him ever again. The dream that maybe one day I’ll actually feel what it’s like to have McCoy’s hands roaming my body while he buried himself inside me is no longer part of my plans after I’d given myself such a stern talking-to the other night. I’ve sworn myself off that man for good, after all, social media stalking included.

  “Figured you might be happy, I’ve tried to tell you, but you shut me down anytime you hear his name,” Keaton says, eyeing me.

  “Keaton, leave your sister alone.” Dad grabs the arms of his chair as he stands to clear the plates. His blue eyes focus on my brother before reaching over and giving him a noogie as he passes by. “I’m off to Pollock’s Pools to grab parts to fix the pool heater. Be nice to each other while I’m gone,” he adds, kissing my mom’s cheek and tugging on my ponytail before exiting the kitchen.

  “I’ll be the referee, Dave,” my mom hollers over her shoulder, tucking a strand of light brown hair behind her ear. “I think it’s great news,” Mom whispers to me, her lips pursed excitedly, and I guffaw, despite myself.

  “Maybe I should go with Dad. You two suck today.” I shift my best evil eye between my mother and Keaton, taking out my hair tie and letting my dark brown hair fall over my shoulders before gathering it back and retying it tightly again. Tugging on my ponytail is my dad’s signature move—while I get a messy do, Keaton usually gets a noogie.

  “What? I love McCoy!” my mother coos. “Like family, of course. But I’m rooting for the two of you. Always have been. The way you two eye each other, reminds me of your father and I,” she says dreamily, her hazel eyes sparkling.

  “Mom. It’s not like that,” I admonish, wiping at the bit of jam I dropped on my Breakfast Club T-shirt.

  “It totally is…” Keaton says, his green eyes wide, his mouth curving into a grin, his cheeks covered in Sunday stubble which matches his blondish hair, exactly the same colour as our father’s.

  “Maybe you should explore things while he’s in and out of town? Couldn’t hurt,” my mom says, shrugging as she stands to grab the now-finished serving platter while Keaton and I continue to stuff our faces. “Sorry to leave you two to battle it out unsupervised. I have to go clean around the deck so your father can fix the heater and get at the pipes to start opening the pool. Come help me when you finish up.” Mom slips bright yellow Crocs on her feet, and creeps through the sliding door.

  “Hey, I know. You should be his date,” Keaton suggests, once we agree to help Mom after we clean the kitchen.

  “For Rory’s wedding? No way,” I tell him around a bite of warm, buttery, jam-slathered croissant, the kind my mom makes fresh every Sunday when we come over for brunch.

  “Why not? He told me himself he still needs to find someone to go with. You’d be perfect. Well, adequate, anyway. And we both know deep do
wn you’re freakin’ thrilled knowing he’s single.” Keaton raises his brow like the shit he is. Always trying to get me to give myself up. My brother wants Coy and I together, too, which should make me happy, I suppose. Too bad it’s never going to happen.

  “I am not. Besides, I’m sure you of all people could find him a date. Don’t you have someone from one of your harems you could let him pick?” I throw half of my croissant at his head, regretting it immediately when the bastard simply catches it and shoves it in his mouth. “Plus, I don’t even really know the guy anymore,” I add, an extra layer of protective bullshit.

  “I don’t actually have multiple harems, East. I’m not that bad, despite what you think. But maybe it could be an opportunity to reacquaint yourselves? Maybe you could even fulfill some of those many fantasies of yours…” He winks at me, and laughs.

  “Mom!” I call, like I’d done so many times in our youth. A move which quickly causes Keaton to raise his hands in surrender.

  “All right, all right. No need to bring the big guns in,” he says, knowing she can hear me with the windows open. “Was only an idea? I mean, aren’t you and Kami always going on about how hot guys in suits are? A wedding equals Coy in a suit,” Keaton gloats, a little too smug for my liking. He’s trying to tempt me (and doing a good job). I need to act fast to deflect his comment. All too quickly, images of Coy standing tall in a slim-fit dark blue, three-piece suit—the expanse of his chest showcased by the tailoring, the colour doing everything to draw attention up to his striking eyes—come to mind, and I swear I’m sporting the biggest self-satisfied smile.

  “Actually, that’s Kami’s fantasy. I’m more about ties, that’s my weakness. The tie says it all,” I say, using my most saccharine tone. My brother is currently wearing his usual torn jeans and an old Metallica concert T which—a bit too small—stretches across his chest and biceps, the blackness making his tatted-up arms stand out. “Maybe it’s time you suited up there, stud. I’m sure Kam would appreciate it,” I say, loading my plate and coffee mug into the dishwasher. “Maybe it would help you fulfill a few of your own fantasies, too, eh?”