Baby Steps

Two days after my blowout with Max and our subsequent 'kissing and making up', I meet Phoebe at the luxurious Ritz Carlton in downtown Philadelphia. Our dinner at the sensational 10 Arts Bistro had been planned even before I'd moved to New Jersey: Pheebs had a four day business trip to the city of Brotherly Love to work on a case with some extremely high profile clients and she'd managed to fit me into her busy, demanding schedule. I had been excited about it ever since; I love her as if she were a member of my family (even more than a majority of the clan, as a matter of fact) and I've been missing her tremendously since we'd left Pittsburgh. I had thought I'd prepared myself for the separation; I didn't think that moving away from her would have such an effect on me and I'd tried to convince myself that 'it's only a few hours away' and 'nothing or no one could ever replace one another in our lives'. Truth be told, I've been worrying about the latter since I had decided to uproot with Max; stewing over whether or not my absence means that Phoebe will replace me with one of the other WAGs and one day she won't have any time for me at all. That the visits will cease and the phone calls will stop and we'll have nothing more than fond memories and be nothing more than acquaintances who exchange family updates and Christmas cards.

As immature as that all sounds, I can't help the way I feel. Phoebe is my first real friend. All through both elementary and high school I was horribly unpopular; a social outcast compared to how popular and idolized all of my brothers and my little sister (although her 'fame' was based solely on how often she opened her legs). Sure, I'd always had Bruno to confide to and going running to with my problems or to cry on his shoulder when life wasn't working out the way I wanted to, but it wasn't the same as having another female to talk to. One that actually understood the heart ache that men inflicted on a daily basis and who I could bond with over pedicures and manicures and have silly little conversations with. You couldn't do this thing with a male friend. At least not a heterosexual one. Bruno didn't want to hear the details revolving the suffering I went through with my 'monthly visitor' and he definitely didn't give a shit about 'girly things': sampling all the designer perfumes at the cosmetics counters or window shopping at high end jewellery stores and salivating over a pair of Jimmy Choos. And he most definitely didn't want to hear even the tiniest whisper about my sex life. When I hooked up with Max and things became 'official', any mention of 'adult activities' became completely forbidden.

“He's my best friend and you're my cousin and the two of you...” he'd grimaced. “...the thought of the two of you...I just...no...just no.”

And I imagine it's never easy for him when Max and I are having one of our 'spats'. It can't be easy picking sides when it comes to your best friend and your cousin.

With Phoebe, there's never any doubt whose side she's on. She doesn't put up with anyone's bullshit and is quick to call you out whenever she feels as if you're 'fucking things up'. There's times where she's my greatest (and most fearless) cheerleader and other times where she's openly questioning my sanity over some of the choices I've made with my life. Staying with Max being the most recent that she's not at all happy with. She doesn't mask the fact that she hates him. That she's not only disgusted by the way he's treated and disrespected me and the best and how he chose the arch enemy Flyers to continue his career with. Sometimes I wonder what she's more angry and disappointed about: my stupidity and foolishness in deciding to stay with a man that will 'never know the meaning of faithful', Max 'taking me away' or him signing with the Pens' most hated rivals. And while God knows I love her to the ends of the earth and would do anything for her, Jordan or the kids, there's times where I wish she would just back off. Where she'd stop coddling me and protecting me and just let me make my own decisions and mistakes. Going to Philly and saving my marriage was my choice. I can't stop loving Max. No matter how badly he fucks up. We have history together. A child. And hopefully more children and a brighter and more positive future on the horizon.

Lord knows we're trying to get there.

Phoebe makes her grand entrance at shortly after seven; breezing through the crowded restaurant with a confidence that is both incredibly sexy and a immensely frightening. Women would kill to be her, men would kill to be with her. That's if they weren't so damn intimidated by her. She has the air of a successful, 'take no prisoners' business woman mixed with an incredible amount of sexual allure. And the way she blows by adoring men without even a glance in their direction just makes them salivate over her even more. Hell, in that little black dress (skin tight, off the shoulder, the hem a couple of inches above the knee) and her hair styled into a fierce 'bob' and those brilliant blue sparkling and dancing, she's even making me drool.

