Amy Jones, All We Will Ever Be

“Emm’s not the kind of girl you fuck and leave,” your buddy Niall told you before he introduced you. “She’s hot. She loves sports. She doesn’t care if you check out other women.” Emm and Niall had been dating for six months. Already living together, shacked up in Niall’s twelfth story condo. Emm playing fucking housewife while Niall went to work. When you first met her, in a bar on College after a Leaf ’s game, you thought she was fairly ordinary. Until she started talking about hockey. Then she smiled and she had all these teeth that you fell in love with one by one, like pennies clinking in a jar. Niall was working for a law firm and even though you knew he loved her, you knew what kind of love he was capable of. The evenings-and-weekends kind. The all-inclusive vacations. Suburban whatnot. You thought you could give her something more. This is why you felt justified in taking her from him. That you were doing him a favour, actually.

All it took: four martini-fuelled conversations at four different parties. A couple of well-placed compliments. Emm laughing into her sleeve, never quite sure how serious you were. Finally you offered to take her to a Leaf ’s game. “I’d rather see the Raptors,” she said. So you pulled out all the stops. Courtside seats and a VIP booth at a private after-party, where the two of you drank way too much and ended up dancing on a speaker to Funkytown. A five a.m. pancake breakfast. A slow walk through the empty streets of Toronto. Back to your apartment just as the sun was coming up.

“I totally love basketball players,” she said. Squinted her eyes against the light. “But I suppose a hockey player’ll do in a pinch.”

You kissed her on the forehead. Thought: I’ve got her. It didn’t occur to you until later. Her cool, naked back pressed against your chest as you slept. That maybe it was the other way around.

When Emm told Niall she was leaving, he hit her. Split her lip. Cracked her tooth on his ring. She didn’t seem surprised. A week after she had moved her things from Niall’s apartment to yours, he came by. You were home alone. What you saw: his bloodshot eyes. Greasy hair. Jacket with the one pocket turned inside out. You realized you’d been wrong about him. But what was done was done.

He leaned against the doorway. “I never thought I would be the one standing here. And you probably won’t, either,” he told you. Eyes more tired than accusing.