Not to mention feel incredibly self conscious. Suddenly the simple scarlet red wrap dress I'd chosen to wear seems toosimple. Frumpy, almost. I'd left the house feeling great about myself (something that's been hard to come by since I'd gotten so sick and lost so much weight) and now I feel as if every eye in the place is on me. And not in a good way either. As if everyone can see the way my collarbone protrudes through my skin and the fresh scar that mars my throat (although covered by a black scarf) is completely visible. None of this is Pheebs' fault, of course. My issues are just that. Mine. It's what happens when your husband cheats on you with a stripper. Someone that takes their clothes off for money and has probably fucked a ton of her customers. A liaison that thankfully didn't result in him bringing an STD home. Or some crazy bitch suing for child support.

I'm suddenly craving a glass of wine (or two or three, or maybe half a dozen) to wash the bitterness away. I hate when it creeps up on me like this. Where it just rears its ugly head and stabs me straight in the heart. I had told myself that I was over it. That I was going to forgive and forget and that we were going to move on with our lives as if it never even happened.

*****

Pheebs is already at my chair and wrapping both arms around me before I can have another negative or get out of my seat to greet her. She's kneeling on the floor alongside of me, a hand cradling the back of my head, pressing my face into her shoulder. I could just cry. Right in the middle of this busy, posh restaurant I could have the meltdown of all meltdowns. But I don't. I hold it in and embrace her in return; breathing in her perfume and enjoying the press of her body against mine and the weight of her hand on my head.

“Look at you...” she finally pulls away, cradling my face in the palms of her hands as she studies me. “....oh Sloan...you look so good...look how beautiful you are.” She softly combs her fingers through my hair and regards me with a loving, almost motherly smile. “Brown?” she inquires about my recent change to my appearance. “What happened to the red? You know how everyone loves a sexy red head.”

“I just needed a change. Something to make me feel good about myself. And Max really likes it, so...”

Phoebe frowns. “Always about what Max likes and what Max wants.”

“Not this time. It's something I wanted to do. I'm just glad that he liked it.”

“Would it have mattered? If he didn't?”

“Well he is my husband. And you know how much he loved my red hair.”

“Only thing Max loves...truly loves...is himself,” she mutters. “Well..whatever. You look beautiful either way. Red hair, brown hair, no hair.”

“Now that would be pushing it. And check you out...a yummy mummy, as always.”

“Much to Jordan's dismay,” she laughs. “I think he'd rather I'd become all frumpy and plain Jane and wear nothing but jammies and fuzzy slippers. I told him maybe when I'm eighty and my tits are down to my knees and all my teeth have fallen out.”

“All the men in the nursing home would still flock after you,” I giggle. “Seriously though...a body like that after two kids?”

“You can send a thank you card and a fruit basket of appreciation to my trainer,” she says with a wink, then drops a kiss on the top of my head before slinking into her seat across the table. “So does the husband even know you're here? That you're meeting me?” she asks, and effortlessly waves over a waiter with a simple flick of her wrist.

“The husband? That's what it's come down to? You're calling him 'the husband'?”

“There's much worse things I could call him. And believe me, I have. I can't imagine that he was too happy with the idea of you driving all the way into the big bad city to meet up with the Wicked Witch of Pennsylvania.”

“I didn't even tell him until I was already dressed and ready to leave the house,” I admit. “I just sprung it on him that I was going out and he was staying home with the baby.”

She smirks. “Bet he had a shit fit over that.”

“He wasn't too happy about it. Asked me what the hell he was supposed to eat for dinner. I told him that he knew how to use a can opener and a microwave.”

“Probably call over one of his bimbos to cook for him.”

“Phoebe...come on...that's not fair. He's not doing anything wrong. He's really changed in the past few months and he's really trying to make things perfect. He just...”

“I can't help the way I feel about him,” she interjects. “And nothing you say is going to change it.”

“And nothing you say is going to change the way I feel about him. So can we please not do this? I don't want to spend the night fighting over Max.”

“Especially when he's not even worth it,” she snidely remarks, and then turns to the waiter. “A bottle of the house's best champagne and two menus.”

“No champagne for me,” I speak up. “So unless you're planning on drinking the whole bottle...”

“The bottle is fine,” she smiles at the waiter. “And the menus. Thank you. And what are you talking about?” she turns to me as the young man leaves. “No champagne? What's going on with you?”

“Well it's not exactly the best combination with my medication. And...”

“And? There's an end? Oh dear God...” she regards me in horror. “...please tell me you're not pregnant.”

“What? No! I'm not pregnant. I mean, at least not yet.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph. You're not being serious right now.”

“I'm ovulating and the doctor told me that I shouldn't consume alcohol during that time because it could screw things up and I...”

“Another baby? With him? After everything he's done? Sloan, what the hell is wrong with you?”

“He's my husband,” I remind her. “It was always in our plans to have more kids. And now that I'm feeling better...”

“It was always in your plans before he fucked up huge. How can you just let everything go back to normal? Act as if he's never done anything wrong?”

“I'm not acting like that. I know what's he done wrong. It's just that I've forgiven him and we've moved on and...”

“Oh bullshit, Sloan. You haven't forgiven him anymore than Beatles fans have forgiven Yoko Ono for stealing John Lennon. This was his idea, wasn't it? Having another baby.”

“He's brought it up a few times,” I admit.

“And you've just gone along with it. Just like you go along with everything stupid goddamn idea he gets in that stupid, goddamn head of his.”

“He's not stupid, Phoebe. He's far from stupid. He just...”

“Does stupid things,” she finishes for me. “Do you really think a baby is the answer to everything? That a baby is just going to solve all your problems?”

“Of course not. I just...”

“So you're admitting there's still problems.”

“I never admitted to anything. I just said that...”

“You know there's rumours, right? About Max? That he's still keeping ties to some of the girls in Pittsburgh? And that he's messing around with some figure skater from Montreal.”

“It's all just bullshit. None of it is true. He has no time to mess around with anyone. Or any interest. And Cynthia is just a friend. They've known each other for years and...”

“When has Max ever had a female friend that he hasn't fucked first? I think that's what he does, you know. Fucks them first and if the sex is bad relegates them to friend status.”

“You've never slept with him,” I point out. “And you're friends.”

“We were friends. Were. And we were only friends because of Jordan and you. Now he can go play in heavy traffic or stand under a tree in a lightning storm for all I care. I can't believe you. A baby? With him? Don't you think you should get your shit together before doing something so crazy? What's wrong with you?”

“There's nothing wrong with me. I'm just...I don't know...broody.”

“Then get a goddamn puppy or a kitten. Or volunteer at the hospital rocking newborns to sleep. But Jesus, Sloan. Don't think you owe him anything. You owe him shit.”

“He put his life on hold. Took time out of everything to take care of me when I got really sick and....”

“He's your fucking husband. That's his duty. To take care of you. Doesn't mean you owe him anything because of it. And don't even try and tell me that you don't feel that way. That that isn't the real reason why you moved here. Out of some twisted sense of obligation.”

“I came here because I love him and he's my husband and I want to...”

“Save it Sloan,” she holds her hand up in a plea for silence. “I love you. You know that. But I don't understand how a woman as smart as you can be so damn stupid. But...never mind....never mind Max and his shit and this whole moving to Philadelphia disaster in the making. I have plans for you. Big time plans. And you might hate for making me and you may go a while without speaking to me, but trust me. It's for the best. What's best for you.”

“Plans? What are you talking about? What...?”

“Trust me, sweets. This is for the best,” she says, and turns towards the bar and gives a finger wave to someone in the crowd before beckoning them over.

“Phoebe...what the hell...what are you...?”

And then I see him. Tall and stocky. His brown haired tousled and his eyes are soulful and as endearing as I remember. His powerful frame clad in a ridiculously expensive charcoal grey suit; the crisp white dress shirt and the brightly patterned tie a stunning combination. Yet he looks so...awkward. Sexy. But awkward. And when he gives me an apprehensive smile as he approaches...

“What have you done?” I hiss at Phoebe. “You sneaky bitch! You knew I didn't want to see him. That I was perfectly happy to just be online friends and shit like that. What the hell are you doing?”

“That...” she nods in his direction. “...is the man you're supposed to be with. Not Max.”

“What?” I can't help but laugh incredulously. “It was one time! One time, Phoebe! And I was drunk and...”

“Intoxication is never an excuse for banging someone. Drunk minds speak sober thoughts. And don't even try and tell me that you're not happy to see him. That he just doesn't cream those little panties of yours when he looks at you.”

“I am going to kick your ass! I'm going to kick your ass and then walk out of here and go home and...”

Too late. He's already at the table. Flooding my senses with his scent and filling my mind with one night of memories. An amazing night. But only one, nonetheless.

He's my only weakness. The one man, aside from Max, that can bring me to my knees.

Eric Tangradi.